Did you know that Kabul was in Tunisia? Well, neither did I. Until tonight.
God, what a slog across the frozen tundra to this misbegotten restaurant. You'll remember last night that we arrived at 9 or so only to be told there was "no more food" . . . that's like going to the OR and being told "Sorry, no more sutures . . . "
A caveat: I knew beforehand that this place was wildly popular. But no one told me half the younger college-age Québecoise in Montreal called this place their home.
Nice enough, I suppose, with the faux-Afghani ceiling-hangings and blah blah blah, but really, the rooms were claustrophobic and the nearby -- no, NEXT-TO tables -- were the equivalent of sitting in the balmy exhaust of a 747 engine as far as decibel levels go.
Who knew how high the female human voice can go? How loud? How strident? How disharmonious several of them can be? A murder of crows would sound more pleasant.
We were just ITCHING to get out of there after the harpy three feet away (can one be only 21 and yet be a harpy already?) shrieked her 54th guffaw at her own joke with her little pal across the table, swinging her glass of wine dangerously, while the only male of this six-part choir of shriekdom bellowed above the din (he only 21 or so, balding and 5-foot-five) about how he had chosen the Merlot specially for this occasion, and oh so how much did I want to grab the pitcher of ice water at my neighbour's table, reach across and pull the harpy's shirt away from her and pour the WHOLE PITCHER, lemon included, down her back.
The Shriek That Could Be Heard From Mont-Royal. It would have been sweet.
Then at checkout we found out that everyone who ran Khyber Pass was, in fact, from Tunisia. Oh well, nothing wrong with fighting for the preservation of lamb kebabs.
Oh, the food? Nothing to write home about.
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