How was your food?

The question may be silly.
But it’s inevitable: So, how was the food?
Even if you’re talking about a country as war-torn and brutal and complicated as Afghanistan, any returning visitor faces the question.
Consider these two dining experiences.
The first is in Kabul. You’re out for the evening with a fellow American and a British woman who makes documentary films. They know the city.
Your taxi driver is from one of two companies that Westerners have come to trust. They can be reached by cell phone, are generally safe, and have consistent rates. Other taxis in town are a gamble, perhaps with one’s personal safety.
The cab pulls up by a non-descript wall on a dark street which may be paved with little more than rocks and mud. At an unmarked steel door in the wall, there’s a buzzer to be pushed.
The door then opens and you’re facing a guard holding an AK-47 automatic rifle who motions you to step into a dark corridor. A second guard then frisks you and your dinner companions before signaling you to move ahead.
After about eight more paces down the corridor, you reach another guard with another AK-47 beside another steel door. Again you are patted down before the door opens.
You then find yourself in a space about the size of a small elevator. Another guard, sitting in a lighted booth requires you to hand over a piece of identification with your photo on it. You’ll check it with him the way you’d check your coat.
Then, perhaps after one more pat-down (I lost count after awhile), the third steel door opens and you are in a walled courtyard. The restaurant is a few steps away.
The meal itself is okay but not extraordinary. As a Westerner, you can buy a drink. It’s illegal for Afghans to purchase alcohol. But be forewarned, a beer or a glass of wine will run you at least $6.
A night out in Mazar-e Sharif is a little different.
This time, it’s just you and another American. You’re accompanied by an Afghan journalist who speaks excellent English. He was a Fulbright young scholar in the U.S., receiving his master’s degree in Arizona.
It’s his city, and he’s showing you true Afghan hospitality. (An earlier plan to have dinner at his home was cancelled when his wife, who is pregnant, said she wasn’t feeling well.)
This time, there are no guards. If there are weapons present — and it seems a good chance that there are — they are not visible.
On the street outside the restaurant, a make-shift grill has been set up, with glowing coals for cooking kabobs of various types on skewers. There’s also a trough with several faucets. Everyone is expected to wash his hands before entering.
And I do mean his hands. There are no women present. It’s highly unlikely they’d be served.
Your Afghan friend leads you into the crowded space. Some people are seated at tables, but many are sitting cross-legged on platforms with low tables as in a teahouse. Their shoes, which they have removed, make walking through the restaurant a bit complicated, so you have to watch your step.
Finally, you find your seat. It’s the farthest table from the entrance. You have your back literally to the wall. Dozens of eyes are looking in your direction. You and your buddy are the only Westerners in the place.
You order the usual: Kabul-style rice pilau with beef mixed in with the rice, several skewers of kabobs with meat and fat mixed at various intervals, and a piece of nan, the wonderful local flatbread that’s best served right out of the oven.
To drink, there’s tea. Your choice: Black or green.
You have a spoon, a knife, and a fork. But the guy at the next table doesn’t seem to need them. He’s eating his rice from the bowl with his right hand.
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