Someone tapped me on the shoulder and, startled, I dropped my plate. Demonstrating lightning-fast reflexes, the someone—a young man, I observed—saved my lunch from disaster. I took out my earbuds, and TSwift’s bouncing lyrics blared for a moment into the silence before I hastily swiped the app closed.
The young man half smiled. Cute, I thought.
“Your . . . meal?” he asked, his tone deeply dubious as he handed back the plate. He looked to be about my age or slightly older, wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. A pair of flashy sunglasses with reflective silver lenses dangled from his collar. His hair was dark and curly, and a smile twitched at the corners of his full mouth. A hint of stubble accentuated a square jaw and warm terra-cotta skin. Large dark brown eyes regarded me from beneath thick black brows.
Definitely cute, but I didn’t appreciate the questioning lilt at the end of that sentence. Or the way the older man standing behind him wrinkled his nose at my lunch.
“What is that?” the older man asked. Despite the salt-and-pepper hair and the deep frown lines etched into his cheeks, the resemblance between the two was clear. Father and son, I concluded.
“Biryani poutine,” I answered, offended. “Only available on the VIP menu.”
The older man frowned at my mop, which had fallen to the floor. “You work here? You look about fourteen years old.”
I reached up to straighten my wrinkled black tunic and adjust my hijab. The young man followed the movements of my hands with his eyes before looking away with a faint smile. Was Mr. Silver Shades laughing at me?
Welcome to Three Sisters Biryani Poutine, where child labor is encouraged and biryani and poutine are kept segregated, as God intended, I wanted to say. Instead I led them to a booth.
“I don’t understand why you insisted on coming here,” the older man said loudly, settling into his seat with a look of distaste. “They probably don’t even have clean cups.”
Charming. A few years ago I might have asked Mr. Silver Shades to take his grumpy dad elsewhere. But they were our first customers of the day, and my family couldn’t afford to be picky.
Three Sisters Biryani Poutine had seating for about forty people, spread out among a handful of plastic booths and yellowing square tables paired with wooden chairs. Bright fluorescent lighting painted every smudge and dent in harsh relief, and the walls were an unflattering green. Every year we meant to repaint, but time and money never allowed for it. Some art hung on the walls, mostly prints from IKEA or garage sales; Mom was partial to seascapes and large florals. A counter stood against the back wall, with the cash register in front of a door that led to the kitchen.
“These hole-in-the-wall places sometimes have excellent food, if you can look past the decor,” the young man said to his father, not bothering to lower his voice. He caught my eye when I returned with cutlery and glasses, unaware—or uncaring—that I had overheard. The older man immediately reached for his glass and started inspecting it for water blotches.
“Have you worked here long?” Mr. Silver Shades asked.
“A few years,” I said shortly, handing them laminated menus. I had officially started serving when I turned sixteen; before that I had helped out as dishwasher, sweeper—any job that needed to be done. Not that Mr. Silver Shades and his designer clothes would have any idea what a struggling family-run business required.
“There aren’t any other restaurants in the neighborhood,” he remarked. “This area could use more selection, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t,” I said. “Things are fine the way they’ve always been.”
Mr. Silver Shades perused the empty dining room dubiously. “I hope you have a backup plan for when this place shuts down. Shouldn’t be long now.”
I stared at him in shock. Had he really just said that my mother’s restaurant was on the brink of closing?
“Bring us some water,” the young man said, dismissing me outright. He turned his attention to our comprehensive menu, written in both English and Urdu. I walked away before I did something foolish, like empty the water jug over his head.
When we first opened, Three Sisters had been one of the few full-service restaurants that served halal meat, a fact that had enticed customers from all over the city. As Toronto’s Muslim population grew, more halal restaurants began to pop up all over the city. A demographic shift occurred at the same time: Second-generation immigrant kids weren’t as interested in eating the South Asian staples their parents craved. Mr. Silver Shades was right. Three Sisters Biryani Poutine had been open for fifteen years, but now we were in deep trouble.
“Your menu is very extensive. What would you recommend?” Mr. Silver Shades asked when I returned to take their order. Grumpy Dad had pulled out a pair of reading glasses and was examining his fork.
I rattled off our specialties, and the young man frowned at every choice, the notch above his eyebrows deepening with every word. He was contemplating walking out, I could tell. I knew Three Sisters would never win any prizes for beauty, but then, this man and his father would never win any prizes for grace.
“Why don’t you just order what you think we’d like,” he finally said. “Let’s make it four dishes, and some mango lassi.”
I chirped, “Sounds good!” and collected their menus. I wasn’t sure if I should feel relieved that they had stayed to fill our till, or disappointed that they hadn’t left and saved me the trouble of serving people I disliked. Then again, they were probably strangers passing through Golden Crescent. I didn’t recognize either of them, and I knew most of the people who lived in the neighborhood. After this meal, I hoped I would never have to see Mr. Silver Shades and his grumpy dad ever again.
CHAPTER TWO
I gave Mom the order—chicken biryani, malai kofta, dal makhani, and naan—then hung around the kitchen while Fazeela, Fahim, and Mom worked.
My sister, Fazeela, was sous-chef for the day, and Fahim was in charge of the large tandoor clay oven that turned dough instantly into soft, crispy naan, while Mom assembled the biryani. Fazee and Fahim were discussing their favorite topic: baby names for the little cantaloupe.
“Hussain is a good choice,” Fahim said, smiling. My brother-in-law was always smiling. A tall man with broad shoulders, he was rocking his usual outfit of dark Adidas track pants and hoodie, a perpetual athlete on his way to the gym. “That was my grandfather’s name.”
Fazeela shook her head. “Hussain is overplayed, like Hassan. Besides, we’re having a girl.”
“My cousin named her son Hassan. She’s the one I was telling you about, the one who just bought a house in Saskatoon. You won’t believe how little they paid. We should plan a visit to check it out.”
Fahim’s family lived in Saskatchewan, nearly three thousand kilometers from Toronto. My sister and brother-in-law had met in culinary school and married the previous year. Ever since Fazeela had found out she was pregnant, Fahim hadn’t stopped talking about moving west. My sister was less enthusiastic, and I was tired of that conversation.
I opened the messaging app to see if StanleyP had texted again, but Fazeela’s teasing voice jolted me back to the kitchen.
“Are you talking to your mystery man again?” she asked, grinning. “It’s that internet guy, right? The one from your podcast.”
“You don’t even listen to my podcast,” I said, stashing the phone in my pocket.
“Marvin, or Alan, or Johnny, or—” Fazeela rattled off, ignoring me.
“Stanley,” I muttered, instantly regretting it.
“Stanley!” Fazeela crowed. “Some random white dude from who knows where, and you’re obsessed!”
“I’m not obsessed,” I said, flushing and looking at my mother. “We’re just friends. And how do you know he’s white?”
Fazeela looked at me in disbelief. “He listens to podcasts.”
She had me there. #PodcastsSoWhite.
> “You text him more than I do Fahim, and we’re married. Should we be concerned, Hanaan?”
My sister was the only one in the family who insisted on calling me by my full name, Hanaan. That’s Hana with an extra an. At twenty-six she was two years older than me, and with her tall frame and impatient air, she looked like a younger version of our mother. When her athletic body, more used to running on a soccer pitch than standing around the kitchen, had begun to round with signs of new life, the resemblance had become remarkable.
Unlike Fazeela, I hadn’t inherited our mother’s tall, sturdy build. I was short, with tawny bronze skin and round hips. My eyes were hazel in the sun or after a bout of laughter, I had been told, but otherwise dark brown. My sister and I shared our mother’s thick, slanting eyebrows and full lips, though mine were set in a small triangular face, in contrast to my sister’s more square features.
“Leave her alone, Fazee,” Fahim said, looking over at me with sympathy. “Remember how we used to be when we were first getting to know each other?”
“He’s just a friend,” I muttered. “I don’t even know his real name.”
“If the online guy isn’t serious, there’s always Yusuf,” Fahim said to Fazeela. “He’s single; he’s nice. She could marry him.”
“She will decide for herself when and if she wants to marry,” I said firmly. “And Yusuf is my best friend.”
“They can’t all be your friends,” Fazeela shot back.
Mom usually stayed out of our low-level bickering, but now she pinned the three of us with a look, and we instantly shut up.
“Hana, beta, after you serve the customers, I need you to run home and check on Baba before you leave for the radio station. He isn’t picking up the phone,” Mom said as I carefully picked up the dishes they had prepared.
My mother thought about everyone and everything, all the time. I wondered how she managed it all. Perhaps if I got my dream job, the income would help take some of the burden from her shoulders.
“Don’t forget the mango lassi on your way out,” Mom said.
* * *
• • •
After I served Mr. Silver Shades and his grumpy father, I moved to the front of the restaurant, delaying my departure. I was waiting for my favorite moment.
I knew Three Sisters Biryani Poutine wasn’t fancy. When Mr. Silver Shades and the old man had insulted the restaurant, I felt defensive because their easy dismissal was often the first reaction of new customers. Until they tasted our food.
Mom had haat ki maaza, which is untranslatable Urdu for “magical cooking hands.” The men tucked into their buttery dal makhani, lentil stew simmered with garlic and onions and topped with ghee. They soaked up malai kofta, dumplings made from mashed potato and paneer cheese, simmered in a tomato cream sauce, with fresh tandoori naan. They took sips of mango lassi, a fruit-and-yogurt smoothie, before digging into my mother’s signature dish, chicken biryani. She had learned the recipe back home in New Delhi, and I had never tasted that combination of delicate saffron and fragrant spices anywhere else.
As they tasted each dish, their eyebrows rose. They took more bites, unable to believe their taste buds. A slow smile blossomed on Mr. Silver Shades’ face, and it seemed real this time, not the polite expression he had worn when he told me to order his lunch. The men passed dishes back and forth. They closed their eyes in ecstasy as the complex flavors danced on their tongues.
Okay, I might have made that last part up. My mother is a good cook is what I mean. She might even be a cooking prodigy. It was how she had sustained the restaurant for all those years. So even though people hadn’t been breaking down the door lately clamoring for her Indian staples, she still had haat ki maaza.
“Everything all right?” I asked, walking past with a pitcher of water.
The older man kept eating. Mr. Silver Shades, on the other hand, slowed down, a tablespoon heaped with biryani rice paused halfway to his mouth.
“What’s wrong, too spicy?”
His father cracked a smile. That’s how good my mom’s food was: Grumpy Dad actually smiled.
The young man put the spoonful of rice in his mouth and chewed slowly. “It tastes like . . .” He looked disoriented. “Where did the chef learn to cook?” he asked me.
“Secret family recipe,” I answered smoothly. “My mother learned from her mother, who learned from her mother.”
“Your mother owns this restaurant?” Mr. Silver Shades asked, surprised. “I thought you were just the waitress.”
Definitely a jerk.
“It’s a family business,” I replied, and he looked briefly disconcerted. Good.
“Why so much interest?” Grumpy Dad said. “Be quiet and eat the food. Our appointment to inspect the property is in half an hour.”
“Are you moving into the neighborhood?” I asked, filling up their glasses with water. Please say no, I thought.
The younger man didn’t answer, only shook his head and ate another spoonful of biryani. His eyes fluttered closed and he inhaled deeply.
“What’s your mom’s name?” he asked. He turned to look at me, and this time I understood the emotion in his eyes. Mr. Silver Shades looked sad.
His father’s brows drew together. “What is the problem?”
“This food, it reminds me of . . . The biryani reminds me of . . . Mom.” He sounded awkward, as if the word Mom was not one he used often.
Grumpy Dad dropped his spoon with a clatter. “Don’t talk nonsense. You don’t remember what her food tasted like. You were a child when she died.” He turned to me, brow thunderous, and I gripped the water pitcher tightly. This conversation felt too intimate. “Bring the bill, girl. Aydin can pay, since he wanted to check out this pile of dirt so badly.” He rose and strode out of the restaurant.
Mr. Silver Shades had seemed to shrink at his father’s words. Now he uncurled himself and removed a hundred-dollar bill from a sleek leather wallet. He placed it carefully on the table.
“Tell your mother the food was excellent,” he said, without looking at me.
Aydin. Mr. Silver Shades’ name was Aydin, and he missed his mother.
I pocketed the money and began to clear the table.
* * *
• • •
I dumped the plates on the counter of the kitchen and began emptying the contents into the garbage. I hated that part, throwing away half-eaten food. Sometimes we gave it away to a shelter, but most of the time it was thrown out wholesale.
My mother looked at me, expressionless. “They didn’t like it?” she asked.
I hesitated. I wasn’t sure what had happened. Instead I took out the hundred-dollar bill, more than double the food and tip cost together. “They liked it fine. They just had to leave, for an appointment.”
Fahim leaned against the counter. “One customer today, and they didn’t even finish their food.”
Mom picked up another plate and scraped it clean. “A few bad days only. We have run this place for fifteen years. There is no reason why your children will not one day work here during the summertime or after school, as you have done. It will all work out.” She said that last part almost to herself. My sister and brother-in-law exchanged a quick glance.
I wasn’t in the mood for the same conversation, the one that skirted the real question: How bad was it? Mom remained tight-lipped on the subject of our family finances, so we were all left to imagine the worst.
“I’ll be back to help with dinner,” I said instead.
They formed a tableau as I walked out: My sister, four months pregnant, her belly round, eyes lowered and eyebrows drawn together. My mother, absently stirring a pot of savory chicken korma curry as Fahim loaded the dishwasher, his usual smile banished by worry.
That was their life. The life I had opted out of when I chose to pursue broadcast journalism.
Mom was
big on choice. She hadn’t pushed me to join her full-time in the food business. Baba had never encouraged us to study accounting like him. When my sister decided to go to culinary school, my mother had been happy to welcome her, but only because she came into the restaurant world with eyes wide open, prepared to survive on hope and prayer.
Fifteen years ago, Three Sisters had been the only halal restaurant in the area. That wasn’t the case today, though we were still the only restaurant in Golden Crescent. It was ironic, then, that our origin story didn’t revolve around food at all.
Three Sisters Biryani Poutine had been conceived by soccer. Premier rep soccer. The kind that cost thousands of dollars a year and had been completely unaffordable on my father’s modest salary as a bookkeeper, even before his accident. But my sister, Fazeela, loved soccer, and she had been very, very good at it—ferocious and ambitious on the field in a way she had never been anywhere else. Mom had supported my sister’s talent in the best way she’d known: She’d paid for the expensive lessons by starting a catering business. A few years later, Three Sisters Biryani Poutine had been born.
Then FIFA, the official governing body for international soccer, had enacted a new dress code that banned all “headgear.” The rule was unsubtly aimed at hijab-wearing Muslim female athletes. Fazeela had decided to stop playing soon afterward.
I was pretty sure my sister was happy with her choices—she had Fahim; she had the little cantaloupe growing in her belly. But sometimes I wondered if she had made those choices because she felt she had to. Mom had started Three Sisters Biryani Poutine to pay for Fazeela’s soccer dreams. And when those dreams died, maybe my sister’s career choice had felt more like an inevitability.
Maybe I was the only one who would really get to choose anything. And I had chosen to get out.
CHAPTER THREE
Hana Khan Carries On Page 2
