We've come here, to this narrow street littered with car parts, on the advice of my friend Timur, a self-proclaimed "halfghan", born to an Afghan father and an American mother. Inside, the restaurant is crammed with benches of men, young and old, hunched over plates of kebabs. A squadron of boys rushes back and forth furiously, ferrying plates of meat, spicy chutney, and naan to their eager customers. In the middle of it all, in a glass-windowed box before three enormous skillets, a rotund, gray-haired gentleman mixes a mountain of ground beef with his left hand before slapping the flattened patties into the skillet with his right. Next to him, two rows of shelves overflow with bowls of spices: red chile flakes, cumin, salt, coriander, pomegranate seeds, chunks of chopped tomatoes, sauteed garlic, and onions. The truly ravenous can even request a fried egg on top of their patty.