"Did you eat Kurdish meatballs?" the stern-looking young man asked us as we sipped our tea.
"No, not yet"
"It is the best!"
We were then handed a metal tiffin that contained the man's iftar meal, and after refusing my gentle "no thank you, please eat," he suddenly produced a pair of forks and knives with a proud grin. Two homemade köfte balls loaded with fresh herbs lay on a bed of macaroni. He left us for a nearby television, and we happily (and gratefully) dug in.
They really were the tastiest köfte. I tried to find out what those herbs and spices were when our man returned for the verdict, but he merely replied: "Kurdish meatballs. Best!"