The Language of Baklava (26 page)

A few days later, I get a call from Sonja. I am in the kitchen. My father has just slid a tray of lamb-stuffed cabbages out of the oven for me to bring to my friend’s father in the hospital. Sonja tells me that the previous night, just when he seemed to be getting a bit better, joking with the nurses, eating a bite of tuna casserole, Mr. Basilovich had been left unattended for a stray moment between the ongoing visits of friends and family and nurses. He got out of bed, scuffed on his slippers, walked to his sixth-story hospital window, slid it open, and jumped.

“So he finally wins,” Sonja says to me in her patient, furious way. “He finally gets what he’s wanted all this time.”

On the morning of the funeral for Mr. Basilovich, I wake near dawn. I lay out the gray dress I will wear to the service; it drifts like a shadow over my bed. It’s early, and I feel restless and edgy. I walk out to the upstairs deck and sit with my back against the wall, still in pajamas, watching the sun glossing over the fields. The night before was cool and wet, and the dawn is coming up warm, twisting arabesques of steam over the road. I have lost myself in studying the ghostly patterns and nurturing a mild sadness under my ribs, when there is a commotion of wings. A white, round pigeon settles on the corner of the deck railing, not more than a foot or so away from me, close enough that I can hear the quiet purring clicks in its throat, the tick of its claws as it turns on the rail.

I hold still, barely breathing, and stare at the bird. It comes so close that I think it will climb up my arm. It turns its profile to me, watching for a long moment with its unblinking eye. Then the wings scatter, flashing it into the clouds. I watch it disappear into the whitening sky and think, for some reason, to wave after it. It is not until some years later that I learn that
golubsti,
the name of Mr. Basilovich’s stuffed cabbages, refers to their plump round shape and means, literally, “pigeon.”

“IN HONOR OF MR. BASILOVICH” CABBAGE ROLLS

In a medium bowl, combine all the stuffing ingredients.

Rinse and remove the leaves from the cabbage. Blanch the leaves in 2 or 3 batches in boiling water until slightly soft; drain. Trim out stem ends and set aside. Place about 1 tablespoon of the stuffing at the bottom of each leaf, roll once, fold in the sides, then finish rolling.

Place the stem ends and coarsely chopped leftover cabbage leaves on the bottom of a 4-quart pot. Place the lamb over the cabbage pieces and scatter half of the garlic cloves over this. Place the cabbage rolls over the lamb and scatter the remaining garlic cloves among the rolls. Stir together the sauce ingredients and pour over all. Bring to a boil, and then simmer for 2 hours. Turn out onto a platter or tray.

The cabbage rolls are very good served with plain yogurt and a salad.

SERVES ABOUT 6.

TWELVE

Restaurant of Our Dreams

One day I wake up and there’s that crazy old energy in the house again. Bud is excited, amplified, larger than life. He sings at us from the kitchen, “Oh, who wants a nice egg or three?” Improvising as he goes, “a nice egg, not an ugly one, not a grumpy one, not a low-down mean and miserable one.” His grin cracks his face, then he laughs quietly, sneakily, nodding and inviting us to join this insider joke, whatever it is. Mom just smiles and rolls her eyes as though she knows what the joke is and it’s pretty corny and she’s not telling. All afternoon there are long, animated phone conversations in Arabic. Later these are followed by middle-of-the-night calls from overseas.

The next morning, Monica and Suzy congregate on my bed, staring with their serious eyes. I loll back, sighing, and say, “It’s one of two things: We are either moving back to Jordan again or . . . it’s another restaurant.”

Bud’s earlier efforts were more tentative, an ambitious dreaming out loud: “I’ve got to run a place of my own.” Various friends and relatives chimed in, egging him on: “Sure, Gus, that’d be great. We’ll help out!”

At least that’s the way the process is described to me when I get older. On two, three, or maybe more prior occasions, Bud has picked out a restaurant for sale, called meetings with his affluent cronies, and lined up investors, only to have them back out at the eleventh hour, the deals dribbling apart just before they sign the lease. I imagine their crises of faith: Well, it was fun to talk about, but . . . talk is just talk, and what does Gus really know about running a business?

These are all dispatches from the adult world, however, a place I know remarkably little about. I catch only shreds of family gossip and retain little of that. When I eventually move out on my own into the world, my family history is forever coming as a shock: the secret medical conditions, the broken marriages, the police reports, the cousin who finagled having a blank diploma folder handed to him at his college graduation ceremony so his parents wouldn’t know he hadn’t been to a class in years.

This time, Bud tells us, it’s different. The place he plans to buy is
perfect, perfect, perfect
(excellent location, good foot traffic, high visibility, loyal clientele). A can’t-miss. The owner is selling his treasured restaurant at a clearance price because he and his wife—the head chef—are getting a divorce. Bud is ecstatic as he describes his family utopia: “I will be in back, creating! You and your sisters will be out front, taking the orders and making the customers happy and laughing.” He sits back and studies the ceiling. “It’s going to be running together like this—” He interlaces his fingers. “A perfect running-together machine!” Mom opens her mouth, looks as though she’s forgotten what she was going to say, closes it.

I scowl. I’m in my second year of junior high, and none of my friends have jobs. I’m not sure what exactly he has in mind for my younger sisters, but he isn’t overly concerned with the child labor laws. “I notice that no one asked the local slaves for their opinions,” I say, pouting.

Bud looks startled, then bursts into laughter. “Oh ho ho, good one. Like they have slaves in America!”

Family summits take place. There are more phone calls from Jordan. I learn that Bud still has a parcel or two of inherited land in Jordan that he’s going to sell. This is momentous—a final exchange. It’s the first time I’ve known Bud to be willing to put his new country before his homeland.

Bud’s excitement over the restaurant is palpable. It will be a real breakthrough, an amazing, modern combination of Arabic and American food, he says. It’s the mixture that I grew up with, the only sort of cooking that makes sense to me. Bud says that first we need to make a field trip and investigate what the “other guys” are offering. At this point in time, the only Arabic restaurant in Syracuse is a little joint called King David up on Marshall Street, the student-clogged thoroughfare on the cusp of Syracuse University. King David is eternally crammed with college kids—Arab and non-Arab alike. It is small and intriguing, filled with Persian carpets and Arabic music, its windows sweaty with condensation. You pass its front door through a fragrant mist of garlic and olive oil. The brother runs the cash register, and the sister is the genius in the kitchen. I adore it there and always order the same thing—a tender falafel sandwich in pita, tabbouleh salad, and sweet apricot nectar to drink.

One Saturday, Bud and I go “undercover” for lunch at King David, which doesn’t seem to be any different from the way we usually eat lunch there. Bud goes into his routine: He rejects the first two tables we’re shown, and after we’re finally settled he waits for one of the Arab student-waiters to come over and launches into a torrent of Arabic greetings—how are you, how are your parents, you look healthy, may you prosper—as if they’ve been friends all their lives. When they get around to discussing, finally, what we’d like to eat, Bud says, “Oh, you know, nothing, really. Just put me a little of this, a little of that—” And he gestures humbly at the table, suggesting he’d be happy with a crust of stale bread.

What happens is what always happens. The owner leans out of the kitchen, wipes back her hair, and waves to us. Dishes fill the tabletop, and the waiter brings bottomless baskets of pita bread. We will never be able to finish it all—that’s the point. We are meant to be overwhelmed, stuffed to the gills, groaning. There’s a way to say “a lot” in Arabic, but no way to say “too much.”

Our waiter is an SU student. Bud quickly ascertains that his name is Waleed, he’s from Lebanon, he’s majoring in engineering, he’s twenty-two years old, and he’s not yet married.

“Why not?” Bud demands. I tighten my lips and look away. “Life is short and marriage is a pleasure. It’s like food,” Bud says. “Why are you going to drink water when you can drink tea?”

“But water is the greatest drink of all,” Waleed parries.

Bud nods and picks up a falafel, examining it as if it’s a fallen apple blossom. “The strongest wisdom is the wisdom of the body.”

Waleed hugs his serving tray to his chest and says, “But the greatest wisdom is the wisdom of Allah.”

Waleed bows and goes off to the kitchen to find one more dish to fill the last inch of space on our table. Bud looks after him a moment, then returns his attention to the table. He bites into the falafel, and I know what he is tasting—the deep, smoky, slightly charred warmth, the crumbling outer crust giving way to the tender, mealy, spicy interior. He nods and shakes a thoughtful finger in the air. “When we get our restaurant, Waleed will come to work for us.”

Waleed brings out two more dishes: succulent tomatoes filled with spiced ground chicken, and dainty, budlike artichokes steamed in lemon and garlic.

“I can’t take it!” Bud sputters happily, and fans his hand over the filled tabletop to signal that things are out of control. “It’s impossible—there’s no room. Now you’re just going crazy.”

Waleed tilts a smile in my direction, bringing me to attention. He nudges, nudges, dish lapping dish, until like the miracle of loaves and fishes, what is small is made large: The little space expands until the dishes fit. “In this world, there is always more room,” Waleed says. “Thanks be to God.”

“You see?” Bud leans in my direction after Waleed has left, indicates all the plates covering the table, lifts his eyebrows. “An engineering student!” He studies the food, nodding with great satisfaction. “Just wait till we have our restaurant.”

VERY FRIED FALAFELS

Purée all the ingredients in a food processor. Let the mixture stand for 1 hour. Form the mixture into little patties or balls about the size of walnuts. Deep-fry the falafel in oil until golden brown. Drain on paper towels.

SERVES 6.