Roaring along in my friend Glenn’s old Mercedes in search of an obscure Uygur restaurant, I felt like a character from a Graham Green novel. Except that as we motored up Ocean Parkway towards the beaches I was talking on my cell phone to the owner of the place, trying to figure out where in the hell he was located.
“Is this Kashkar?” I asked.
“Why to know you?” was the suspicious response.
“I want to know whether or not you are open?” I asked, aware that many of the restaurants featuring food from this region were closed on Friday nights in observance of the Muslim holy day.
“This a private business,” the man said. “Why to tell you?”
“Because I want to eat at your restaurant,” I said.
“You eat here?”
“Yes.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Then come till ten,” he said, hanging up the phone.
We drove to Brighton Beach 4th Street (not to be confused with regular old 4th Street) and parked under the elevated train. Just past the dry goods store (soccer balls, soon-to-rip backpacks, wind up robots, Chinese lipstick) was Café Kashkar Adolat, a brightly lit space with orange Karim Rashid-style plastic chairs and real plastic flowers on the wall that apparently had been factory engineered to look like they needed water. I’ve never been to the land of the Uygurs, on the Silk Road where China meets Kyrgyzstan, but the flowers’ sad droop seemed like a strangely authentic touch.
“Welcome,” said the owner, handing us paper menus laminated in battered plastic.
We were hungry, and quickly ordered lagman noodles, and dumplings called manty and guvova. I asked for a bottle of Borzomi, a salty Russian mineral water, and Glenn went to the deli next door for a beer. A few single men sat at tables nearby nursing their brewskis in paper bags. The flat screen TV above the kitchen pass through showed a Russian variety show featuring ballet dancers, violin players and other cultural performances of the type that disappeared from American TV by the early 70s.
The Tartars invented lagman, which they made by sticking pieces of dough under their saddles during long rides across the the rough plains. The horse’s sweat would cause the dough to separate into 8 foot long strands that they’d twirl into broth to make soup. Or maybe that was steak that the Tartars used. Whatever. No horse sweat was in evidence this night. Nor were Tartars. In fact, the chewy wheat noodles at the Café Kashkar Adolat -- which, the owners will remind you, is not Tajik, not Uzbek, not Kyrgryz -- are pulled by hand and served in a lamb broth made red and rich by smoky paprika (similar to Mexican chipotle), roasted red peppers, snappy green beans, big chunks of ginger and bits of fatty lamb. They’ll fill you up. But you will already have ordered too much, so get over it. Next will come dumplings, the fat mantys filled with grey chopped meat and gravy and topped with more fresh dill than most Americans see in a lifetime, and the tiny guvova designed to just pop into your mouth. Although we were full, we topped off our meal with lamb and chicken kebobs, served with raw onion and a tomato and paprika sauce, along with some yeasty bread we spread with the smoked hot pepper condiment on the table. Yowsa.
Café Kashkar Adolat
Uygur International Food
3087 Brighton 4th Street Brooklyn, NY 718 743 2077
February 18 
the dullest dining room aroundWhat to say? Huge disappointment. I'm not easily disappointed, but this -- wow!
