What year did your family come over? (Hint: It was probably during the revolution.)
Where in Iran is your family from?
Which mosque do you go to? (Trick question: Not all Iranians are Muslim, but this was a sneaky way of finding out which religion you were.)
I rolled my eyes at the last one. Dad left Iran when he was eight, and barely fasted at Ramadan. The most Muslim thing about him was the tasbih he kept in the car, and it looked a lot like the rosary in Fabián’s dance studio. Did he really have to ask which mosque Amir went to? We barely went to ours.
“We’re Zoroastrian,” Amir replied, which was the original religion of Iran before Islam came over. Dad nodded.
“Parvin says you own your own advertising studio?” Amir ventured.
My mouth flopped open. I never told him that. Did Amir Shirazi google me?
Dad nodded. “Yeah, my wife and I own a small company. She handles most of the art direction, while I do most of the writing.”
“So, you’re a writer?” Amir asked. I could see his eyes get wide with excitement.
Dad laughed. “Well, I’m a copywriter. I don’t write novels or anything. It’s mostly just slogans or headlines for whatever Daphne’s designed,” Dad explained.
Amir nodded, still impressed. “That’s so cool. I don’t know any Iranians with . . . with . . .” He struggled to find the right word.
“A super cool job?” Dad gloated. I groaned.
“Yeah, exactly.” Amir laughed. Then he checked his phone. “Sorry, guys, I have to get going. My mom’s making abgoosht and wants me home early.” Amir was already looking for somewhere to throw away his cup.
“Abgoosht,” Dad said wistfully. “Your mom must be a great cook.”
Amir grinned. “She is.”
“What’s abgoosht?” I asked.
“What?” Dad and Amir cried at the same time. Dad looked shaken.
“Okay, that’s it,” Amir announced, getting out his phone to send off a quick text. It buzzed back instantly. “My mom says Parvin has to come over and eat abgoosht. Is that okay, Aghayeh Mohammadi? My dad can drop her off after.”
Dad practically fainted at someone addressing him so traditionally. He nodded.
“Wait,” I whined. “What actually is abgoosht, though?” Why was everyone so obsessed with it?
“You’ll see,” Dad said. “Go with Amir. It’ll be good for you to eat some Persian food that isn’t kabob.”
“Okay,” I replied.
“Shirazi . . . Shirazi . . . ,” Dad said to himself. “Hmmm . . . Nope, don’t think we’re related.”
I said nothing. I knew Dad was teasing me.
Still. That was good to know.
■ ■ ■ AMIR’S HOUSE 1:30 P.M.
Amir’s house looked exactly like the houses of Dad’s friends we visit for Iranian New Year. The second I walked in, the rosewater scent that reminded me of Amir hit me like a wave.
Everything seemed to be made out of glass, gold, or shiny white fabric. Not only that, but when we took our shoes off at the front door we were met by random bowls of fruit everywhere. A bowl of fruit on the entry table. A bowl of fruit on the glass coffee table. A bowl of fruit on the gold tablecloth in the dining room. Why were there so many bowls of fruit? And were cucumbers a fruit? Because those seemed to be sticking out of them, too.
“Parvin joonam!” A short woman I recognized from Amir’s Insta feed bustled over. Amir’s mom was dressed entirely in black and had dyed blond hair. Could Iranians go blond? Must remember to ask Mom if I could dye my hair blond like hers.
“Salaam, Khanoumeh Shirazi!” I returned, kissing her three times on the cheeks. She had Amir’s dark brown eyes and the same long eyelashes.
“Bah-bah-bah”—she flapped her hands—“call me Farah.”
Behind her came Mr. Shirazi, with the same tall, lanky frame as Amir. They both had big noses with a sharp crook in the bridge. It felt good to not have the biggest nose in the room for once.
“This must be Parvin,” he called out, shaking my hand. I noticed his English was better than Farah’s. “Call me Hoshang,” he added, pumping my arm enthusiastically. “Farsi baladi?” he asked. Do you speak Farsi?
“Umm . . .” I panicked, looking between him and Amir. Amir nodded at me encouragingly. “Baleh, man kami Farsi midaanam.”
Hoshang and Farah exploded into laughter. Kill me now.
“Sorry, sorry, Parvin jaan—it’s just that you speak so formally. I haven’t heard that since I got my visa in Tehran.” Hoshang guffawed, trying to catch his breath. “You sound like a cleric!”
Farah added something else in Farsi that was too quick for me to catch. Even Amir chuckled at that one. I felt my face go red. Fantastic. Laugh at my expense, why don’t you. It wasn’t my fault I was learning formal Farsi and sounded like a medieval knight. I didn’t grow up with parents like Hoshang and Farah who spoke Farsi at home and who could teach me the spoken stuff.
“Don’t worry.” Amir led me toward the dining room. “My mom says your Farsi sounds very good.”
Hmm.
“Parvin, are you hungry, azizam?” Farah asked.
I nodded, and she led me over to the dining room table and sat me down right in front of the fruit bowl. Amir sat next to me, and Hoshang moved the fruit to the kitchen island (which also had gold flecks in the marble countertop). I looked back at my chair, and yes, even the chairs were painted gold.
“Amir says you have never eaten abgoosht?” Farah asked, looking concerned. “Do you know what it is?”
I shook my head. Finally, was someone going to explain it to me?
“Khob . . .” She clapped her hands. Well. “It is a lamb shank that has been cooked in a pressure cooker, then you add potato and dried lemon and some tomato to make a good stew. Yes?”
“That sounds amazing.” My mouth was officially watering. I could smell the lamb cooking in a sealed pot on the stove. Suddenly, the pot began to shriek like a teakettle. I jumped a mile high.
“That’s the pressure cooker,” Amir explained. I had no idea what that was, and I’d never heard a soup pot scream before,
