one
Farzan
Farzan was crying.
It was his own fault: he knew better than to let his knives get this dull, but he’d taken a job substitute teaching every day the last two weeks and hadn’t made it out to the knife shop he liked.
Plus, this onion was aggressively potent. He’d started tearing up as he peeled the skin, even before he made the first cut. At least he didn’t have to dice it. All he needed were some long strips.
Farzan wiped his eyes with the crook of his elbow, darkening the soft gray cotton of his Henley. He’d have to change before Cliff got here, but first he had to get the salmon marinating, plus wash the rice and get it soaking. This was going to be Cliff’s introduction to Persian food, and everything had to be perfect.
He hummed along to Hikaru Utada—video game music was his go-to kitchen playlist—as he dropped the slices of onion into a wide dish. He added a good glug of olive oil, salt, and white pepper, then moved to his mortar and pestle for the saffron, red threads releasing their heavenly fragrance into the air as he ground them to a fine powder.
His mother insisted—as did many Iranians—that saffron was anaphrodisiac. Farzan certainly hoped it was true. This was his third date with Cliff, the make-or-break point. The first two dates—one at a coffee shop, the other a walk around Loose Park—had been pretty close to perfect. Cliff was fun, and interesting, and they’d had a good connection: laughing at each other’s jokes, bumping elbows as they walked, sharing little smiles. The kiss they’d shared pressed up against the side of Cliff’s Toyota had been full of promise, the kind of promise that set Farzan’s stomach dancing.
Persian food and chill was the perfect third date. At least, Farzan hoped it was. Cliff had seemed happy with the suggestion, but there was always the worry that Cliff was just agreeing to spare Farzan’s feelings. Sometimes dating was exhausting.
But Farzan was confident in his cooking. He’d waffled on whether to serve fish, given what he hoped might happen after, but taste had won out: saffron-marinated salmon, served over zereshk polow—basmati rice mixed with barberries, tart little rubies—was one of Farzan’s specialties.
It was an unorthodox combination, one he argued about with his dad, Firouz, constantly. Firouz, like many Iranians, would’ve paired fish with baghali polow, fava bean rice, or at least sabzi polow, rice with lots of fresh herbs, especially dill. But Farzan loved the combination of sweet and sour, the lift it gave to the savory fish.
Farzan had learned everything he knew about cooking from his dad, who was in charge of the food at his parents’ restaurant in the Northland. They called it Shiraz Bistro, even though their family came from Yazd. But his parents had insisted Shiraz was more familiar to Americans, because of the wine.
Not that they served much Shiraz at the bistro: Persis, Farzan’s mom, was in charge of the books, and she kept tight reins on the booze budget. Farzan’s brother and sister had taken after Persis in the math skills department, but somehow Farzan had missed out: math had been his worst subject in school, and every time he got a call to substitute for a math teacher, he seriously considered driving his car into the Missouri River instead.
“Shit!” he hissed, after bumping his elbow against the hot kettle.
His kitchen was smaller than he would’ve preferred, with not nearly enough counter space, but otherwise he really liked his apartment in the River Market. It had easy access to the farmers market on the weekends, a streetcar stop down the block, and countless restaurants nearby. Best of all, it was still rent-controlled, despite the intense gentrification all around. He’d moved in right after finishing his master’s in education—fuck, that was more than a decade ago now—and he had no plans to move.
He grabbed the kettle to pour boiling water over the saffron; the red powder blossomed into liquid gold. He swirled it in his mortar before adding it to the marinade. But as he ducked into the fridge to pull out the salmon, his music suddenly cut out, and his phone started buzzing. He jolted upright, banging his head against the handle to the freezer door.
“Fuck,” he groaned as he pulled out his phone, blinking at Cliff’s photo on the screen.
Holy shit. Cliff was calling him.
Making the transition from texts to phone calls was a huge step, right? Maybe even bigger than Persian food and chill. His throat clamped for a second; his heart gave a happy flutter.
Farzan was definitely getting laid tonight.
He grinned, even though Cliff couldn’t see him, as he answered. “Hey. I was just thinking about you.”
“Hi. I catch you at a bad time?” Cliff had a mellow, throaty voice, not to mention nice lips framed by his well-manicured beard.
Farzan held the phone in the crook of his neck as he pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves. He always used them for this part; otherwise his hands would be stained yellow for days, and that was definitely not sexy. “No, I’m just getting dinner going. Can’t wait to see you tonight.”
“Oh.” Cliff cleared his throat and went quiet for a moment. Then: “Did you get my texts?”
“No, sorry. I’ve been cooking. Everything all right? Oh shit, you don’t have a fish allergy, do you?” Farzan mentally kicked himself. He should’ve checked before going to the grocery store. He should’ve—
“Nothing like that.” Cliff’s voice softened, in that way someone’s did when they knew the listener wouldn’t like what they were about to say. Farzan’s shoulders hitched up. “Listen. I’ve been… Well, I don’t think I can make it tonight.”
“Oh.” Farzan tried to keep his voice light, even though his sternum began to burn. “We could try tomorrow instead?”
But he was pretty sure he already knew where this was heading. His eyes began to prickle in the corners, and this time, not from onions.
Cliff cleared his throat again. “Listen. You’re a nice guy, but… I’m not really feeling it. You know? I don’t see this going anywhere. I didn’t want to lead you on.”
“Oh.”
