Sohrab swallowed. The little hollow in his collarbone stood out against his glowing skin.
“You want to play awhile?”
He knew the perfect way to puncture the silence.
“Yeah.”
It was true what everyone said:
Fariba Bahrami did make the best chelo kabob in the world.
Maybe in the entire Alpha Quadrant.
We ate in the shade of Babou’s fig trees, crowded around the card tables or sitting on the ledges of Babou’s herb planters. Unlike the Rezaeis’ garden, Babou’s hadn’t been assimilated by fresh mint, but it was only a matter of time.
Resistance is futile.
Baskets of sabzi—parsley and watercress and tarragon and basil and mint, stalks of green onion, fresh radishes carved into flowers—sat on each table. There were lemon wedges to squeeze onto our meat, and tiny glass dishes overflowing with bright ruby sumac, which was for sprinkling over everything.
It’s supposed to help with digestion, which is good, because I do not know a single Persian—Fractional or otherwise—who doesn’t overeat when chelo kabob is on the menu.
“I told you.” Sohrab bumped my shoulder. “Your grandma makes the best.”
“Yeah.”
I used the point of my spoon to break off a segment of kabob koobideh. Of all Persian foods, kabob koobideh is probablythe most suspicious-looking, even more than fesenjoon. Each kabob looked like a soft brown log, shiny with oil and fat, dimpled where Dad had pinched it to seal it onto the skewer.
It was deeply suggestive.
My cousin Nazgol, who may have actually been a Ringwraith, sat on my other side, watching Laleh cut her kabob and mix grilled tomato into her rice. Nazgol turned to me and popped the petals of a radish flower into her mouth.
“You want some?”
“No thanks.”
“It’s good for you. Here.” She tried to press a piece of radish to my lips as I laughed and turned away.
“Nakon, Nazgol-khanum,” Sohrab said. “Leave him alone.”
Nazgol shrugged and turned to offer the radish to Laleh, who popped it into her mouth and then scrunched her face up.
Sohrab watched Laleh gag. He caught my eye and chuckled.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m gonna grab some more. You want any?”
“Na merci, Darioush.” He squinted at me. And then he said, “Maybe a little.”
“Okay.”
I took both our plates into the kitchen, where the platters of kabob and rice took up every square inch of available counter space. When dinner was through, the dishes would pile even higher than the mountain Mom and I had washed after Nowruz.
Chelo kabob was a serious endeavor.
Dad was refilling his plate with grilled vegetables as I scooped more saffron rice onto my own. For once he didn’t comment on my food choices, even though a second helping of rice was aclassic dietary indiscretion. He was too busy fielding advice and criticism about kabob preparation from all the Bahrami men.
“You have to use enough salt. This is very important,” Dayi Jamsheed said.
“You have to pinch it better, or it falls off the skewer,” Dayi Soheil said.
