“We can’t wait forever.”
“Tell me what?” Farzan finally asked, making his parents straighten up like kids who’d been caught drawing on the walls. Firouz even hid the grill brush behind his back, as if that was the source of trouble. He seemed to realize it, too, tossing it back onto the grill and smoothing out his apron with an air of feigned nonchalance.
“Tell you what what?” Persis asked.
Farzan crossed his arms. “Whatever it is, just tell me.”
His parents glanced at each other.
“If it’s about the wedding—” Farzan began.
“We’re closing the restaurant,” Persis finally blurted out.
Farzan’s head spun. He had to have heard wrong. He, Ramin, and Arya had only split the one bottle of wine, plus a glass of Cava each. Not nearly enough to get him drunk, not with a full meal.
“You’re… what?”
“We’re closing Shiraz Bistro,” Firouz said. “It’s high time we retire.”
“But… but you’re both still so young.”
“And we want to enjoy our retirement while we’re young. Travel some. Be ready in case we have any grandbabies.”
Farzan gritted his teeth but kept quiet. Now was no time to indulge his frustration with his parents’ constant passive-aggressive prodding about grandkids. Farzan and his siblings had all felt the pressure, one way or another, particularly Maheen, who’d been married for two years but was focusing on her career.
“But what about the bistro? It’s the only Iranian restaurant in town. A pillar of our community.” No, not justapillar,thepillar.
Their place for gatherings. Their embassy to the rest of Kansas City. Their home away from home.
“Where are you going to go play cards when you retire?” he asked his dad. “Or gossip about whose kids have had nose jobs?” he asked his mom.
“The community is strong,” Persis said. “Everyone will be fine. We’ve had an offer on the space, too. Not great, but…”
“Why close it? Why not sell it? Let someone take it over?”
Firouz sighed. “Navid and Maheen are much too busy to take it over. It’s a full-time commitment.”
Navid and Maheen. Apparently he wasn’t worth even considering.
“And it’s so much work. We need to relax. After her heart attack, your mother’s doctor said—”
“Herwhat?” Farzan surprised himself with the screech he let out. He cleared his throat. “A heart attack, Maman? Really?”
How could she act like it was nothing? Ramin’s dad had died of a heart attack at age forty-eight, when Ramin was still in college. It had devastated Ramin. Hell, it had devastated all of them.
“It was a very small one,” Persis said, though she glanced toward the restaurant, like she was afraid Ramin might come in and overhear. “I’m going to be fine, I promise. I’m on a new medication, and without the restaurant, I can take it easy.”
“But…” Farzan gripped his hair and pulled and looked around the kitchen.
It wasn’t just a restaurant. Or a pillar of their community.
It was his heritage. His history. He didn’t have Iran; growing up, visiting was out of the question. He had this. The bistro. Memories of running around underfoot with Maheen and Navid. Of curling up in a corner booth and playing endless games of Uno with Ramin and Arya. Of holidays and birthdays and graduations and a million other days marked within these warm walls.
All that would be gone. And they hadn’t even asked him. They’d decided Navid and Maheen were too busy, and he wasn’t even qualified. Just Farzan the fuckup. Again.
But he wasn’t a fuckup.
“I’ll take it over.” He didn’t realize he’d said it until it was already out of his mouth. “Don’t close it. I’ll run it.”
