The restaurant was all bright white and soft grey. The centre aisle held a long, communal bench–style table made of reclaimed wood, with chic chrome barstools and hanging lamps overhead. All around the periphery stood booths in grey and red and black leather, visible under clear plastic protective wrapping. They were interspersed with smaller tables with seating for two or four, plus a few large circular tables for bigger groups. The kitchen wasn’t hidden in the back like in Three Sisters, but set up at the front of the restaurant, behind glass.
The walls were accented with silver and white wallpaper, and at the far end of the restaurant was a massive flat-screen television surrounded by a bank of comfortable sofas and bar tables. The lightingwas tasteful, with hanging crystals winking beneath gauzy black shades. The result didn’t look like it belonged on Golden Crescent, I thought, then reconsidered. Our neighbourhood deserved beautiful spaces too.
Aydin was waiting at the counter in front of the kitchen, watching me snoop shamelessly. “What do you think?” he asked after a few minutes.
I could only shake my head. I couldn’t explain what I was feeling. It wasn’t jealousy or resentment exactly. I looked around again, noticing little details like the salt and pepper shakers shaped like stars, crescents, and hearts, and the floor, a white-and-grey travertine. Everything demonstrated an eye for detail.
My gaze travelled back to his face. He looked vulnerable as he waited for my answer.
“It’s astonishing, Aydin. Everything is exactly as it should be,” I answered honestly.
His shoulders relaxed and he gave me a cocky smile. “Wait until you see the patio.”
The back patio was small but secluded, a patch of sleek grey slate near the parking lot, enclosed by mature pine trees. The furniture was cast iron with heavy, black umbrellas at each table.
I whistled my appreciation. “You know your customers take their bratty kids everywhere, right? They’re going to tear this place apart,” I teased.
He smiled briefly. “That’s why I included a cushion in the price—for repairs. Wait here, I’ll be back.”
He returned and placed a steaming plate in front of me, cutlery folded into a linen napkin.
Aydin had made me biryani poutine. I looked from his suddenlyshy face to the dish, speechless. The pleasure I felt at this gesture was almost overwhelming, so I did the best thing a person can do for a cook. I dug into the oozing gravy-soaked rice and chicken, scooped up fries and cheese curds, and tried not to think too hard about what it all meant.
“It’s delicious,” I said. “Thank you.”
“This dish is more complicated than it looks,” he said.
“Don’t tell me it’s on the menu.”
“Only the secret menu, strictly for VIPs.” He picked up an extra fork and took a small bite. He grimaced. “I really don’t know why you like it. It’s like eating puréed baby food, with the flavours all mixed up.”
“Not everyone gets my elegant palate.”
Aydin smiled and looked around the patio. He seemed nervous, jumpy, and I wondered again why he had invited me. It wasn’t to plan the street festival, or he would have told me to bring Rashid. He would get to why in his own time, I reasoned.
I decided to ask him something I had wondered about for a while. “Why did you decide to get into the restaurant business? With your dad’s contacts and money, you could have done anything.” Running your own business was never easy, but restaurants were notorious for long hours, unruly customers, and razor-thin margins.
I watched Aydin trace circles on the table. I couldn’t stop staring at his finger, long and blunt-tipped. “Why do people do anything? Why are you so interested in putting together this street festival?” he asked.
“Because a rich boy moved into my neighbourhood and decided to ruin my life,” I said lightly. I smiled to show I was joking—mostly. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“My mom loved to cook,” he started, then stopped. I took another bite and waited for him to find the words.
“I knew my parents didn’t get along. It wasn’t that they fought. It was more that they didn’t really talk. They never seemed to be in the same room at the same time, you know? My dad worked all the time and Mom was alone a lot. I was so young when she died... not even six.”
My fork paused. I tried to imagine little Aydin, a child with floppy dark hair and huge eyes. I bet he was scrawny.
“I didn’t even realize she was sick until she was gone. Nobody told me anything. But when she was alive, she loved to cook. We lived in this massive house in North Vancouver, and she was always experimenting in the kitchen. Dad used to get so mad because she was a careless cook. She’d gethaldi, that yellow turmeric powder, all over the white marble counters he had shipped from Italy.”
The kitchen at Three Sisters looked like that. Indian spices seriously stain your clothes, the walls, the counters.
“She made the best potato pakoras and chocolate chip cookies for me as after-school snacks, but I loved her biryani best of all. She said it was a secret recipe, passed down only through the women in the family. I remember feeling sad because I never planned to get married—I thought girls were gross. When I went to your restaurant, that biryani tasted just like my mother’s.” He looked up at me and our eyes locked, both remembering his father’s words that day. His smile was rueful. “Poor little rich boy, right?”
I shook my head. “I would have liked to meet your mom. I love pakoras.”
He laughed. “She would have loved to cook for you.”
“I’m a terrible cook.”
