Hunting for kebab in Shiraz

Shiraz. A city that rolls off the tongue like a line of Persian poetry, but hits the senses like a slap of saffron and diesel. It’s not just a place, it’s a mood.

Me? I’m in the mood for kebab. I’ve spent the day getting lost in the bazaar, which offered its usual chaos with a swirling, fragrant fever dream of copper, cardamom, and commerce. But the seedy kebab joints eluded me like a faint mirage of grilled meat in a desert of antique rugs and pomegranate juice.

Passed through Melli park where there was a lot of tents, as the Iranian people sure loves to picnic. I like the people here, they are very friendly and eager to get their hands on strange mp3 music from westerners.

Nasir al-Mulk in Shiraz.

The streets were surprisingly empty. People here don’t move fast, and they don’t need to, since the poets already said it all centuries ago. The tomb of national poet Hafez felt like a barbecue party in the evening, as families flocked to the compound.

Having awesome kebab.

Now I had dreams of tender meat skewered with the sort of nonchalance only thousands of years of culinary tradition can provide. The quest continued westbound as we walked along the noisy streets. I might have indulged in a few Gaz (nougat with almond and pistachio) to keep the sugar rush running smoothly.

After a while we arrived at something called the gas field, where I found amazingly good kebab, sitting on a small plastic table right on the street.

Faloodeh.

But all in life is not kebab. I’m also a sucker for sweets, so I sat down for the odd local specialty Faloodeh, some sort of frozen starch lime juice with rose water. Weird but not bad, as with many things I’ve encounted in Iran so far.

In Shiraz, the poetry may be old, but the fire under the grill is very much alive.