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Entering Northern Iraq and obtaining the 10-day visa was relatively easy. Just 30 minutes of sipping sweet tea from ornate glasses, and listening to the waiting lounge's flat screen television and we – three Americans and one Canadian – have visas and a sincere welcome to the semi-autonomous Kurdish region.

A few hundred kilometres from the crossing, our driver finally gives in to our pleas for food and pulls into a roadside restaurant. My companions and I gorge ourselves on fresh, hot naan bread, paneer cheese and saucy beans accompanied by salad and smooth, salty olives. The table is laden with sauces varying from spicy to sweet and tangy, like an Indian chutney.

The restaurant is well lit, covered with plain tiles and filled with simple tables and chairs – much like the Kurdish restaurants on the Turkish side of the border from which we crossed into Iraq.

The presence of four foreigners does not go unnoticed in the restaurant's family dining section, which is separated from the male-populated main hall by tall dividers.

We mimic the families crowded around tables sharing plates of traditional Kurdish food, using naan to scoop up beans and absorb the thick sauce. Men and conservatively dressed women steal glances while their children look at us curiously. The waiters are a bit confused, but they're evidently also pleased to have guests from afar.

Forty minutes later, satiated and singing the praises of Kurdish fare, we leave the restaurant and head back to the taxi. It's now dark and the night is chilly and damp. We plunk ourselves down on the car's firm seats but, before we can shut the doors, several men from the restaurant rush to the car and begin examining its underbelly. Muttering in Kurdish, they use the light of their cellphones to search the wheelwells and frame. My travel companions and I look at each other, confused.

“Sticky bomb?” my colleague suggests coyly. We are reminded that while most of Kurdish Iraq doesn't suffer the constant violence of cities like Baghdad and Mosul, it is not immune. We jump from the taxi and retreat into the restaurant. Almost half an hour passes as the men continue to look at the vehicle.

“There's a problem?” I finally ask the Kurdish man behind the counter in my broken Egyptian Arabic. He points to a black car with dark windows in the parking lot. “Arabs,” he says, illustrating that ethnic tension is far from gone here.

The black car is running and stopped behind the row of parked vehicles. Its wheels are pointed toward the lot's exit as though ready for departure. I evidently look concerned. “No problem,” he says, this time venturing into English.

The black car pulls out of the lot, followed by the eyes of the men, who further examine our vehicle.

Our driver pulls the taxi in front of the restaurant and motions for us to get in – as though the search had been nothing more than a standard oil check. He smiles reassuringly but makes no attempt to explain as we pull back on to the highway, well fed and more than a bit uneasy.

Special to The Globe and Mail