When Zainab got back to school in Washington, she couldn’t stop thinking about him, though all she knew was that Murad was studying to become a chef and that he was born in France to Egyptian parents. Zainab had a friend who worked at a local TV station, and one evening they were low on content and looking for human-interest pieces, so Zainab went on camera and made a plea: for the Egyptian boy she’d kissed at the Eiffel Tower to meet her back there when she returned to Paris after her graduation in a few months.
The story was picked up by the national media, and when Zainab flew to Paris, a camera crew followed her—and there he was. They were engaged by the end of the summer, their story making headlines all over the world. It’s wild they managed to find each other pre–social media, that they went viral before going viral was a thing. But that’s all it is: coincidence. Not fate, not soul mates. Tarek has always wanted a story like theirs, though, and it’s a piece of his family history he carries with pride.
“I just had a guest ask for five extra vegetarian meals,” I tell the Mansours. “Is that going to be doable?”
If I waver on the last sentence, it’s only because I spot Tarek out of the corner of my eye, adding spices to a giant pot while other waiters ferry ingredients back and forth around him. Black pants, white jacket hugging the lines of his shoulders. His eyebrows are pinched in concentration, but every so often he smiles to himself, like he and the food are in on a joke.
It really is amazing, the things one can observe out of the corner of one’s eye.
Murad gives me a grim expression. “Five? That might be difficult. Tarek’s working on the veggie mains.” He calls over to his son. “Tarek, how do you feel about five bonus vegetarian meals?”
Tarek pauses his stirring but doesn’t glance up. “Uh, not great, Baba.”
“We have a guest demanding them,” I say, trying to maintain eye contact with Murad. “Apparently, his family just decided to become vegetarians.”
This is how I survive: by keeping things between us strictly business. He needs to realize we’re not friends, not the way we used to be. That I haven’t forgiven him. We’re not going to raid the refrigerator to taste-test what goes best with his dad’s leftover mole later. (Pizza, yes. Sushi, not so much.) He’s not going to ask me if I’ve seen his new favorite rom-com or give me the smile that makes me melt like a bar of milk chocolate left in the sun.
“Sounds convenient for us.” Tarek finally glances our way, his eyebrows pinched again. Yes, please make my job harder.
“We don’t have time to argue about it,” I say. “Please tell me there’s extra food.”
“Of course there’s extra food. It just may not be the right food,” he says. “We’ll have plenty of mole, but we can’t feed them that by itself. Soyrizo isn’t cheap, and we ordered exactly enough for the number of guests we have. We’re serving small enough portions as it is. Maybe you guys should have pushed a buffet harder.”
“We always do,” I say through clenched teeth. When it’s in the couple’s budget. “Awesome. So what do you want to do, pour some mole in a bowl and tell them it’s spicy chocolate soup?”
Murad seemed content to let us hash this out, but he must have noticed our raised voices because he’s standing in front of us, holding up a hand to stop our bickering. “Let’s try to remain calm. We’ll figure this out.” His eyebrows pinch together in the same way Tarek’s did. “What’s going on with you two? You used to be so close.”
Neither Tarek nor I volunteer an explanation.
“We’ll have to make something different,” Tarek says. “It won’t look the same as all the other dishes, but at least it’ll be vegetarian.”
Murad nods. “We’ve done it before. No problem. There’s a grocery store a few blocks away. How about we get a couple boxes of tofu, grill it up, and serve it with the mole and some Spanish rice?”
“I’ll grab it,” Tarek says, already unbuttoning his jacket, untying the apron around his waist. Then, to his mom: “The mole’s ready for the chocolate, by the way.”
Zainab’s already at the stove, stirring in the dark chocolate pieces. They start melting as soon as they hit the pan. Torture. “Quinn, do you have time to make sure he doesn’t get sidetracked? Tarek in a grocery store is a dangerous thing.”
“I take offense at that,” Tarek says, but he’s grinning. The way his family controls the kitchen, anticipating each other’s next move, is this finely tuned choreography. There’s an ease to their interactions I don’t always feel with my own family.
I tell Zainab I’ll check with my parents via group chat, but unfortunately, we’re ahead of schedule. “Yay,” I say quietly, and if I’m not mistaken, I think I catch Tarek smiling out of the corner of his mouth.
We fall into step—or as into step as we can be with his much longer legs. Thank god the walk is only two blocks. Two sweaty, silent blocks.
“Should we get a basket, or…” I ask when we get to the grocery store, the AC slapping my face and arms with cold, but he’s already taking off toward one of the aisles. I huff out a breath, snatch a basket, and hurry to catch up.
In the “healthy” foods section filled with tubs of hummus, vegan cheese, and all kinds of fake meat, he spends an absurd amount of time examining the ingredients on the back of various boxes of tofu.
“I’m pretty sure that’s just a chunk of tofu,” I say. “What else could possibly be in it?”
“We try to buy local whenever we can.” Of course I knew that. It’s just been a while since Tarek caring about it was so clearly on
