“Why is this restaurant called Three Sisters Biryani Poutine?” he asked.
I reached for empty salt shakers but paused. They didn’t need refilling today; we hadn’t had enough customers. To distract myself fromthat train of thought, I related our origin story and the part I had played in it. “My mom thought ‘Three Sisters’ sounded better than two. I thought ‘Biryani Poutine’ made the restaurant sound interesting—a fusion of Indian and Canadian cuisine. Even though we only serve Hyderabadi food.”
Aydin smiled widely. “Let me get this straight: there’s no third sister and there’s no poutine on the menu. I can’t believe this place has stayed in business all these years.”
“We’re a beloved local institution,” I protested. I glanced at the full salt shakers. Well, we had been.
He didn’t hear me, too busy casting that focused gaze around the interior of the restaurant. “This place isn’t completely hopeless,” he mused. “A coat of paint, maybe some tablecloths and brighter, bigger lights, would really perk the place up.”
“We don’t need a makeover,” I said, defensive.
Aydin’s expression was full of pity as he faced me, a doctor about to deliver bad news. “Your mom’s biryani is amazing,” he started. “So is the rest of her food, but it’s all the usual desi staples—rice and spice. The name of the restaurant is confusing for both your desi and non-desi customers. The first time I walked in here, I nearly turned around and went somewhere else, the interior looked so old and dingy. Your customers have become more discerning. They can pay for better and they expect more.”
His words were a slap across the face. It was one thing to know that our restaurant had seen better days, but another to hear criticism from a stranger’s mouth.
“The only reason you’re still open is because you don’t have any competition,” Aydin continued. “You’re the only halal restaurant in the Golden Crescent. This area is full of South Asian immigrants,and a lot of them eat only halal meat. But it’s clear this area is about to change, maybe one day soon. The only thing you can count on is change. You should be getting ready to face it, not hiding behind the same old menu and decor.”
His arrogant tone was back, and my shoulders were near my ears now. “I didn’t ask for your opinion, Aydin,” I said, voice tight. “You don’t get to inhale our food and then criticize the way we do things. What do you know about running a restaurant?” Did he think, because he could afford to drop a hundred dollars on food that had cost less than half that, he could lecture me about my family’s business? Hell no.
Aydin was surprised at my reaction. “I’m just being honest. Your family clearly needs help.”
“We don’t want your help.” I thought about my mom, and Fahim, and my exhausted-looking sister. They struggled every day to survive in a notoriously difficult business. Who did Aydin think he was?
He examined my face carefully, and I felt that same prickly sensation at the back of my neck under his watchful gaze.
“Your family is stuck in the old way of doing things, Hana,” he said. The friendly man of a few minutes ago was gone, replaced by this cold figure who reminded me uncomfortably of his father. Someone who assumed he knew better than me. “Three Sisters may have been running for fifteen years, but you’re clearly in trouble now. You seem like a nice enough girl. I’d hate to see your family destroyed because you refuse to look outside your front window.”
Girl. I was anice girl, unprepared to face the truth.For a moment I saw red, and he must have seen the fury on my face, because he took one step backwards.
“Who are you?” I asked. Aydin’s visit hadn’t been so innocent or casual after all, I realized, and my anger was partly at myself for beingnaive, for thinking a random cute boy would return simply to chat with me and enjoy my mother’s cooking. He was there to fish for information, and I had opened up like a mailbox.
Aydin shook his head. “I’m nobody. Thanks for the biryani. I’ll see you around.”
I closed the door behind him, though I really wanted to slam it shut. My hand stilled on the lock as I remembered Aydin’s words. How did he know that Three Sisters had been going for fifteen years?
When I turned around, my mother was framed in the entrance to the kitchen. I didn’t know how long she had been standing there, or what she had overheard.
“Hana,” she said, “we need to talk.”
Chapter Six
Mom wasn’t freaked that I had been talking to a boy. I should make that clear, because some people have funny ideas about Muslim women. Let me illustrate: when I was eleven years old, she sat me down and gave me the birds-and-bees talk. Only she used the scientific words and talked about pleasure and responsibility, ending with “That is how babies are made. Yes, even you.”
It worked. I was so turned off by her frank discussion of sex that I didn’t even think about relationships until I was halfway through high school, when I finally clued in to her plan. But by then it was too late. I was already the nerdy Brown hijabi who didn’t date—not to be confused with the nerdy Brown hijabi who did date. That girl wore glasses.
Mom wasn’t easily freaked out by anything, is what I mean. Ghufran Khan was the unflappable queen of our family. And now she wanted to talk to me about something serious. I braced myself and followed her to the now empty kitchen. Fazeela and Fahim must have left by the back entrance.
“What do you want to talk about?” I asked.
She seemed distracted, fiddling with a large pot left to soak in thesink. “That was the boy who left before finishing his food. Why did he return?” she asked. She was stalling, which only made me more nervous.
I was still shaken by the abrupt turn my conversation with Aydin had taken, but I didn’t want to alarm my mother. “He wants to marry your biryani,” I replied.
She smiled faintly. “He can’t afford the dowry,” she said, and passed a hand over her face. Was there the faintest hint of exhausted despair in her eyes? Impossible. She was Angela Merkel in no-nonsense black hijab.
“Hana, I’m only telling you this so you won’t worry,” she began, and I tensed. Why did people always say that?Don’t worry about this terrible thing I’m about to tell you. That really helped calm everyone down.
“Are you sick?” I asked. “Is it Baba?”
