Page 5 of Hana Khan Carries On
Mom hadhaat 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 flavours 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 clamouring for her Indian staples, she still hadhaat 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 neighbourhood?” 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 wordMomwas 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 thebill, 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 ONthe counter of the kitchen and began emptying the contents into the garbage. I hated that part, throwing away half-eaten food. Sometimes we gave away food that hadn’t been served to a shelter.
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 what 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 onthe 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.
