Page 18 of Even If the Sky is Falling
Maya grinned. “As you should be. Let’s see if you can top that, curry boy.”
He cringed, then laughed at the moniker. After he finished the sandwich, making moans of happy pleasure as he ate, he took Maya to Curry Junction.
4
Maya’s first thought after climbing into Curry Junction was that it was incredibly hard to breathe while locked in a tiny space with her first crush. It wastightin here. Really tight. In such a small space it was hard not to think about how Tarek Mizra still had an amazing laugh. About how his jeans were so perfectly worn and fit him so well. About how Henley shirts were without a doubt the sexiest shirts in existence. And then he slipped on that yellow chef’s jacket, which made his warm brown skin glow in the dim light and gave the Henley serious competition. Tarek wasn’t the most classically handsome Mizra—his brother, Salman, was Bollywood-level stunning. But Tarek had always had a certain something more to Maya. A sense of humor. A sparkle in his eyes. He was full of life.
Finding him attractive again wasn’t making this situation easier. “So...what are you feeding me?” she asked.
He leaned on the prep counter as he fastened the buttons on his jacket. “Sorry, Maya, I can’t make you my famous tikka—the tandoor takes too long to heat up. I could do almost anything else on the menu, though.”
She picked up a menu from the windowsill. She’d figured a trendy hipster Pakistani food truck would be all fusion food, but that was not what was on the menu. This was real Pakistani food. There was chicken boti, biryani, kebobs, plus a whole section called the Curry Corner that listed many of Maya’s favorites like chicken karahi, chana masala and even lamb korma. Maya frowned at the menu.
“You don’t approve?” he asked.
“No. It’s a good menu. I just thought your stuff would be all fusion-y or something. I’m surprised it’s calledCurryJunction?”
He smiled. “Why, Maya, because the menu clearly leans more into food cooked in a tandoor rather thancurries?” He made air quotes around the wordcurries. “Or because the wordcurryis a loaded word based on a colonial misinterpretation, which really has no actual meaning in our culture, and which has diluted the vast diversity of the food of our family’s homeland into a shallow one-dimensional item on a pub menu?” His eyes were twinkling with mischief.
Maya blinked...then laughed. “Yeah. That. The second one.”
He shrugged. “I would argue that riffing off the name of a mostly white British pop group is also caving to colonial pressures.”
“Touché,” she said smiling.
He shrugged. “I used a branding company to help with the concept, and this name performed well in market testing.”
“Is that what this business is for you? Market research and appealing to the masses?”
He shook his head. “Hell no. This business is a way for me to share food I love. And make some money doing it. To make money, I need to appeal to the people in my city. This name does that.” He grinned. “But you know what I think we need tonight? Comfort food. Not restaurant food. Why don’t you leave it to me? Go out there and sit—I’ll be about five minutes with dinner.”
Maya tensed. Sit aloneout there? What if she started to actuallyhearthe asteroids outside? Plus, they weren’t far from a window here...and without the food truck as an extra layer of protection, something hurling through the window could...
“Or we could eat here in the truck,” Tarek suggested.
How had he known what she was thinking? “You think I’m ridiculous, don’t you? I mean we haven’t died yet so...”
He shook his head. “I don’t think you’re ridiculous. If you’re not comfortable, you’re not comfortable. We are literally in lockdown because of an unknown issue out there—I think you’re entitled to be a bit nervous, Maya.” He handed her a bottle of water. “Here. Have a seat there, and I’ll have something for you in about five minutes.”
He said her name a lot. Maya couldn’t think why he wasn’t as nervous as she was. She sat at one of the tall stools that had been tucked under the window on the side of the truck and watched him cook.
He was mesmerizing. She honestly didn’t remember if she’d ever seen Tarek cooking back when they were young. His father had been measured and methodical when he cooked. Tarek was a bit...chaotic. He flipped parathas on the tawa with his bare hands. And he chopped cilantro haphazardly on his board instead of gathering it to a neat pile.
The food smelled good, though. It smelled like her mother’s cooking—like home. That should have made her sad since she didn’t know if she’d ever see home again, but it didn’t. The aroma loosened something in her.
Before long Tarek presented her with a plate containing flaky paratha, a mound of dry urad dal, and another of aloo gobi. Bright cilantro leaves and slivered ginger were scattered on top. It smelled heavenly.
“Dig in,” he said, putting a plate with a little less food next to her plate. “The parathas were frozen, hope you don’t mind. And the dal’s not something I serve—just some I made for my lunches this weekend.”
She ripped off a piece of paratha and scooped up some of the dal. The flavor burst in her mouth immediately—fresh spices, tomato, ginger, garlic and just the right amount of chili. Plus a hint of lemon acidity that was unexpected and delicious. “This is amazing.”
“You seem surprised I can cook. I run a restaurant, remember?”
She didn’t really know why, but shewassurprised he’d madethis. This was a home-style dish. Maya wasn’t sure she’d ever had a dry dal in a restaurant—and definitely not in a trendy millennial food truck. She’d assumed Tarek was like his father, and Maya’s own. The men cooked the fancy party food, or barbecue, but the homey food was left to the women.
“Why don’t you serve dal on the truck?”
“No one would buy it.” He slid another stool out from under the window and sat next to her. “Remember, I’m all about actually making money.”
