Food Fight....

A few days ago, King-Pin asked me casually whether I had plans for dinner. I was curious, since dinner is not something that the King-Pin ever takes casually. He let me know that he was planning a small Nihari excursion, if I was interested. Now, as I believe I have explained somewhere in the mists of blog-history, Nihari is basically stewed meat in its own gravy, doused in oil and served with fresh, hot Naan. Nihari is tender and almost buttery, the flavour is amazing, and even if you’re not a big fan, you really can’t beat fresh, hot naan bread. There are many things in this world I would cheerfully throw out a seventh floor window in exchange for hot naan. So, needless to say, I was interested.

We set off in two cars toward northern Nazmibad, or maybe it was FB Area… not dead sure. Although, I do remember that it wasn’t far from the roundabout that features that frightening depiction of a clenched fist. Half way there, two guys on a motorcycle, trying to weave through the traffic like a couple of wasps (albeit less intelligent), slammed into the back of our car. "What the hell?" I said, startled by the two dudes’ high-speed rearrangement of the back panel nearest me. They spilled out on to the pavement, none the worse for wear, as if this kind of thing happens everyday, brushed themselves off and flashed us their best sheepish smiles. Ooops. King-Pin stepped out for a minute to make sure everyone was ok, but then jumped back into the car saying: "I can’t be bothered, we have to get there, they might run out of food." He had his priorities. The clock was ticking. The Nihari was not unlimited, and we were going to get there come hell or highwater… no matter how many ridiculous motorcycle kids we left in our wake.

We arrived at the restaurant and found parking amazingly easily. The main level of the eatery is segregated for men only, and since we had girls with us, we headed upstairs to the mixed family section. Downstairs, the men’s section was peaceful and serene. Upstairs was a different story. Being a head taller than most Pakistani’s, I glanced across a swirling melee of humanity. Men, women and children were in a literal battle for sustenance. We pushed through to the desk in the hopes that there was some kind of seating plan, only to be laughed at and told to go fend for ourselves.

The running strategy seemed to be the age-old technique of milling around someone’s table until they stand up to leave, and then swooping into their seats (much like the American Supreme court ( except without having to wait until they die (although it does seem to take forever))). Immediately, I worried whether we would even get a chance to eat. I knew that personally, being a spineless, North American still somewhat partial to the idea of a "line," I would never have the aggression to stand up for a table. We positioned ourselves behind one table whose occupants seemed almost finished. We were poised for the swoop, when suddenly an old, paan stained, henna-haired grandmother flew in from the side, elbowing one of our group in the solar-plexus to clear the way, slammed herself down into a seat, and beckoned to her waiting family. Her group sauntered over, all smug smiles, fully aware of the power they held with their battering ram grandmother. Flailing Masses: 1 - Burgers: 0

We scoped out another table. This one was ours for the taking. We formed a blockade with our biggest guys. We cast discouraging looks at anyone who approached. We were ready. But then we got cocky, overconfident. We politely allowed the other family to stand up before we swooped in under their laps to take their seats. Fatal error. Another family spotted the weakness of our politeness and sent their two little kids, like midget reconaisance scouts, to scoot between our legs, under the table and into our chairs. "God-Damn-It!" one of us let out in frustration. Masses: 2 – Burgers: 0

By this time, most eyes in the house were fixed on our exploits. No doubt there were running bets as to whether we get to sit before they ran out of food. The King-Pin had had enough. "Huddle up," he ordered. We squared in together while King-Pin formed the battle plan. "Ok, Dave, you take your team down aisle two. Try to square up perpendicular to me, and cover those tables. Remember, you're white, so try to make it look like your mad that you haven’t eaten yet. Adnan, you stay with me but make sure to secure the two corner tables, especially that one, they’re running low, and I think they’re looking to bolt. Faisal, you secure the perimeter, keep these vultures at bay. Any questions, relay them through SMS."

Admittedly, using our cell-phones to communicate while we were all within 20 paces of each other felt a little ridiculous. But it was necessary. I got a quick flash, SMS message from the perimeter saying "watch out for woman with baby, she’s looking for sympathy table." I side-stepped to make the block. Suddenly, one of the tables we held under guarded surveillance started standing up. I had never seen King-Pin move so fast. He was in the seat so quickly I was a little worried he would sit in the previous occupant’s lap. "Quick! Quick! Sit down!" he cried. We zipped in from our various posts. I sat down beside a girl of about 9 who had yet to leave the table. She looked up at my white-skinned, bearded, long-haired form with wide-eyes. "Hi." I said. She left.

In a few minutes we had steaming bowls of Nihari, and Naan too hot to touch. After spending at least 45 minutes securing a table, we ate in a frenzied state for about 20 minutes, stood up and left.

Was it worth it?

Indubitably.