bore the restaurant name and offered Sunday buffet lunches, halal meat, and weddings. In order to back the car into a narrow space between a plumbing truck and a motor scooter, the Major put his arm across the back of the passenger seat, a maneuver that caused Grace to shrink and blush as if he had dropped a hand on her thigh. Mrs. Ali smiled at him from the back, where she had chosen to sit after Grace’s long and flustered monologue as to who should sit where and why it didn’t matter to her if she sat in the back, only the Major should not sit alone up front like a taxi driver. The Major had tried to suggest they drive separately, since he had to meet Roger right after, but Grace had expressed an immediate need to visit Little Puddleton’s famous yarn shop, the Ginger Nook, and had insisted on making an outing of it. The Major prayed he might now fit the car into the space in a single move.
A well-upholstered woman with a wide, smiling face and a flowing mustard-colored shawl stood waiting for them in the glass doorway. Her feet in high-heeled shoes were so tiny that the Major wondered how she managed to balance, but as she tripped forward to meet them she carried herself with the lightness of a helium balloon. She waved a plump hand full of heavy rings and smiled.
“Ah and here is my friend Mrs. Rasool to greet us,” said Mrs. Ali. She waved back and prepared to get out of the car. “She and her husband own two restaurants and a travel agency. They are quite the business tycoons.”
“Really?” Grace seemed overwhelmed by the woman now bobbing on tiptoes in front of her door. “I suppose that requires a lot of energy.”
“Oh yes, Najwa is very enthusiastic.” Mrs. Ali laughed. “She is also the toughest businessperson I know—but don’t let her know I told you. She always pretends that her husband is in complete charge.” Mrs. Ali got out of the car and immediately disappeared into a vast mustard-colored hug.
“Najwa, I’d like you to meet Major Pettigrew and Miss Grace DeVere,” said Mrs. Ali, her arm still tucked in that of her friend.
“My husband, Mr. Rasool, and I are delighted to have you grace our humble restaurant and catering hall,” said Mrs. Rasool, greeting them with an enthusiastic grasping of both hands. “We are quite the small operation—all hands-on and homemade, you know—but we do silver service for five hundred people here and everything piping hot and fresh. You must come in and see for yourself…” And she was already sweeping into the restaurant waving for them to follow. The Major held the door for the ladies and followed them in.
Several tables in the cavernous restaurant were occupied. Two women lunching by the window nodded at Mrs. Ali, but only one of them smiled. The Major felt other patrons taking surreptitious looks. He concentrated on examining the tiled floor and tried not to feel out of place.
The tiles bore scars of the former police station. The outline of a booking desk ran across the middle of the room like a blueprint and in the back several large booths were built into cubicles that might once have been cells or interrogation rooms. Raising his gaze, he noted the walls were a cheerful orange—no doubt the paint cans had been labeled “Mango” or “Persimmon”—and bright saffron silk curtains swagged the large iron-framed windows, which still had bars on the lower portions. To the Major’s eye, the effect of the grand room was marred only by the effusive use of obviously plastic flowers in jarring chemical shades. They swooped in swags of pink and mauve roses across the ceiling and crammed cement floor urns. Orange water lilies floated in the central tiled fountain, collecting by the overflow valve like dead koi.
“How cheerful it is in here,” said Grace, craning her neck to view the giant iron chandeliers with their collars of ivy and stiff lilies. Her genuine delight in all the color seemed incongruous, thought the Major, in a woman who preferred mushroom-brown tweeds. Today’s dull burgundy and black blouse and dark green stockings would have rendered her invisible in any mildly wet woodland.
“Yes, I’m afraid my husband is very adamant about being generous with the floral displays,” said Mrs. Rasool. “Please come this way and let me introduce you.”
She led the way back to a large booth, partially screened by a carved wood panel and another huge silk curtain. As they approached, a thin man with sparse hair and a shirt starched as stiff as a shell stood up from where he was sitting with an elderly couple. He gave them a reserved bow.
“Mr. Rasool, these are our guests, Major Pettigrew and Ms. DeVere,” said Mrs. Rasool.
“Most welcome,” said Mr. Rasool. “And may I introduce to you my parents and the founders of our business, Mr. and Mrs. Rasool.” The old couple stood up and bowed.
“Pleased to meet you,” said the Major, leaning with difficulty across the wide table to shake hands. The Rasools bobbed their heads and mumbled a greeting. The Major thought they resembled two halves of a walnut, charming in their wrinkled symmetry.
“Please sit down with us,” said Mr. Rasool.
“Do we need to tire your mother and father with a long meeting?” said Mrs. Rasool to her husband. Her clipped tone and raised eyebrow gave the Major the impression that the old people had not been invited.
“My parents are honored to assist with such important clients,” said Mr. Rasool, addressing himself to the Major and refusing to meet his wife’s eyes. He slid onto the banquette next to his mother and waved them to the other side of the booth. “Do join us.”
“Now, I hope Mrs. Ali has explained that we are on a strict budget?” said Grace, inching along the banquette as if it were made of Velcro. The Major tried to allow Mrs. Ali to slide in, both to be polite and because he hated to be confined, but Mrs. Rasool indicated that he should sit next to Grace. She and Mrs. Ali took the outside chairs.
“Oh, please, please,” said Mr. Rasool. “No need to talk of business. First we must hope you enjoy our humble offerings. My wife has ordered a few small samples of food for you, and my mother has ordered a few more.” He clapped his hands together and two waiters came through the kitchen doors bearing silver trays covered with domed silver lids. They were followed by a pair of musicians, one with a hand drum and one with some kind of sitar, who sat down on low stools near the booth and began a spirited atonal song.
“We have musicians for you,” said Mrs. Rasool. “And I think you will be very happy with the decorations we have sourced.” She seemed resigned now to the presence of her in-laws. The Major felt sure that negotiations between the generations were a feature of all family businesses, but he thought that Mrs. Rasool’s obvious competence must add an extra measure of irritation. The old woman wagged her finger and spoke rapidly at Mrs. Rasool.
“My mother insists that first our guests must eat,” said Mr. Rasool. “It is an offense to talk business without offering hospitality.” The mother frowned at the Major and Grace as if they had already committed some breach of decorum.
“Well, perhaps just a little taste,” said Grace, pulling from her bag a small notebook and a thin silver pen. “I really don’t eat much at lunchtime.”
The dishes came quickly, small bowls of steaming food, blurry with color and fragrant with spices that were familiar and yet could not be readily named. Grace nibbled her way through them all, pursing her lips in determination at some of the more dark and pungent offerings. The Major watched with amusement as she wrote them all down, her writing becoming more labored as the food and several servings of punch made her sleepy.
“How do you spell ‘gosht’?” she asked for the third time. “And this one is what meat?”
“Goat,” said Mr. Rasool. “It is the most traditional of ingredients.”
“Goat gosht?” Grace maneuvered her jaw around the words with difficulty. She blinked several times, as if she had just been told she was eating horse.
“But the chicken is very popular, too,” said Mrs. Rasool. “May we pour you another glass of lunch punch?”
The Major had detected the merest scent of juniper in the first glass of punch, which Mrs. Rasool had presented to them as a lightly alcoholic lunchtime refresher. It came in an elaborately scrolled glass pitcher garnished with cucumber slices, pineapple chunks, and pomegranate seeds. But a crook of her finger when she ordered the second round must have been a signal to lubricate the proceedings with a healthy dumping of gin. The cucumbers were positively translucent with shock and the Major himself felt a desire to fall asleep, bathed in the fragrance of the food and the iridescent light of the silk curtains. The Rasools and Mrs. Ali drank only water.
“My parents’ tradition is to serve this dish family style or buffet,” said Mr. Rasool. “A large clay platter with all the trimmings in little silver bowls around it—sunflower seeds, persimmon slices, and tamarind chutney.”
“I wonder if it might be a little spicy for the main course,” said Grace, cupping her hand around her mouth as if making a small megaphone. “What do you think, Major?”
“Anyone who doesn’t find this delicious is a fool,” said the Major. He nodded his head fiercely at Mrs. Rasool
