“Hana,beta, eat fast. Customers could come at any time,meri jaan,” she said, handing me the steaming plate piled high. My mother, Ghufran Khan, was a curious combination of nurturing and stern. She delivered orders in sharp bursts punctuated with Urdu endearments such asbeta(child) andmeri jaan(my life).
I devoured the mixture of fragrant rice, marinated chicken, crispy fries, savoury gravy, and cheese curds. Mom wrinkled her nose and hastily returned to the kitchen. Biryani poutine is... an acquired taste. As in, I was the only person who had acquired a taste for our restaurant’s namesake dish.
Biryani is a popular north Indian dish, a casserole made from basmati rice layered on top of meat or chicken marinated in yogurt, salt, fresh coriander, a garlic-ginger paste, and garam masala. The dish was topped with ghee and saffron and then baked. Poutine is a regional Canadian dish that first gained popularity in Quebec. It consists of fresh-cut golden fries topped with rich, savoury gravy and fresh cheese curds. Biryani layered with poutine was a strange combination that, so far, appealed only to me. Likely because I dreamt up the dish when I was nine years old.
My sister, brother-in-law, and even random strangers thought biryani poutine was disgusting. Eventually Mom had taken it off the menu after our customers complained, though she still made it for me. It had stuck as the name for the restaurant, probably because Mom hadn’t wanted to pay for a new sign.
I put down the plate and, popping in ear buds and cranking my favourite playlist, I began cleaning. After a few minutes I picked up the plate to take another bite of my lunch, swivelling my hips to TSwift’s infectious pop and using my spoon as a microphone.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder, and startled, I dropped my plate. Demonstrating lightning-fast reflexes, the someone—a young man, I observed—saved my lunch from disaster. I took out my earbuds, and TSwift’s bouncing lyrics blared for a moment into the silence before I hastily swiped the app closed.
The young man half-smiled.Cute,I thought.
“Your... meal?” he asked, his tone deeply dubious as he handedback the plate. He looked to be about my age or slightly older, wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. A pair of flashy sunglasses with reflective silver lenses dangled from his collar. His hair was dark and curly, and a smile twitched at the corners of his full mouth. A hint of stubble accentuated a square jaw and warm terracotta skin. Large, dark brown eyes regarded me from beneath thick black brows.
Definitely cute, but I didn’t appreciate the questioning lilt at the end of that sentence. Or the way the older man standing behind him wrinkled his nose at my lunch.
“Whatisthat?”the older man asked. Despite the salt-and-pepper hair and the deep frown lines etched into his cheeks, the resemblance between the two was clear. Father and son, I concluded.
“Biryani poutine,” I answered, offended. “Only available on the VIP menu.”
The older man frowned at my mop, which had fallen to the floor. “You work here? You look about fourteen years old.”
I reached up to straighten my wrinkled black tunic and adjust my hijab. The young man followed the movements of my hands with his eyes before looking away with a faint smile. Was Mr. Silver Shades laughing at me?
Welcome to Three Sisters Biryani Poutine, where child labour is encouraged and biryani and poutine are kept segregated, as God intended, I wanted to say. Instead I led them to a booth.
“I don’t understand why you insisted on coming here,” the older man said loudly, settling into his seat with a look of distaste. “They probably don’t even have clean cups.”
Charming. A few years ago I might have asked Mr. Silver Shades to take his grumpy dad elsewhere. But they were our first customers of the day, and my family couldn’t afford to be picky.
Three Sisters Biryani Poutine had seating for about forty people, spread out among a handful of plastic booths and yellowing square tables paired with wooden chairs. Bright fluorescent lighting painted every smudge and dent in harsh relief, and the walls were an unflattering green. Every year we meant to repaint, but time and money never allowed for it. Some art hung on the walls, mostly prints from IKEA or garage sales; Mom was partial to seascapes and large florals. A counter stood against the back wall, with the cash register in front of a door that led to the kitchen.
“These hole-in-the-wall places sometimes have excellent food, if you can look past the decor,” the young man said to his father, not bothering to lower his voice. He caught my eye when I returned with cutlery and glasses, unaware—or uncaring—that I had overheard. The older man immediately reached for his glass and started inspecting it for water blotches.
“Have you worked here long?” Mr. Silver Shades asked.
“A few years,” I said shortly, handing them laminated menus. I had officially started serving when I turned sixteen; before that I had helped out as dishwasher, sweeper—any job that needed to be done. Not that Mr. Silver Shades and his designer clothes would have any idea what a struggling family-run business required.
“There aren’t any other restaurants in the neighbourhood,” he remarked. “This area could use more selection, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t,” I said. “Things are fine the way they’ve always been.”
Mr. Silver Shades perused the empty dining room dubiously. “I hope you have a backup plan for when this place shuts down. Shouldn’t be long now.”
I stared at him in shock. Had he really just said that my mother’s restaurant was on the brink of closing?
“Bring us some water,” the young man said, dismissing me outright. He turned his attention to our comprehensive menu, written in both English and Urdu. I walked away before I did something foolish, like empty the water jug over his head.
When we first opened, Three Sisters had been one of the few full-service restaurants that served halal meat, a fact that had enticed customers from all over the city. As Toronto’s Muslim population grew, more halal restaurants began to pop up all over the city. A demographic shift occurred at the same time: second-generation immigrant kids weren’t as interested in eating the South Asian staples their parents craved. Mr. Silver Shades was right. Three Sister Biryani Poutine had been open for fifteen years, but now we were in deep trouble.
“Your menu is very extensive. What would you recommend?” Mr. Silver Shades asked when I returned to take their order. Grumpy Dad had pulled out a pair of reading glasses and was examining his fork.
I rattled off our specialties, and the young man frowned at every choice, the notch above his eyebrows deepening with every word. He was contemplating walking out, I could tell. I knew Three Sisters would never win any prizes for beauty, but then, this man and his father would never win any prizes for grace.
“Why don’t you just order what you think we’d like,” he finally said. “Let’s make it four dishes, and some mango lassi.”
I chirped, “Sounds good!” and collected their menus. I wasn’t sure if I should feel relieved they had stayed to fill our till, or disappointed that they hadn’t left and saved me the trouble of serving people I disliked. Then again, they were probably strangers passing through Golden Crescent. I didn’t recognize either of them, and I knew most of the people who lived in the neighbourhood. After this meal, I hoped I would never have to see Mr. Silver Shades and his grumpy dad ever again.
