Christmas Eve Miracle

The sadness that is often Christmas came crashing down on me over the past few days. I have cried and brooded, and finally I came up with a different option: several of us decided to go out to a Christmas Eve dinner that was being specially cooked in one of the local restaurants that caters to ex-pats. It was the only way I knew to make sure I was with other people so that I couldn’t look at the computer or the four walls of my little room and be so depressed that I would want to simply crawl into bed.

So we set out.

We got into our vehicle and took out over the incredibly bumpy road, as usual, full of potholes and ravines and occasionally speed bumps. The dust was overwhelming. It swirled around the moving car like the heaviest fog I have ever seen. We could see the red taillights of the cars in front of and beside us, we could see the headlights of the cars that were, as usual, headed right for us, and we could see the occasional donkey cart on the side of the road, but only as we sped past, bumping and bouncing from one rut to the other. I wondered where we were headed; because it was dark, I couldn’t see any familiar landmarks, nor could I see anything that pointed to one direction or another.

Eventually, we turned onto a piece of road that was smooth and paved, with no holes, speed bumps, or patched spots. Then again we were on a dirt road swerving to avoid big holes, hitting little ones, and occasionally moving from one side of the road to another, all the time enveloped in the shifting cloud of dust that surely could have choked our car’s engine.

Finally, we made another turn onto what turned out to be a gravel parking lot, and we got out of the car. I was looking at what every other public building in Kabul is – a fortress buttressed by walls and iron doors. This place even had a little sliding door in the iron entrance door – it looked as if it had come out of the Roaring Twenties. Someone slid the little door back, and I felt as I were supposed to whisper, “Lefty sent me.” But instead, I entered an anteroom and was searched with a hand held metal detector, and my male companions were patted down, and then we were sent through yet another set of walls and doors. We then walked through an open courtyard on a rock walk and entered a restaurant that immediately offered comfort, beauty, and twinkle lights, letting me leave the swirling, thick, stinky dust, the oppression of the heavy air, and the overwhelming paucity of my spirit, outside.

I had entered another world, one that did not include Afghanistan, or at least the Afghanistan that was responsible for yet another American’s death that very day.

Inside the lovely restaurant that could have been in Anytown, USA, we were led to our table by a young Afghan man in a Santa Claus hat that blinked on and off in red lights – “Noel,” it blinked. “Noel.” We walked past a table laden with fresh-baked breads, rolls, and breadsticks, we walked past windows that looked out onto a courtyard where some kind of shrubs or small trees were outlined in LED lights that shone almost but not quite blue, and we walked past tables that were set for the elegant prix fixe menu that was to come – every place setting with two knives, two forks, two dessert spoons, wine glass, water glass, and precisely folded white cloth napkin.

Our table was in the corner of the room, so we could see the courtyard, slightly illuminated by the lighted shrubs, waiting for warmer days so that diners could grace the tables there, and we could see the rest of the room as it began to fill up with other people anticipating the special treat that was still to come.

Another young man in another blinking hat offered us a “Christmas Cocktail;” we could choose from three options, and his offer highlighted the lack of knowledge regarding alcohol that one might expect from a Muslim country where alcohol is simply off limits. “We have,” he said, “uh, something with fruit juice and, uh, vodka, then we have margarita, and we have, I can’t remember third choice.” I really didn’t want either fruit juice or a margarita, but I certainly wasn’t going to take a chance on something that the waiter couldn’t even remember, so I took the vodka drink (rule number one: NO TEQUILA).

It wasn’t bad – Hawaiian Punch with a punch! Then we nibbled on bread sticks – twisted puff pastry sprinkled with Parmesan cheese – and a sesame seed roll while we waited for the rest of our party and then the first course. As we waited, the stress of the workday, the sadness for the killing of the day, and the discomfort over being in a war zone with helicopters chopping overhead faded ever so slightly into the distance, and then, with each passing bit of conversation, retreated even more, so that we eventually felt almost normal about being out to dinner at a restaurant.

And then dinner service began. The blinking hat waiters brought the amuse bouche: risotto with a seared scallop and slivers of asparagus. The amuse bouche is supposed to be something that just “tickles the lips” or teases the palate – not a lot of food, just a bite or so – and this dish was exactly that. The risotto was done perfectly, and the slivers of asparagus were just enough to add some color and crunch. I think the chef had sliced the scallops in half horizontally, so that the scallop in each dish was thin but flavorful – and seared to perfection. The dish was topped with thin-shaved Parmesan. Even before I tell you about the rest of the dinner, I will tell you that this was my favorite dish. I ate it all.

Service was good in that we were not rushed from one course to the next. So when the next course, which was the appetizer, arrived, we were almost chomping at the bit. The appetizer plate was a classic: smoked salmon, a blini (a small pancake), piped mounds of dilled cream cheese, a quenelle of caramelized onions (a little mound that has been rolled between two spoons to arrive in its final football-oid shape), three thin slices of nut bread, and a slice of pâté. My only complaint was that the pâté was not seared. I think that would have made it better.

Aside: Now I will tell on myself: When I went to New York for the first time as a junior in college, a little girl from Thayer who had been almost nowhere other than Springfield, Missouri, Mr. Harriman, our professor and arts enlightener, took a group of us to the nicest places we could imagine. We stayed at the Waldorf Astoria, we went to Broadway productions, we went to the Metropolitan Opera (where I saw Paul Newman, but that’s another story), and we ate at some fine restaurants. One of them served pâté de fois gras, which is THE pâté, the one that is goose liver. Never a liver fan, I nevertheless tasted it, and then told Mr. Harriman, probably pretty loudly, that it tasted pretty much like liverwurst. I am sure he blanched.

Anyway, though not in a fine dining establishment in New York, this pâté plate was just fine. I ate about half of the food, because I knew that we were just two courses down and four to go. I wasn’t about to miss anything, and I didn’t want to feel at the end of the meal as if I were ready to founder.

The waiter cleared our plates and then brought the main course: duck breast. This was quite a treat, although I think I would have preferred the meat a little less rare. Regardless, it was quite tasty, and it was served with sautéed mushrooms and a citrus reduction sauce – I’m pretty sure it was orange – and two vegetables that I couldn’t identify. I don’t eat turnips, but these cubed, tender but not mushy, white things could have been turnips. Another unidentifiable vegetable, although I thought it could be spiced pureed parsnips, was also on the plate. Again, I ate about half the food, because I knew more was coming.

The next course was a salad – a real salad!!! – with, according to the menu, fried reblochon. I had no idea what reblochon could be, but I assumed it was cheese, as I know that in European style dinners, salad and cheese are served at the end of the meal. I was right! The salad was comprised of Boston lettuce and slivered red bell peppers and something hot, although I couldn’t find that ingredient. The dressing was a classic vinaigrette, and it tasted SO GOOD. I haven’t had a real salad in so long; I was ecstatic and ate every bite, including the fried reblochon, which were fried cheese croutons. The outside of each was crispy and the inside of was melted to cream. They were delicious, and I hope to replicate them in my next dinner for hire. I have since investigated reblochon cheese and have found that it is a soft cow’s milk, washed-rind cheese – similar in style and texture to Brie. Three kinds of cows, and three only, produce the milk from which this kind of cheese is made. I will be looking for it when I get home.

After that course, I would have been happy to leave; however, we had two dessert courses coming. The first was listed on the menu as “Pre Dessert Colonel” and the second was “Dessert Macaron.” I had no idea what a “Colonel” is, except, of course, the obvious, and I assumed the “Mararon” was what I know as a macaroon – a chewy, coconut cookie – which would have been the perfect end to the meal. I was wrong on both accounts. The “colonel” was akin to citrus ice cream, although I think it should have been sorbet – kind of a “cleanse the palate” dish. It was sliced through with a wafer sugar cookie; I ate the whole cookie, but only a few bites of the colonel. The “macaron” was NOT a chewy coconut cookie; it was exactly what www.dictionary.com says it is: a traditional French pastry made of meringue and stuffed like an ice cream sandwich with ganache or cream. My pink, peppermint-flavored macaron was served with raspberry coulis and rosewater ice cream, and a rose petal bisected my ice cream serving. Beautiful!

After the entire meal was concluded, I was sated but not stuffed, I was full of good company and conversation, and I had completely forgotten that I was in Afghanistan. My forgetfulness came to a screeching halt, however, as we left the restaurant for our vehicle, climbed into the car that was covered with dust and mud, and went back to our home away from home over the rough, pitiful excuse for a road, passing , even late at night, people tramping through the heavy dust, all on foot, all barely off the road, their faces covered by scarves probably failing to keep the dust out of their noses and mouths, carrying babies, and going who knows where. Our way was lighted only by the half moon, stars, and headlights and taillights of other vehicles, because no street lamps illuminated our path.

Surprisingly, though, my mood did not fade with the bumpy trek back, because it was Christmas Eve, I had been out in another life with people for a few hours, and the sky was clear and crisp. And as I walked from the gate to my little room, I looked up at the bright night and could have sworn I heard voices:

. . ., “Do not be afraid, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy
which will be to all people. 11 For there is born to you this day in the city of
David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. . .13 And suddenly there was with the
angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying: “Glory to God
in the highest, And on earth peace, goodwill toward men!”

Peace.