"Forks are for people who don't know how to use pita. You'll figure it out."
Mona slid the window shut. The neon hummed. And somewhere in the back, Al-Basha cracked a fresh bag of sumac, not looking up, already knowing: dinner rush would be good tonight. Take out only. Always had been. Always would be. al-basha take out only menu
He stepped aside. Through the fogged glass, he could just make out the old man—Al-Basha himself—turning skewers over charcoal. No words. No smile. Just the hiss of fat dripping into fire, the thud of a cleaver, the shake of spices from a tin labeled only in Arabic. "Forks are for people who don't know how to use pita
A man in a soaked raincoat—the first customer of the evening—squinted at the card. not looking up