A Homage to The Helmand – Cambridge

The Helmand makes amazing food, and there are few in the world who don’t know this considering the celebrity status of the owner. But that’s not all that brings me to the Helmand. The service is solid, the elegant décor is a delight, and the ambiance is to die for. The pervasive calm is undeniable, and a dinner at the Helmand affords ample time for a moment of solitude or an hour of quiet self-reflection, a haven for a peaceful group dinner or a sanctuary for solo diners soaking in the serenity.

Silence may be golden here, but few things are quite as golden as the Kaddo, a glowing orange ember of melt-in-your-mouth pumpkin abed in a sea of honey, blanketed by a smooth coverlet of garlic yogurt. The pumpkin and honey make for an explosive lap of luxury, and the yogurt makes it slide down like silk.

The Helmand is a reputed lamb-lover’s lane, and the Qabelee did nothing to refute that claim. Chunks of tenderloin fell apart with the flick of a fork under a plate of pallow rice, the flavor of gamey tender lamb permeating every little grain. The plump raisins taste nothing like those dried up little boxes of after school snacks, and julienne carrots add the only glaze sweeter than a well-made lamb.

After each individual chew of the Aushak, a new spice breaks through. It starts with a bouquet of scallion and leek, until you sink under the weight of the yogurt cream. The lightly spiced chickpeas hold firm under the soft ravioli as bitter-fresh mint molds itself into the all little crevices of your tongue while a carrot sauce sweeps sweetly in. This dish duels between heavy and light and light and dark. Each flavor holds its own, but the endless combinations play their own cadences on the tongue. I loved many a dish, but this one is a poet’s poem, a writer’s epic, and a food blogger’s muse.

I don’t remember the first time I tried Baklava, but I do remember the last. I snuck into the kitchen in the dead of night to pilfer a piece of heaven provided by my roommate’s Albanian mother. I never ate baklava again because I was convinced that anything this good couldn’t exist on earth. But Ilisia’s mother must work at the Helmand because my flawlessly layered square of lighter-then air pastry grounded by nuts was honeyed heaven at its best.

Several people have complained that the Helmand is identical to a nearby place called Ariana, a gripe I fail to grasp. You found two otherworldly Afghan restaurants in the same great city. Woe is you. If Ariana is truly as good as the Helmand, quit your whining and go to both. 

The Helmand is my morphine, and the food takes away my pain. Because isn't that why we eat? Some eat to 

remember, and some eat to forget. Some have more to forget than others and some just have very poor memory. I, for one, will never forget this flawless 5-star feast.