Hungry Hearts

by Elsie Chapman

  “Oh, um, thank you,” she said, accepting the bottle, her smile now seemingly genuine as she snapped out of her routine. “That’s so nice of you! Let me get my manager,” she said. She turned her head to the right and waved at a short young man wearing a suit and tie. He strode over to us with brisk steps. He was in his midtwenties, white, and had wavy brown hair that was expertly coiffed with hair gel.

  “Welcome to Zia Sofia! My name is Terrence. How may I help you?” Terrence asked before he looked me up and down. I was still wearing my uniform: a white T-shirt, black slacks, and a small black apron around my waist that held my order pad and corkscrew.

  “Hello, Terrence. I’m Manny. I’m the owner of Manijeh’s across the street, and my niece Laleh and I wanted to congratulate you on your opening,” my uncle said, extending his hand to the slight man.

  “Oh! Hello,” Terrence said, shaking my uncle’s hand. Briefly.

  “They brought us a bottle of champagne,” the hostess said, handing Terrence the bottle. He looked at it. There was a flicker of a condescending smirk on his lips upon reading the label.

  “That’s very generous,” Terrence said, handing the bottle back to the hostess. “Would you like a tour?” His smirk morphed into a fake smile the longer he spoke with us.

  “Oh, that would be wonderful, but some other time. I can see how busy you are,” my uncle said, looking around the bustling restaurant. “If you ever need anything, we’re right across the street.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Terrence said. Our conversation was interrupted by a loud crash in the dining room. Terrence whipped his head in the direction of the noise. The whole restaurant became silent. A teenage waitress looked down at the family-style portion of fettuccine Alfredo at her feet, splattered all over the floor.

  Terrence sped over to her table to speak with the upset guests while the waitress crouched down, picking up pieces of the shattered plate. I walked over to her and helped her clean up.

  A busser came over with a plastic tub while another busser brought over a broom and dustpan. The waitress and I deposited the mess into it.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Laleh?”

  I finally looked at the flustered waitress in front of me. Her face was red like the grilled tomatoes we served with our kebab platters.

  “Natalie,” I said, breathless.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I ask myself that question every day,” I said. “I work at my uncle’s restaurant.”

  “Oh,” she said. She wiped her hands on her apron and looked away from me.

  “Natalie, why don’t you head back to the kitchen and let John and Rafa clean up your mess?” Terrence said as he stared down at us, before dashing off to the kitchen. I stood up and offered Natalie my hand to help her stand. She took it, and when her hand touched mine, I felt like I had the night of that stupid party that derailed my life. Confused, nervous, elated . . . Natalie Ribaldi was gorgeous, and I hadn’t been able to handle it. So I drank. I drank a lot.

  “I’m really sorry,” she said to the annoyed couple at her table. “It’s my first day.”

  “We can tell,” the lady with the sour expression said. The guy with her was taking a photo of the spill on his phone. I bet he couldn’t wait to post up a Served review, the jerk. Natalie bit her lower lip and retreated to the kitchen.

  * * *

  It had been a week since we visited Zia Sofia. My uncle remained in good spirits, but I was feeling a little demoralized, watching customers go to the new restaurant while many of our tables stayed empty. I was happy to see that customers were still frequenting the Manzano panadería. That place wasn’t going anywhere. Lila was amazing, and so was her family’s food. When I waved to her in the mornings on my way to work, she always smiled and seemed like she enjoyed what she was doing. I was a little envious of that.

  Arash was playing a game on his phone when Natalie entered. I wanted to play it cool, but the closer I got to her, I knew that was going to be impossible. She always made me feel anxious. The good kind of anxious, like right before I got on stage to accept my diploma. I was worrying about tripping or having an awkward handshake with our principal, but elated to accept something I’d worked so hard for.

  “Hi,” she said, still in her Zia Sofia uniform, which consisted of a tucked-in collared white shirt, a black tie, long slacks with a long, black apron tied around her waist, and black shoes.

  “Hi,” I said back with a smile. Arash looked up from his phone, and his mouth dropped open a little. His reaction was warranted, albeit embarrassing. She was beautiful, even in her uniform and even though her brown hair was a little wet from the rain outside.

  “I wanted to thank you for helping me out last week,” Natalie said. “Is this a bad time?”

  I looked around our empty dining room. I had completed all of my side work, set up all the tables, and made sure the bar was fully stocked with glassware.

  “Your timing is perfect. I was just going to have a bite before the dinner shift. Please, have a seat,” I said, leading her to a booth by the window. She slid into her seat, and I asked Arash to bring us two bowls of ash-e-reshte. When he stopped gawking at our guest, he walked to the back and into the kitchen.

  I sat across from Natalie. I normally wouldn’t sit and eat in the main dining room, but I didn’t think Uncle Mansour would mind, seeing as no one was coming in on this rainy day.

  “It’s been a while,” I said.

  “How have you been?” Her light brown eyes were taking me in.

  “Since the accident?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, I’m here full-time,” I said. I hated when customers sometimes asked me if I was a student to make small talk. Sometimes I thought I should just lie and say I went to a nearby university. “I’m sorry I didn’t call after . . . uh . . . after we—”

  “Made out?” she asked in a normal tone of voice. She didn’t whisper, which I took as a good sign.

  “Yes. That. I hadn’t expected that at Stacey’s graduation party. I mean, I thought it was cool! You’re good at the kissing stuff,” I said. The name Stacey felt so foreign coming out of my mouth. I hadn’t really talked to one of my “friends” in months. I’d seen pictures of her on social media, enjoying college life, and she’d sent me a text or two, but other than that, Stacey and my other friends were all but a memory.

  “I didn’t think one of the most popular girls at Rowbury High would be interested in—”

  “Women?” I asked.

  “Theater-club nerds,” she said with a slight grin. My stomach flipped like a snowboarder on the half-pipe at the Olympics.

  “How’s senior year?” I asked after clearing my throat. She was still grinning.

  “Fine. I work at Zia’s on weekends, and I’m waiting to hear back from colleges.”

  “They’ll be lucky to have you. Wherever you decide to go,” I said. I felt a pang of jealousy. It wasn’t her fault. It was mine for needing a crutch like booze and then running away from her.

  “I tried to get in contact with you. . . .”

  How was I supposed to answer that? I had a long secret crush on you, I had to drink a ton of beer to tell you before I graduated, we kissed a lot in Stacey’s bathroom, and then I panicked and smashed my dad’s fancy car into a telephone pole?

  “I had a lot to deal with after the accident. I was embarrassed,” I said honestly, with a shrug. My DUI had derailed everything, especially my pending romance. “I thank God every day that no one was hurt.”

  She took my hand from across the table. I didn’t panic this time.

  “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  Arash came back, and Natalie let go of my hand. He served us two bowls of ash-e-reshte and gave me a not-at-all-subtle eyebrow waggle.

  Natalie looked at the green soup a little warily.

  “Just smell it,” I said, picking up my spoon. Natalie took a whiff, and her eyes widened.

  “What is it?” Her interest piqued
by the heavenly aroma.

  “Delicious,” I said. I could have told her it was soup made up of parsley, spinach, dill, sautéed onions, thin noodles, chickpeas, kidney beans, dried yogurt, dried mint, garlic, oil, and salt, but why spoil the surprise?

  She dipped her spoon in the thick soup gingerly before giving it a taste. Her eyes closed as she swallowed. She might as well have been in a Campbell’s soup commercial.

  “Wow,” she said as she opened her eyes. “That’s amazing!” She dunked her spoon in the bowl fully and began to lap up the soup quickly. “I’m working a double, and I haven’t had anything all day.”

  “Don’t they feed you over there?” I asked.

  “We only get a ten percent discount on food,” she said in between slurps. “I don’t really feel like spending ten bucks on lousy spaghetti. Trust me—my dad’s side of the family is Italian American. Olive Garden is Michelin-rated gourmet compared to Zia’s.”

  “Well people seem to like it,” I said. “You guys are always packed.”

  “Tips are okay,” Natalie said, wiping the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “But the management is so strict. It feels like you can’t breathe in there. Terrence is always hovering, making sure our name tags are on straight, instead of helping us run food.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said.

  “How much is the soup? Table twelve screwed me over with a two-dollar tip on a thirty-five-dollar bill,” she said, taking her notepad that held her tips out of her apron pocket.

  “Lunch is on me today,” I replied. I probably owed a lot of students at Rowbury High lunch. My friends and I hadn’t exactly made it to the top rung of the social ladder by being kind to others. I thought about that a lot during my court-mandated community-service hours.

  “You’re turning out to be my food service guardian angel,” Natalie said.

  “It’s the least I can do for not calling you after, uh . . .”

  “Smooching?”

  She was so damn cute.

  “Yes. That.”

  Natalie and I spent our time in the booth talking about our favorite teachers at Rowbury High, songs that we liked, movies we were thinking about seeing but would wait until they showed up on cable television, and our favorite foods. Natalie had decided that ash-e-reshte was definitely a new favorite. She was so easy to talk to. I forgot why I had been so scared to approach her. I wished my parents were as easy to talk to.

  * * *

  The following week, Natalie came back during her lunch break. She brought the two bussers, John and Rafa, and they all ordered the “green soup.” My uncle came out to greet our new guests when I served them.

  “Welcome! Thank you for coming,” Uncle Mansour said, shaking everyone’s hands, delighted to have young blood in at three p.m.

  “I told the guys I was coming here for the best soup I’ve ever had, and they just had to try it,” Natalie said to my uncle. “I’m Natalie! I’m a friend of Laleh’s.” I supposed now she kind of was a friend.

  “Any friend of Laleh’s is a friend of mine,” Uncle Mansour said. I think he was surprised to find I had any, since all I ever did was work. “I don’t know what we’d do without Laleh.” I could feel my face get hot.

  “Natalie wasn’t kidding! This is delicious,” Rafa said, enjoying every spoonful. “I’m going to tell everybody about this place.”

  “Yes! Please do!” Uncle Mansour said. He was giddy like a kid trick-or-treating on Halloween. “Laleh, come help me bring our guests some more food.” I followed my uncle into the kitchen. Claudio was cooking the stew for the next day as well as ash-e-reshte.

  “Can you heat up some joojeh kebab with rice? Three small dishes, please,” my uncle asked Claudio.

  “They didn’t order that,” I said to my uncle, not understanding how he was willing to give away free food. I knew Aunt Mariam wouldn’t be too pleased about that. She was the realist between the two of them, and she knew as well as I did that Manijeh’s was barely getting by. They never said that to me, but I could sometimes overhear them arguing in the office during a slow dinner shift.

  Uncle Mansour turned to me and put his hand on my shoulder. He looked at me with pride, the way my dad used to when I handed in my report card. It almost made me want to cry.

  “Your grandmother always said ‘a guest is a gift from God,’ and she was right. It’s true, we’re running a business, but guests always remember the way you treated them. They might not remember what they ordered or who they shared a meal with, but they’ll remember how they felt being here. If you want to run this restaurant someday, you should remember that.”

  He said if I wanted to run this restaurant someday? It hadn’t occurred to me that he was grooming me for that responsibility.

  “I-I don’t know if, um . . . You really think I could run this place?”

  “With your hands tied behind your back,” Uncle Mansour said. “Only if you want to. And after you pursue a higher education.”

  I rolled my eyes. I didn’t know what school would want me now. It didn’t hurt to think about the future again, though.

  * * *

  “Why is there so much soup?” Aunt Mariam asked Claudio the next day as I was rolling up silverware in linen napkins.

  “You have to ask Manny about that,” Claudio said. He was chopping onions, and his eyes were a little watery.

  “Do we have a take-out order that I don’t know about?” Aunt Mariam asked us. Claudio and I looked at each other for a moment.

  “I guess Manny had a good feeling about today. He asked me to make more,” Claudio said with a shrug.

  Aunt Mariam pursed her lips as she tied an apron around her waist. Uncle Mansour came out of the office and smiled at his wife. She did not smile back.

  “I hope you realize you’re going to be eating ash-e-reshte for dinner all week,” Aunt Mariam said to my uncle as she joined Claudio by the stove.

  “That’s fine. I love ash-e-reshte,” Uncle Mansour said.

  “So do I,” I said, voicing support for my uncle in my own way. “But there won’t be any left over.”

  “Oh?” Aunt Mariam said, quirking an eyebrow up at me. “You’re sure about that?”

  Well . . . not exactly. But I didn’t see anything wrong with remaining hopeful. Arash walked into the kitchen from the dining room.

  “Arash, I already told you, I can’t take you home until Camilla gets here at four. I know you want to go to the movies with your friends, but—” Aunt Mariam began.

  “No. It’s not that. I need some help up front,” Arash said.

  “I thought we went over your math homework already?” I asked him.

  “No! Guys! I mean I need help with customers,” Arash shouted. “We have some.”

  I rushed out of the kitchen with my uncle close behind. Natalie stood at the front of the restaurant and waved at me. She was joined by seven of her coworkers, all of whom were still in their Zia Sofia uniforms.

  “Soup’s on,” I whispered to my uncle. He chuckled before he went to the front of the house to accommodate everyone.

  Arash seated Natalie’s coworkers at the booths by the window looking out at Zia Sofia. Natalie lingered at the host stand, waiting for me.

  “John and Rafa kept telling everybody at work about the food here,” Natalie explained.

  “You didn’t rave about the food?” I asked, a little concerned.

  “I’m more interested in the great service,” she said gently.

  “We’re flirting, aren’t we?”

  “I think so! How am I doing?”

  “Perfect. I need to step up my skill set, though. Give me time.”

  “I’m a waitress. I’m learning all about being patient,” she said over her shoulder before sitting at a two-top in my section. I swallowed and took a breath before going to get the Zia Sofia staff water and take their drink orders. After I put in their orders, I made my way back to Natalie’s table, and Uncle Mansour was talking with her.

  “Laleh! I was
telling the lovely Natalie about how I started Manijeh’s with the help of your father,” Uncle Mansour said.

  “Dad never worked here,” I said, a little puzzled.

  “No, but he invested in the restaurant. He didn’t tell you about that? When I first started, he gave so much to this place and used to come here all the time. Then he got busier with work and his family, but he used to come a lot more. He hasn’t seen some of the changes we’ve made to the décor. You should ask him to come!”

  I blushed and cleared my throat. Natalie’s smile faded a little as she noticed my discomfort.

  “Uh, yeah, I’ll think about it,” I said. I figured it was better than lying and saying I’d ask my dad. Uncle Mansour put his meaty hand on my shoulder.

  “He must be so proud of you,” he said before kissing the top of my head. “I’m going to bring Natalie khaskh-e-bademjan. I’ll be right back!” He went to check in on the other guests before heading back to the kitchen.

  “He’s planning to feed me the whole menu, isn’t he?” Natalie asked as I inched closer to her.

  “He’s all about hospitality. Do you like eggplant? He’s bringing you an eggplant dip.”

  “I like the vegetable but not the emoji.”

  “We’re in agreement there,” I said, getting my scratch pad out of my apron pocket.

  “That’s cool about your dad helping bring this place to life,” Natalie said. I bit the inside of my cheek and didn’t make eye contact with her. “Isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. It is, I guess.” She didn’t press me any further. “What else can I get you, miss?”

  “Gosh, I do need another moment with the menu,” she said, furrowing her brow, feigning indecision so I could stay at her table longer. “What do you recommend?”

  “Everything except doogh. It’s a yogurt soda I just can’t get behind,” I answered.

  “Oh! That actually sounds kind of cool! I’ll start with that, please,” she said, shimmying her shoulders in excitement. “Then I’d like to ask to drive you home after work some night? That’s not a tall order is it?”

  “I think we can accommodate that request,” I said, writing it down on my notepad.