Rainy Day in Little Bangladesh

It was raining hard today in Los Angeles and traffic was predictably hellish. I felt stupid trying to get anything accomplished out in it, but I’d have felt worse sitting at home making excuses for why I wasn’t at least putting forth the effort. So there I was in the early afternoon and I still hadn’t eaten and neither had Lena. I told her I’d pick something up to bring home. I was trying to chill on the tacos because I’ve been guilty of overdoing favorites in the past, and Fatburger seemed excessive. I also considered that I was on a roll with trying out new spots lately so I figured lemme see how far my luck goes.

Little Bangladesh is on the way home. Let me stop by.

The place was called Biriyani Kabob House and nothing about it looked remarkable so of course it interested me. I’ve been digging up diamonds in the rough since I can remember. Also, it’s right across the street from my favorite L.A. dive that I won’t be telling you about. This post anyway.

I slid my vehicle into the lot and got out into the rain. I walked past a Tae Kwon Do dojo and stepped into the place. A brown man with a nice mustache and a big forehead was sitting down watching television. He got up when I entered and went behind the counter. There was no music playing and there were no other customers in the place. In the back, some of the chairs were still upside down on the table. The tiles on the floor were white and I remembered literally nothing else about the décor because it was pretty much nonexistent. There were two cooks wearing normal clothes in the kitchen playing on their phones, both of them young. The man said what can I get you. I said gimme a sec.

I took a look.

They had a digital menu. It was changing every few seconds. Admittedly, it was hard for me to follow. Not because I was high but because I wasn’t super familiar with the cuisine of this region. You can call it ignorant on my part to walk into a place where you know nothing about the food or you can call it having a pair.

I’d just the day previous found the best falafel I’d ever eaten downtown on chance so I was feeling myself.

I asked the guy if he had a menu on paper and he slid it over. Then he pointed to some specials he’d written on colored paper and taped to the wall. He also called me brother. I’m going to tell you something here. This can be a little off putting when meeting a stranger if they are not of your same race. I hate to say that but it’s true. The reason why it’s true is because it makes me, as a half black man, anticipate a sell that’s trying to take a personal approach which hasn’t been earned and really wasn’t necessary. And while the man was certainly in the position to make the sell, you don’t ever want the sell to be inauthentic or patronizing. That’s it. I’m not gonna get on a crazy stage about this. It’s really that simple. So that means you either want to listen or you just want to get the business over with the quickness. However, the way he said it didn’t tingle my spider senses. It was very casual, very smooth. It may have even soothed me. This wasn’t a young man, and he didn’t have to say anything for no reason. That’s something you come to appreciate with age, and why older men look stupid when they talk too damn much. So I agreed to order the lamb curry that was specialing this day and ordered some chicken kabobs along with it as well as some type of potato filled won ton things he had sitting in a heat case. I ordered those because he suggested that too, and I like to look at things that glow. 3 for 3. Not bad.

“Naan or rice?” he asked me.

“Naan.”

“Ok. Ten minutes.”

I paid. A little more than I anticipated, but again, I’m a rational man. Usually. I made the choice to walk into the place. He thanked me and called me brother again and walked around the counter and took back his seat. I sat across from him. On the television were highlights from Trump’s press conference.

“I think this man will be impeached. I don’t think he will last four years,” he said.

“I bet you’re right or something close to it,” I said.

We both watched the television, sitting in this little empty restaurant in Little Bangladesh as the rain poured down outside on a grey Friday, two brown men watching the orange man wave his hands and talk in sloppy circles like the kind a kid draws with a fat crayon.

“This guy,” the man sitting across from me said, “he’s fucking up my life.”

I looked at him, ready to listen.

“My brother is getting married this summer. Back in Bangladesh. That’s where I’m from. I’m an American citizen now. I’ve been living here for over 37 years. But I won’t go to the wedding. I’m Muslim. I’m scared they won’t let me back in. I hear about it all the time. They are doing this. I know some of them. They get held for hours. They get sent back. I don’t want to deal with it.”

“Damn. Your brother’s wedding?” I said.

“I never thought I’d see something like this in America.”

I don’t know why, but that fucked me up to hear that from this man. Because honestly, at no point had I ever really truly been surprised. Very let down, disappointed, upset, dejected, angry. Lots of these things. But never actually surprised that Trump became president. That Trump became president on account of fear and whitelash. But this guy was, somehow. This proprietor of Middle Eastern food in one of America’s biggest melting pots.

The food smelled fantastic. He held up the bag and I told him to take care. I said I hope he can make it to that wedding and that I’d be back soon. He said see you then, brother.

I got home and laid out the food. Pulled out some plates and silverware and paper towels. I went for the naan first. I pinched it with my fingers. It felt right. Fluffy and hot. There was more of it than I expected to get and that made me happy. I tore a piece off and dipped it in the dark colored lamb curry. It had a good level of depth and pepper to it. The kabobs had good heat and texture, even if they didn’t look like the most appetizing thing in the world. I could crush all of them by myself but I reminded myself Lena hadn’t eaten yet. I went ahead and dipped those fried potato things in the curry too. I was surprised by how moist they still were. The flavor and body was there for everything. It was food suited for a dreary day like this one, I thought to myself, and it felt good to eat with my hands. The lamb was tender. I pinched it in between some more naan and got a good scoop of curry along with it. I thought about that man who owned Biriyani Kabob House. I thought about how shitty it’d be to miss a wedding. If there’s something you come to know about me: I love weddings. I also love good food. I’ll be back, brother.