Some cities leave their mark in monuments, some in melodies, and then some linger in your memory through the taste of a single dish. Erbil, the vibrant pulse of Kurdistan, spoke to me in many tongues: the rustle of its bazaars, the golden blur of taxis darting through ancient alleys, and most intimately, in the aroma of food that curled through its streets and homes like a whispered story.

It was in this city — heady, hospitable, and always half-awake — that I met Arbab. Colleague by designation, neighbour by chance, and kindred spirit by fate. What began as casual nods over morning tea soon blossomed into a friendship steeped in shared stories, laughter echoing across balconies, and meals that tasted like memory.

Arbab wasn’t just a good cook. He was a culinary storyteller. His hands didn’t follow recipes; they followed instinct — the kind passed down through generations, like a song hummed by grandmothers and remembered by heart. And of all the dishes he conjured, none captured my soul quite like his Chapli Kebabs — smoky, spiced, and unapologetically bold.

A Kebab That Carried Time

The first time I tasted one, it wasn’t just my palate that stirred. It was something deeper, as though each bite tapped into a lineage of flavours that had travelled through time.

“Chapli,” Arbab explained, comes from the Pashto word chaprikh, meaning flat. But its journey stretched far beyond its shape. It was a dish born on the ancient Silk Road, where spices were traded like treasure and weary travellers found solace in sizzling meat at roadside caravanserais. Somewhere between the sand-swept roads of Khyber and the bustling kitchens of Peshawar, the Chapli Kebab emerged — a culinary crossroad of cultures, a dish that carried the dust and dreams of centuries.

Arbab’s Kitchen: A Portal to the Past

Arbab brought that entire legacy into his modest Erbil kitchen.

I remember watching him prepare the kebabs with the reverence of a sculptor shaping clay. Into the minced beef went finely chopped onions and tomatoes, crushed garlic and ginger, green chillies, fresh coriander — and then, the magic: his secret spice blend. Roasted cumin, crushed coriander seeds, garam masala, cardamom powder, red chilli — each added with a flourish. But the soul of the dish was always the Chapli Kebab masala he carried from Karachi, a spice mix so potent that the moment it was opened, the air seemed to shift.

He shaped the patties with bare hands — flat, rustic, imperfectly perfect. They sizzled in the pan, transforming into golden discs of flavour that wrapped the house in an irresistible aroma. Neighbours would pause at their windows, drawn by the scent. And I, always, would linger in anticipation.

Meals That Became Memories

Evenings with Arbab were never just about food. They were about gathering — about stories that flowed freely, laughter that needed no translation, and silences that felt like home.

We’d sit around a humble table set with warm khubuz, crisp cucumber-tomato salad, cool yoghurt raita, and always, the star of the show — those Chapli Kebabs. Each bite was a journey: through the spice markets of Kabul, the kitchens of Pindi, the smoky grills of Peshawar. In those moments, we weren’t just in Iraq. We were everywhere this dish had ever been.

Joel would often join us, his calm presence grounding our animated conversations. Sheral, with her gentle humour, added warmth to our gatherings. Together, we created a rhythm of meals, memories, and moments that stitched themselves into the fabric of my Erbil life.

A Dish That Still Stirs

Today, miles away and months removed, when I think of Erbil, it’s not the skyline or the citadel that comes first. It’s Arbab’s kebabs — the smoky swirl of spices, the warmth of our laughter, the quiet joy of eating together.

Food, I’ve come to believe, is memory made edible. And in those kebabs lived not just centuries of heritage, but the essence of our friendship — warm, spiced, unforgettable.

So whenever I come across the sizzle of kebabs on a pan or the scent of cumin wafting through the air, I smile. Somewhere, Arbab might be making his signature dish again, and somewhere within me, Erbil still stirs — alive, aromatic, and forever flavorful.