quivered. But at this time of day, my mother was very sensitive to light. I couldn’t move too quickly and I couldn’t stand up. If even a piece of a shadow crossed her face, I’d be toast. I put one elbow in front of the other. She hiccupped. I went flat. I waited a minute. I kept going. When I was two feet from the couch, out of nowhere, very loudly and very clearly, my mother said, “Christ.” I was sure she was awake and about to ask me what I thought I was doing, but she just flipped onto her left side, away from the room and me.
I looked at my elbows. They were covered in rug fuzz. I reached my arm under the couch. Just then, Lou’s alarm went off in her bedroom. My heart stopped. I knocked my chin on the floor and bit my tongue. Only when I heard the shower turn on and Lou get in did I resume my quest. I had to stick half my body beneath the couch to reach the little shoebox. I grabbed it and raced to my bedroom, jumping when the door slammed behind me.
I poured everything onto the bed. There were dozens of napkins stamped with the names of my mother’s favorite restaurants—most of which I recognized, none of which sounded Middle Eastern. I went through every single one. There was a replica of one of Julia Child’s mixing spoons, a tiny burned thing, that my father bought from the Smithsonian gift shop. There was a small bouquet of dried lavender whose flowers were now spewed all over my bed like fleas. The only good news was that there was a photo of my mother as a child, which I stuffed into the flap of my father’s old lumberjack hat to examine later. She hated photos of herself, and the only picture I could remember seeing was one my father had taken when they’d gone to the Berkshires. Her face was like something from an old movie. I’d found a treasure, and yet, no recipe. No restaurant. No nothing.
I shook everything out again before I put it all back, just to be sure I wasn’t missing something. I gently nudged the box back under the couch just as Lou turned off the shower and turned on her electric toothbrush.
Next, I scoured the Internet, searching for the restaurant, for any Iraqi restaurant in New York—for anything about it, reviews or photos or menus. Then for any Middle Eastern restaurant that had closed years ago. Nothing. Then for any Middle Eastern restaurant that hadn’t closed. Nothing helpful. I found lots of street carts and distribution corporations in Brooklyn.
New York
magazine mentioned a Syrian place in the theater district. So I took the portable phone and, balancing the laptop in one arm and opening the door silently with the other, went out of the apartment and into the hallway. Then I called, even though it was six thirty in the morning.
I plopped down next to the elevator.
When someone picked up and said hello, I was deep in the archives of Chowhound and almost forgot to respond.
“Hello,” he said again in a very nonprofessional, non-restaurant-host voice. He had thick throat congestion and a heavy accent. I wanted to say
A-hem
before we continued. I imagined my mother.
Lorca! Manners!
But at Le Canard Capricieux, the GM hired the hostess based on her phone voice:
GoodeveninglecanardcapricieuxhowmayIassistyou?
“Sorry,” I said. “Maybe I have the wrong number? I’m looking for a restaurant.”
“This is a restaurant,” he said. “We’re not open for breakfast. We’re not open for lunch either. And soon, we’re not open for dinner.”
“Are you closing?” I said and because I didn’t think it through, I got hopeful.
“Department of Health says we’ve got rats. I don’t think that’s the end of the world but they do and so does my wife.”
“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry. Do you make masgouf?” I whispered the word, not wanting my mother to hear.
“Masgouf!”
he yelled back. “Syria has only forty-four kilometers of the Tigris. Iraq has the whole thing. Masgouf is from the Tigris. Fish from freshwater Tigris water. We don’t have any
I looked at my elbows. They were covered in rug fuzz. I reached my arm under the couch. Just then, Lou’s alarm went off in her bedroom. My heart stopped. I knocked my chin on the floor and bit my tongue. Only when I heard the shower turn on and Lou get in did I resume my quest. I had to stick half my body beneath the couch to reach the little shoebox. I grabbed it and raced to my bedroom, jumping when the door slammed behind me.
I poured everything onto the bed. There were dozens of napkins stamped with the names of my mother’s favorite restaurants—most of which I recognized, none of which sounded Middle Eastern. I went through every single one. There was a replica of one of Julia Child’s mixing spoons, a tiny burned thing, that my father bought from the Smithsonian gift shop. There was a small bouquet of dried lavender whose flowers were now spewed all over my bed like fleas. The only good news was that there was a photo of my mother as a child, which I stuffed into the flap of my father’s old lumberjack hat to examine later. She hated photos of herself, and the only picture I could remember seeing was one my father had taken when they’d gone to the Berkshires. Her face was like something from an old movie. I’d found a treasure, and yet, no recipe. No restaurant. No nothing.
I shook everything out again before I put it all back, just to be sure I wasn’t missing something. I gently nudged the box back under the couch just as Lou turned off the shower and turned on her electric toothbrush.
Next, I scoured the Internet, searching for the restaurant, for any Iraqi restaurant in New York—for anything about it, reviews or photos or menus. Then for any Middle Eastern restaurant that had closed years ago. Nothing. Then for any Middle Eastern restaurant that hadn’t closed. Nothing helpful. I found lots of street carts and distribution corporations in Brooklyn.
New York
magazine mentioned a Syrian place in the theater district. So I took the portable phone and, balancing the laptop in one arm and opening the door silently with the other, went out of the apartment and into the hallway. Then I called, even though it was six thirty in the morning.
I plopped down next to the elevator.
When someone picked up and said hello, I was deep in the archives of Chowhound and almost forgot to respond.
“Hello,” he said again in a very nonprofessional, non-restaurant-host voice. He had thick throat congestion and a heavy accent. I wanted to say
A-hem
before we continued. I imagined my mother.
Lorca! Manners!
But at Le Canard Capricieux, the GM hired the hostess based on her phone voice:
GoodeveninglecanardcapricieuxhowmayIassistyou?
“Sorry,” I said. “Maybe I have the wrong number? I’m looking for a restaurant.”
“This is a restaurant,” he said. “We’re not open for breakfast. We’re not open for lunch either. And soon, we’re not open for dinner.”
“Are you closing?” I said and because I didn’t think it through, I got hopeful.
“Department of Health says we’ve got rats. I don’t think that’s the end of the world but they do and so does my wife.”
“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry. Do you make masgouf?” I whispered the word, not wanting my mother to hear.
“Masgouf!”
he yelled back. “Syria has only forty-four kilometers of the Tigris. Iraq has the whole thing. Masgouf is from the Tigris. Fish from freshwater Tigris water. We don’t have any
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