More curious still, Farzan could’ve sworn her hand went to cradle her stomach for the briefest of seconds.
Wait. Was tonight some sort of pregnancy announcement?
That was…
Farzan didn’t know what he was feeling. Joy for Maheen and Tomás.Excitement for the new addition to their family. Anticipation, because he was going to be a great guncle. (He’d spoil that kid rotten.) Relief, because his mom would finally have grandbabies. Dread, because he did not need another reminder of all the ways he’d let his family down.
And shame. Because if Maheenwaspregnant, this was supposed to be a happy night, not one for him to wallow in self-pity.
He kept his eyes on Maheen as Navid and Gina talked wedding venues with his mom, Maheen occasionally interjecting, until David finally returned.
“Hey, everyone!” he said, cutting through the chatter. Farzan’s chest fluttered at the way his voice boomed. It reminded him of the way he’d called out plays during their kickball game, which reminded him of after the game, which…
Nope, not thinking of that during family dinner.
But damn. David’s voice always did that to him.
“Dinner’s ready.”
What followed was typical Alavi family chaos. Maheen and Tomás’s dining room table only had room for six, but they all crowded around it anyway, after a solid minute of all five Alavis taarofing about who would sit on the two brown metal folding chairs. In the end, Farzan and Navid won (if getting to sit on hard metal counted as a win), and Farzan scooted his chair in next to David.
The table was laden with food: a platter of rice, its tahdig top golden and gleaming; rich brown fesenjan, still steaming; verdant green wedges of kookoo sabzi, filling the air with the scent of sharp herbs; and of course, Firouz’s famous kufteh, meatballs stuffed with dates and swimming in a sauce the color of the summer sun.
All that, plus two baskets of warm flatbread, two more baskets filled with fresh herbs, a platter of huge chunks of feta cheese, bowls of almonds and pistachios and three kinds of torshi.
“Here, try this,” Farzan said, spooning a bit of lemon torshi onto David’s plate. “Pickled lemons.”
Farzan had helped his mom prep the batch, slicing a hundred freshlemons into thin wedges, ten fresh jalapeños into slices, and jarring them with lemon juice and olive oil and his mom’s pickling spices, before aging them for three months.
David took a tiny taste, his lips puckering. “Hm. Good. It’s got something… hmm. I taste turmeric and white pepper but there’s also this herbal…”
David’s tongue danced against his lips in a way that was somehow both endearing and slightly erotic.
“Golpar. I always forget the English name.”
“Hogweed,” Maheen said around a mouthful of bread.
“Right. And black caraway.”
“Wow.”
While the family talked over each other, Farzan explained each dish to David, and David added a little bit of everything to his plate.
“You can take more than that,” Persis said, trying to force another huge meatball onto David’s plate, but he held up his hands.
“I want to make sure I have room to try everything.”
“Maman, he doesn’t know how to taarof,” Farzan said. “I’ll take care of him, don’t worry.”
“All right,” Persis said, returning the meatball to the bowl, as Firouz sat up straighter.
“Oh, David, did you have doogh when you came to the bistro?”
David shook his head.
“Baba…” Farzan pleaded. The Doogh Test was cruel and unfair to spring on someone the first time you had them over. Wait until the third time, at least.
“You should try it. It’s very good for digestion.”
