Finally Mansour pulled into a parking lot, and the first hint of the restaurant’s style came across to Riley in the form of beat-up old cars in the lot; half of them had worn spots showing the primer underneath, while others were obviously pimped out, every modification possible made to them. As Mansour cruised through the little lot, creeping around in circles to find an open spot, Riley took in more details: the buildings on all sides of the lot were far from the tony, stylish facades of the most expensive restaurants in the city; some of them were yellowed, plaster crumbling, rust stains trailing down from vents.
; Mansour parked the car and hurried out of the driver’s seat to open Riley’s door for her. He took her hand to help her out, and once more Riley felt a tingle work through her body at the contact. Her heart beat a faster for a moment in a way that had nothing to do with fear; but then Mansour’s hand fell away from hers and he closed the car door.
“I really hope you’ll like this place,” he said, taking her hand once more and leading her away from the car. “I’ve been coming here since I moved to the city.”
Up a narrow, dimly lit staircase, and down a short hall, Mansour led Riley into a tiny, packed restaurant. For a moment she was taken aback; the smells of cooking briefly baffled her nose, and there seemed to be far more people in the tiny dining room than could possibly be safe, all of them talking and laughing and moving around. It looked more like the living room of someone’s house than like a proper restaurant. But the smiles on faces around the room, and the plates full of delicious-looking food, eased her apprehension.
“Mansour!” A man called out from the open kitchen maybe thirty feet away from the entrance to the restaurant. “We haven’t seen you in a month! We thought you were too good for us.”
“Never!” Mansour beamed at the older man. “I’ve just been busy, Wahid!” Mansour’s hand tightened on hers. “I hope you won’t hold it against me; I’m bringing a newcomer—she deserves the best experience, even if I am a scoundrel.”
A petite woman—no older than twenty-one, Riley thought—with long, stick-straight hair trailing along her back, approached from the area of the kitchen.
“Welcome to our restaurant,” the woman said, inclining her head towards Riley. “Both of you follow me.” The woman led them to a tiny, low table, pulling out the chair for Riley to sit down first.
As Mansour chatted with the woman who’d seated them, Riley looked over the menu, trying to find something that she recognized in some way. The names, the ingredients, all seemed foreign, though Riley thought to herself that there had to be at least a few things in the restaurant that she would know if she saw them.
“What looks good?”
Riley looked up at Mansour’s question. “It all sounds amazing,” she said, unwilling to admit that she didn’t have even a small clue as to what she was choosing between. “Since you know this place so well, I’ll trust you to order for me.”
Mansour gave her a quick, amused glance, and Riley wondered if he was going to call her bluff, but instead, when the petite woman came back, Mansour rattled off what seemed like an enormous order to Riley’s ears. The woman taking their order didn’t seem shocked by the excess; she simply nodded to each of the items, scribbling on her pad the way that Riley always had in her years as a waitress.
When the waitress left to put their order in, Mansour turned his attention onto Riley once more. “I got us several things—but small things. I want you to be able to try as much as possible, so you’ll know what you like if you come again,” he said, and Riley smiled at the deft acknowledgement of her bluff.
Almost immediately, dishes began arriving at the table, and Riley’s eyes widened at the sight of so many plates.
“Some of these are expected at any dinner table,” Mansour explained, gesturing to a plate of herbs, a basket of warm flat breads, and a bowl of pickles. “Everyone thinks of the Middle East as this huge desert, but so many things grow there.” Their waitress brought them both plates that looked more to Riley like platters, and Mansour began directing her what order to serve herself in from the dishes covering the table. “Are you comfortable eating with your fingers? I can get you a fork and a spoon if you’d rather.”
“I’ll try it the right way,” Riley said. “Show me how it’s done.” She mimicked Mansour’s example as best as she could, tearing pieces of flatbread to scoop up stews and vegetables and rice. Every bite seemed more flavorful than the last: spicy, sweet, savory, sour, a symphony of tastes and smells and sensations that blew Riley’s mind as she tried more and more dishes.
“What do you think?” Mansour asked, pouring more of the fragrant, sweet tea into her cup.
“It’s amazing!” Riley shook her head, serving herself more of the crunchy, sweet-sour pickles from the perimeter of the table. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything as good as this.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Mansour said, smiling. “I love this place; it reminds me of home. Similar flavors, and the people are like my friends and family.” Mansour sat back slightly in his chair. “Whenever I feel a bit homesick, I come here and eat way too much food.” Riley nodded. “Are you originally from here, Riley?”
“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head quickly. “I was born in Las Vegas.”
“So you’re from the desert like I am,” Mansour said; the comparison seemed to please him. “Though I think Las Vegas is even drier than my country.”
“Probably,” Riley agreed. “I’m surprised you even were able to find a place like this, it seems to be tucked away.”
“One of my friends told me about it,” Mansour explained. “I was complaining about missing my favorite dish—how much I craved it, and couldn’t find it anywhere in the city—and he told me to come here. Unfortunately, they can’t have shisha here; I have to get my occasional hookah fix elsewhere.”
“Is hookah specifically a guy thing? It always seems that way to me.”