Khyber Pass (Manor Park)

When I meandered into Khyber Pass, nestled in the heart of East London, I was dearly hoping for an authentic blast of the Pashtun Highlands right here amidst the city's cobbled noise. Opening the heavy wooden door embossed with intricate patterns seemed like stepping through a threshold in history—teasing at bygone eras and culinary journeys that one would wish still lingered in this bustling quarter. The aroma upon entry held a glimmer of promise, perhaps hinting at exquisite lamb bathing in spices or pillowy naans gleaming with buttery warmth - a mirage for the senses before reality made its assertive interruption. Decorated walls akin to distant memories of Afghanistan dressed up with colors entrenched in tradition suggested more than they could fulfill; perhaps that's where this interlude starts its tale.

Settling into my seat, which quivered slightly, as if reluctant, conversations began to fill the air not between guests and loved ones but amongst diners exchanging empathetic glances waiting longingly for what was only listed cynically on any half-palatable menu – patience being most rewarded. My eagerness dipped steeply as pleas for missing pillows of naan preceded anything else tangible on our quaint table. Alas! The celebrated Chapli Kebab—a delightful respite among sunken orders—finally graced us, spirited with character, but unfortunately lingering in charitable solitude against an overdrawn wait for accompaniments. Boneless arias sang wistfully of tender meats untasted this eve and naans when shepherded across brisk table transitions offered little recourse we could simply tear apart for shared joy. By the curtain call, as external checks described unspeakable disengagement from modern transactions, I left to the rhythm of uneven gravels outside, recalling a performance where discordant notes had sung. — Clarissa Cuisinier