He settled on a soft Royals T-shirt (not that he cared much about baseball, but he liked the way it hugged him) and light blue sweatpants, sans underwear. He wasn’t going to push anything, but he wasn’t above advertising the benefits package.
David had just opened a bottle of Oregon Pinot Noir when the doorbell rang. He tried to play it cool, but as soon as he saw Farzan, holding a laundry basket laden with two huge pots, he broke into a laugh.
Farzan shrugged. “It’s the Persian carryout system,” he explained as he squeezed past. David was certain he saw an appreciative eye dart to his sweatpants.
While Farzan pulled off his shoes, David took the laundry basket into the kitchen. The two pots inside were wrapped in dish towels and tied at the top to keep the lids secure, but they smelled absolutely divine.
“What’s all this?”
“Well, I had all this celery I needed to use, so I made celery stew. Khoresh karafs. I told you I would pay you in food.”
David laughed and handed Farzan a pair of plates.
“Do you have a bigger plate?” Farzan asked.
“Sure, why?”
But Farzan didn’t say anything. He just took the platter, put it over top of one of the pots and, with a practiced flick of his wrists, inverted the whole thing. When he removed the pot, a resplendent golden disc of rice sat on the platter, shining and perfect.
“Damn!” David said.
Farzan beamed and started dishing rice onto the plates, then ladling stew over it: green chunks of celery, brown cubes of beef, and verdant green herbs releasing their scent into the air.
“We can eat on the couch,” David said. “I usually do.”
“You sure?”
Yeah, David was sure. The couch was way cozier, especially since it was technically more of a love seat.
He shot a smile Farzan’s way and took their wineglasses and the bottle through, setting them on the coffee table. Farzan followed with plates and silverware.
They settled in. David was normally opposed to manspreading, but he let his knee rest against Farzan’s, and Farzan didn’t pull away.
David poured their wine, handed Farzan his glass.
“Well. Here’s to you, for helping me,” Farzan said, raising a toast.
“Cheers.”
The wine was simple but lovely: good spice, soft tannins, a lighter body, and a good undercurrent of cherries. But the food? The food was heavenly. Every grain of rice was distinct, soft yet toothsome. The golden bits on top were crispier than the best potato chip. And the stew was hearty but bright, with the subtlest hint of lime.
“Fuck, this is amazing,” David said around a mouthful of food, manners be damned. He shoveled another bite in.
“Thanks.” Farzan blushed and sipped his wine.
“Seriously. So good.”
David had learned how to cook—his mom had made sure of that—but he’d never had the spark that made it special. Not like his mom.
Not like Farzan, either.
“I’m glad you like it.” Farzan grinned but then looked away. David shifted so his knee pressed against Farzan’s, which got a bigger smile and fleeting eye contact. Was Farzan allergic to compliments, or was he playing hard to get?
“Did you train anywhere?”
Farzan laughed. “Just at the restaurant. And at home. My dad taught me.”
“Oh yeah?” David copied Farzan, breaking off a piece of the crispy golden rice and sticking it in his mouth, savoring the crunch and accidentally moaning at the heavenly taste.
