The Chef
The road-side diner had a sign hung outside the door. Closed, it said. And this time, it was for good, or that’s what Khan had decided. Of course, the kitchen, that was a different story. Khan couldn’t bear to shut that down.
Outside, the smell of turmeric and cumin filled the streets. Many who walked past the diner would ultimately pause for a moment and wonder where the smell was coming from. Some would press their faces on the window, wondering if the cafe was open while others would stare longingly at the sign, hoping that the words on it would magically transform into “Open.” They never did.
Except for the day Khan met Aliya. It was an unusual day in October when the weather had changed overnight. A backing wind brought a grey sky and rain, and somehow, it was a little too cold, a little too early in this time of the year. And on this unusually grey day, Khan saw Aliya’s face through the window. Her cold, sad eyes were scanning the room inside for shelter. For a moment, all he could do was stare at her, his eyes fixated on hers. And then, he finally took a deep breath, realizing he had held it all along. He quickly dashed to open the door.
The girl offered her name as a courtesy, and the words from her mouth wafted through the air, mixed with the aroma of her sweet perfume. Khan welcomed her in, and prepared a warm meal especially for her.
There was chicken, yogurt, flatbread, and all good things that reminded one of home. Aliya’s eyes went wide. “This is real nice,” she said as she tried the yogurt dip between hungry gulps, barely chewing. “What’s that green stuff in it?”
“Cilantro,” said Khan.
“My mom never put cilantro in the raita.”
“Your mom knew how to make Indian Food?”
There was a moment of hesitation, “Yes, in fact, she taught me how to cook as well…” The words crawled out as if she was fighting against some memory. The cloud passed, and she resumed eating, ignoring her thoughts.
Just in those fleeting seconds, Khan asked, “So you like to cook?”
“Yes, I was a chef actually,” said Aliya, a spark visible in her eyes, but that faded away quickly, “But after my mother died, I stopped cooking. Can’t bear to do it anymore.”
“I’m sorry.” Khan understood and patted her shoulder. Then he remembered something. Didn’t he also consider leaving the diner when his own folks died? In fact, the memory made him laugh in his head. Only one word can describe a chef, and that is melodramatic. And the first thing they threaten to do, when they’re upset, is to quit cooking. The truth that chefs don’t know is, you can’t ever stop cooking. And you can’t close the kitchen.
After Aliya had eaten, she scrambled and ran to the door, “Thanks for the food.”
“Will you come again?” Khan asked, upset at her hasty departure. He hadn’t even had a proper conversation.
“Maybe if you let me cook next time.”
With that, Khan watched the door thrown outward as Aliya walked out of the diner, and into the grey streets. He walked up to the window and watched her walk away for a fleeting second. And then, moments later, he saw her turn back to look at him, and wink.
Khan winked back, then turned around, his lips curling into a smug smile as he noticed that the sign on the door had flung around on its own.
And he knew that today, it was really an unusual day.
