Erbil is a city where the pulse of history meets the vibrancy of modern life. Amidst its bustling streets and towering structures lies a gem of Kurdish cuisine—Qazuan Restaurant. Known for its rich flavours, traditional setting, and warm ambience, it promises a culinary experience that lingers long after the last sip of tea.

It was on a quiet workday when our little office group decided to trade desks for dishes. The spark came from our colleague and food raconteur, Kak Ibrahim, whose descriptions of Qazuan were less recommendation and more epic tale. With Ibrahim, a kebab isn’t just a kebab—it’s a narrative, a memory, a slice of heritage. His enthusiasm was enough to sweep us—Kak Dilshad, Kak Abdullah, Kak Ali Bahri, and me—into his car for a spontaneous lunchtime adventure.

Once we entered, the restaurant manager greeted us with a warm smile, though his eyes betrayed a hint of concern as he observed the packed tables. “It’s busy today,” he said, “but if you don’t mind, we have space upstairs.” A glance at the crowd below convinced us to take his suggestion. As we ascended the stairs, the bustling atmosphere of the main floor faded, and we were led to a more tranquil setting on the first floor.

Up there, the energy shifted. Instead of bustling tables, we found ourselves in a quieter space, arranged in the Dastarkhan style. Raised platforms lined the room, laid with cushions and backrests, inviting us to slip off our shoes and settle cross-legged. Dining like this is more than comfort—it’s cultural immersion, a ritual where food becomes a connector of stories, friendships, and traditions.

The menu was filled with Kurdish specialities, but under Ibrahim’s gentle guidance, our choices soon took shape. I ordered Kurdish rice (birinj) with chicken, a dish that feels like a heartbeat of the region. Ibrahim went for fragrant rice paired with tender lamb. Abdullah, true to form, opted for kebabs, and Dilshad kept it simple yet hearty.

Then came the wait. At first, anticipation carried us. After forty minutes, hunger nudged impatience into the mix, but we reminded ourselves—good things take time. And when the food arrived, steaming and fragrant, it proved the patience worthwhile.

The Kurdish rice with chicken, soft and fragrant, arrived steaming, accompanied by perfectly cooked vegetables and seasoned to perfection. Ibrahim’s lamb dish was equally delightful—tender meat that practically melted off the bone. Abdullah’s kebab, which we had all eyed with envy, was expertly charred, with just the right amount of smokiness. Mastaw, a yoghurt-based drink that balanced the richness of the meal with refreshing coolness. It was the perfect complement to the dishes before us.

Despite the initial delay, we found ourselves enjoying the meal more than we could have imagined. The ambience, the setting, and the shared experience turned the simple act of eating into something far more meaningful. Conversations flowed easily, accompanied by laughter and occasional moments of silence as we savoured every bite.

Afterwards, Ibrahim insisted we see another room in the restaurant, designed like a traditional Kurdish village home. Woven rugs covered the floor, artefacts adorned the walls, and seating was once again low and communal. We stretched out, ordered chai, and let the strong, black Iraqi tea do its work—aromatic, brisk, and grounding.

In those moments, hierarchy and deadlines blurred. We weren’t just colleagues but companions gathered at a shared table, connected through the Kurdish way of dining—the Dastarkhan, where meals are as much about people as they are about food.

As we sipped the tea, the weight of the day seemed to fall away. The food, the setting, and the shared moments of quiet reflection were the perfect antidote to a busy, fast-paced world. For a few moments, we were no longer just colleagues from the office—we were fellow travellers on a journey through Kurdish culture and cuisine.

Eventually, it was time to leave. We settled the bill with contented smiles, knowing that Qazuan had delivered not just a meal, but an experience that would stay with us. We returned to the office, refreshed and nourished, our spirits lifted by the taste of Kurdish tradition and the warmth of the people who had shared it with us.

For me, that spontaneous lunch wasn’t just about chicken birinj or kebabs—it was about sitting cross-legged in Erbil, in a restaurant that felt like a bridge between tradition and today, and remembering that even in the busiest of lives, there’s time for moments that nourish more than just hunger.