Xinjiang Food and Human Spirit

Every day to work, right off the subway on Maotai Lu, I see the hubbub of activity in a small Xinjiang Muslim restaurant called Xinjiang Flavour. The tandoor or coal oven has just been lit and large masses of dough are being made into a foot diameter Nan bread and poked by metal skewers inside the tandoor. The cooks and waiters in this restaurant are distinctly exotic looking, quite unlike the incredible Han homogeneity you see all over China. High cheek bones, a pale pink complexion, eyes drawn straight out of a Marco Polo history book and a language absolutely unknown outside of Urumqi. On my way back, I always stop for 2 nans for dinner (Cost: 6 RMB or less than a dollar). These are delicious, coated with sesame seeds and I have to tear off pieces and eat even before I have hit the subway. Frequently, I have lunch there. The star of the place is undoubtedly Achmet. He is the sunshine of the place, full of bonhomie, chattering away in a language a mish mash of Shanghainese, Uighur, Mandarin and some English thrown in for good measure. He is acutely aware of me, and my rare looks (very few Indians in this part of town). He greets one with a smile broader than his face, clapping his hands, with words tumbling like a waterfall. He takes orders while nearly forcing you to choose the ones he recommends and of course you do because he is still smiling and talking non stop, while barking orders in between tiny pauses between sentences. The food is simply delicious if you are a carnivore and quite good even for a vegetarian. chunks of lamb skewered to perfection in a single spice mix of salt and cumin. Eggplant stewed in another singular flavour of lime and cardamom. In between, he never fails to hold forth from a corner to the entire restaurant audience, for audience it surely is, on some subject or other. Yesterday, he kept pointing to me and I guessed he was spinning some yarns about me: I recognized words like Yinduren (Indians), pinguo (friend) and many minutes later, it was translated to me that he spoke about the extraordinary closeness between Indians and Uighur people, historically, through travel by Central Asians. I was dumbfounded. How does a simple chef and waiter at a Xinjiang restaurant have such an understanding...but this is how Achmet is. Everyday, he calls out to me from across the street with his ever present grin , waving his towel and nan. Such a simple joy to be Achmet.