“Your girlfriend?”
I choked on a bit of rice.
“No!” I coughed. “We’re just friends. Her name is Javaneh. Javaneh Esfahani. Her grandparents are from Isfahan.”
“That’s what the name means,” Sohrab said. “Esfahani. From Isfahan.”
“Oh.”
Babou cleared his throat and pointed his spoon at me. “Darioush,” he said. “How come you don’t know this?”
“Um.”
He turned to Mom. “It’s because you don’t teach him,” he said. “You wanted him to be American, like Stephen. You don’t want him to be Persian.”
“Babou!” Mom said. She started arguing in Farsi, and Babou argued right back. He kept pointing his spoon at me.
“Darioush. You don’t want to learn Farsi, baba?”
“Um.”
I mean, of course I did. But I couldn’t just say that. Not without making Mom feel guilty.
I sunk down in my chair a bit.
But then Sohrab came to my rescue. He cleared his throat.
“Who wants tah dig?”
Tah dig is the layer of crispy rice from the bottom of the pot.
It’s universally acknowledged as the ultimate form of rice.
More than one family has forgotten their arguments when it came time to divide the tah dig.
“Thanks,” I mumbled.
Sohrab squinted at me and handed me a wedge of tah dig.
“You’re welcome, Darioush.”
I led Sohrab to the door to say good-bye.
“Mamou said you are going to Persepolis tomorrow.”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“She asked if I wanted to come too.”
“Oh. Cool.”
“I won’t go if you don’t want me to, Darioush. It’s time with your family.”
“No. It’s okay. I want you to. Really.”
I was facing hours trapped in a car with Stephen Kellner, and Sohrab being there might actually make it bearable.
“Okay. See you in the morning?”
