Normal Food
Irene emailed me. Again. This time she insisted I put Ernest’s booties on for his walks due to the expected storm. They just
make his legs step independently from one another, like a baby deer learning to walk. As I make my way down the block, the
heavy rain creates tapping sounds on the oversize hood I’ve cloaked over my head. I reach the diner, where a warm glow spills
onto the sidewalk. I’m a tad early this evening, so Sami isn’t waiting for us yet. I’m about to head to the park when the
front door of the diner lets out a chime and an older man’s voice calls out, “Mona joon!”
Ernest tugs the leash. I turn to see Sami’s dad staring at me. His thick brown pants hang a little too low, yet don’t quite
cover his ankles. “You were the girl with the joke words last week, yeah?”
Shame bubbles as I recall there was another witness to my drunken actions. Why must this hangover never end?
“Sir, I’m really sorry about how I acted—”
He’s already flicking his hands in my direction, shaking the apology away. “That was a good time. And who is this man you
call sir? You call me Abu.” He points to himself with two thumbs and stands tall, fighting the rounding of his shoulders.
I nod. My cheeks are still warm.
He holds the door open wider. “After you drop off the dog come in from this rain.”
I shake my head on instinct. It’s been almost a week since my drunken mess, and I’m not ready to face the diner yet. “Normally I meet Sami at the side door . . .”
Sami comes peeking out from behind his dad’s shoulder, his frame almost a full foot taller than his dad’s. “Hey, Mona! Sorry,
I was caught up.”
“Mona, tell me, you like zereshk polo?” Abu asks. “And don’t tell us no just to be polite. We don’t have time for you to make
up all the lies.”
Before I can answer, Sami’s face twists. “Dad, what the fuck are you even saying?”
Abu swats the air near his son. “You shut up with your fuck this and fuck that. You think it’s so cool to be swearing? I’ll show you fucking.”
“Um, please don’t.” Sami’s eyes widen before they drift to me apologetically.
I suppress a giggle, and suddenly all my shame is gone. I’ve gotten coffee from Sami’s dad before, but he’s never talked to
me like this. I must’ve bonded with him real hard last week.
Again, Abu waves Sami back with a shooing motion before returning to me. “So do you like zereshk?”
“Yes?” I say uncertainly as Ernest starts to sniff a dark wet pile of something on the sidewalk. I tug his leash right before
he gets the first lick in. Zereshk polo is in fact a comfort food I haven’t had in years. My mom kind of stopped cooking as
soon as I figured out how to make toast and macaroni. It worked out because she could work longer hours in the evenings, and
I could eat alone in my bed.
“You don’t have dinner plans?” The way Abu asks feels more like an accusation. Valid, since I planned on eating an overpriced
cranberry turkey salad I’d grabbed as a 2-for-1 from the Foodway Grocery. The romaine leaves are already going brown. “You
took too long to answer. Come, we have lots.” The old man waves me in again.
“Dad.” Sami covers his eyes with the palms of his hand and wipes them down his face before looking at me with a plea for forgiveness
in his gaze. “Feel free to ignore him.”
I don’t know if it’s the fact that Sami looks so uncomfortable (a refreshing subversion of our dynamic), my recent isolation,
or most likely that I have nothing good at home to look forward to. My mouth is watering so badly at the thought of warm chicken
with barberry rice, the decision seems out of my hands.
“Oh, I’m so in.”
Abu claps his hands together. “Good.” He reaches out to take Ernest’s leash from me and then hands it to Sami. “Are those
boots? These Canadians with their dog babies, huh? Sami, go put the baby for little nap.”
Sami obliges as he picks up Ernest and carries him around to the side door, which I assume leads to their private home. I
follow Sami’s dad through the front entrance into the café.
Entering the diner on a rainy evening is like slipping into a warm bath. The soft yellow lighting from the table lamps, the
warm scent of saffron, the tinny 1970s ballad playing from the old jukebox—all of it fills me with a feeling that I can’t
quite pin—like unearned nostalgia for a place I’ve never been.
It’s a small building, so the space is more like a narrow hallway with booths on one side and the kitchen bar lined with stools
on the other. There’s a small TV in the corner currently playing a repeat episode of Property Brothers on mute.
“Please make yourself at home while I go tend to the kitchen before it burns.” Abu winks at me before making his way through
the swinging door on the far side of the counter. The stiff limp makes me suspect he has pretty significant back pain.
As soon as I’ve hung my coat on the wooden rack in the corner, Sami comes down from a staircase that must lead to their apartment
and slides on one of the dark aprons from a hook in the hall. “I’m going to make some tea. Want some?” he asks me.
“Sounds perfect.” I take a seat on one of the squishy stools as Sami lifts the flap to stand behind the bar.
He leans across the counter, his diner cap on backward, his hair peeking out from the sides. “Hey, so tonight is going to
be weird as shit since my dad’s involved. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, come on.” I grin, kind of amused by his discomfort. “He seems sweet.”
“Oh, good, you’re still here.” Abu comes through the swinging doors, a large platter of food hoisted across each arm. “I worried
Sami would throw you off again because of how he is.”
Sami runs to his dad. “Let me get those.”
Before Sami can reach him, Abu plops the plates on the counter. “This guy, huh? Thinks just because he’s a gym asshole, he’s
only guy strong enough to carry plates.”
I snort at the echo of my words from the other night. Sami rolls his eyes. “More like I didn’t want you to drop all the food
I worked so hard on.”
Abu returns through the swinging door. Sami’s gaze trails his father’s movements before he shakes his head and rounds his
eyes on me. “Seriously, thanks for coming.”
“Um, are you joking?” I nod toward the platter of steaming rice and glistening meat, their saffron and turmeric scents warming
my palate. “I’m not the one doing any favors here. Seriously, thank you.”
“Well, now I should disclose. There are ulterior motives.” He leans across the counter conspiringly. “Believe it or not, that
weird man can cook, and I’ve always wanted to learn how to properly make some classic Persian dishes. But after years of hounding
him for his secrets, trying it all, only now has he agreed to share his brain.”
“For real?” I grin, but then that weird sense of hollowness that I’ve felt a million times before hits. I can’t imagine I’d ever have voluntarily given that much of my time or patience to my dad. And I give my mom more than enough already. I swallow away the discomfort and say, “That’s sweet.”
He glances toward the doors to the kitchen and frowns. I follow his eyes and see his dad’s head peeking through the glass
circle.
“Oh yeah, real sweet—so long as the guy doesn’t end up murdering me.” Sami pours hot water into a mug and pushes it my way,
followed by a box of tea bags for me to pick from. “Tonight I asked him one question about measurements, and he threatened
me with his slipper because only imbeciles measure things.”
But that one dimple appears. His love for his dad is so obvious, and it pulls to the surface memories I haven’t thought about
in ages.
“You’re taking me back to when my mom taught me to drive,” I joke as I drop a bag of black tea into the mug. “She insisted,
because my dad was the worst driver, but then she spent the next few hours panicking so hard anytime we moved, that my dad
ended up having to teach me in secret. If it weren’t for him, I’d probably never have learned.”
I’d accidentally driven onto a curb and killed a little tree. My dad never told anyone.
The memory unspools without warning. I haven’t thought of that day in probably a decade. A heavy weight presses on my chest.
I take a sip of tea to obscure the discomfort. It grounds me back in the present.
But, as though reading the void inside my head, Sami cuts in with, “Are you two still pretty close?”
I shake my head without thinking, then realize I need to say something. “My dad passed away in March, so not really.”
I try to make it sound like a joke, but Sami doesn’t laugh. His wince isn’t great either.
“Oh, don’t worry, it’s totally okay,” I explain, hoping to get ahead of the I’m so sorry thing.
Sami raises an eyebrow, and I clarify, “Or, it’s complicated.
But, like, I’ve grieved properly and stuff.
Done all the therapy.” I firm up my smile to showcase how very unbothered I am, even though my insides are still squirming.
He nods, giving me a grin that looks equally forced. “I’m glad you got that checked off your list, then . . .”
“So.” Desperate for a change of topic, I cast my eyes toward the food. “Am I the guinea pig for your lessons?”
One side of Sami’s mouth lifts higher. “I’m afraid so?” The door swings open and Abu returns with a colander overflowing with
fresh herbs. Sami flashes me a regretful look. “But I assure you that if it sucks, we can order something from Uber Eats.”
Abu drops the colander onto the counter and jabs Sami in the ribs with a finger. “This piece of shit, huh?” he says to me,
before poking his son again. Sami flinches back, swatting at his dad’s hand playfully. “Talking about ordering takeout to
a restaurant. What are you, a secret tech billionaire asshole?”
“See what I mean about this guy?” But Sami’s smiling. He moves out of his dad’s reach and winks at me.
A spark lights in Abu’s eyes. “Now, Mona,” he says, growing somber. “I invited you because you seem very honest when we spoke
the other night. So eat and tell me what you think.”
I pick up a fork and gather a bite. The chicken falls off the bone onto my fork. As soon as it hits my tongue, I’m overwhelmed.