Our Story
Wei Jianming arrived in Den Haag from Xinjiang in 2003 with a cast-iron grill and his grandmother's spice ratios written on a folded napkin. He found a narrow unit on Gedempte Burgwal and called it 老地方 — the old place — after the night market stall back home.
Twenty years on, the coals still come alive at five o'clock. The smoke drifts out across the canal. The lamb is still cut by hand, threaded onto flat skewers, and kissed with cumin the way it always was.
Den Haag gave us a home. We give it fire.