Darius the Great Deserves Better - Adib Khorram Page 0,59
some people were even crying. But when Mom said that, the whole room’s mood changed. First there was a little chuckle here and there, and then some uncomfortable giggles, and then finally some actual laughter.
At the table right behind us, Javaneh’s dad let out a full belly laugh. He—like most of the men in the room—was dressed in a suit.
Clearly I had once again failed to accurately gauge the appropriate iteration of Persian Casual for the event.
Mom wiped her tears and smiled. “I wish my mom were here to cook for us tonight. But instead we have Kabob House. Noosh-e joon!”
Grandma and Oma got up to help at the buffet. I got up too, and took Laleh’s hand.
“Can I help?” Landon asked.
“Sure.”
Laleh manned the bread station—her favorite—while Landon scooped rice onto people’s plates, and I portioned out the tah dig, which Kabob House made with thinly sliced potatoes on the bottom of the pot.
The line moved slowly, as everyone took time to talk to each other, sometimes in Farsi and sometimes in English and sometimes both, arguing and taarofing and catching up with friends they hadn’t seen since the last time everyone came to the PPCC.
Landon gave me this bewildered smile when two older Iranian ladies, who I recognized vaguely but whose names I didn’t know, stopped in front of us, arguing in Farsi. Their voices rose, shrill and sharp over the din, until they suddenly cackled. They turned to me.
“Darioush!”
“Hi.”
“Look at you. You’ve lost weight.”
“Um.”
My ears burned.
“Who is this? Your friend from school?”
“My boyfriend,” I said. “Landon.”
The woman on my left, who wore her brown hair in an elaborate bun, turned to her friend and asked something in Farsi.
Her friend, who was taller, with long black hair and ornate gold hoop earrings, said something back. She eyed me, and then Landon, then said something else to her friend. “Just tah dig for me, Darioush,” she said.
I gave her a wedge with a nice chunk of potato. “This okay?”
“Perfect.”
Her friend kept looking from me to Landon and back.
“No rice for me, thank you,” she said.
And then she said, “Nice to meet you,” and moved along.
“What just happened?” Landon whispered to me. “What were they talking about?”
I didn’t catch enough to understand.
I was pretty sure I didn’t want to understand.
“Not sure.”
Javaneh’s dad, a doctor, held his plate out for Landon to spoon him a wedge of rice. He had a mustache that reminded me of Babou’s, though his was black and trimmed instead of gray and bushy. “Oh, just a little,” he said, when Landon offered him a big scoop.
“Sorry,” Landon said, and started to put back half the rice.
Panic flashed across Dr. Esfahani’s face.
“Please have more. There’s lots,” I said.
“If you insist.”
Landon glanced at me, baffled, and then gave Dr. Esfahani his rice.
Like I said, Landon still hadn’t mastered the art of taarof, which required you to politely decline food even if you actually wanted it, and to force people to take food they said they didn’t want.
“Darioush. Javaneh said you’re on the soccer team this year.”
“Yeah.”
“How’s it going?”
“Good. We’re six and one.”
And Landon said, “He’s the best defender on the team.”
I blushed and shook my head.
“Of course he is! Persians are excellent at soccer. It’s genetic.”
As a doctor—a quintessential Persian profession if ever there was one—Javaneh’s dad was always claiming things were genetic.
Dr. Esfahani accepted a big piece of tah dig without argument—he was clearly still shaken up by his near-miss with the rice—and moved down the line toward the kabob.
I served Javaneh’s mom, who was also a doctor—a PhD, who taught physics at Portland State—and then Javaneh’s two brothers, who were still in middle school.
When our first tray of tah dig ran out, I took it and a couple other empties to the back. Mom was in the kitchen too, refilling huge thermoses of tea from the hot water spigot on the coffee maker.
“Oh, Darius. Can I talk to you for a second?”
“Yeah, sure. Are you doing okay?”
Mom nodded. She’d made it through the day so far without smudging her mascara.
I had already cried four times myself.
“What’s up?”
Mom pursed her lips for a second.
“You know, a lot of our guests are more . . . traditional Iranians.”
“I know.” I held up my hands, nails out.
Mom’s eyes fell.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
Mom looked at me like she wanted to say something else, but Oma stuck her head in. “We’re almost out of kabobs.”
“I’ll get some.” I turned back to Mom. “Have people been saying things about Oma and Grandma?”