The Döner Kebab Shop on a Snowy Evening
"Her sweet voice carries like a song over the noise..."
Maybe getting take-out tonight wasn’t the best idea. Nevertheless, here I am, crunching through snow and inching carefully over slick patches of ice as the evening shadows deepen, making my way to the döner kebab place on the corner where the two main streets of our village intersect. I’m relieved to find the walkway to the front steps has been cleared of snow and sprinkled with de-icing salt. The glass doors of the shop slide open as I approach, exhaling deliciously warm and fragrant air. No, this definitely was the best idea, even if I risked life and limb to get here.
It’s crowded, especially for a Monday night. Apparently, everyone in the village had the same idea. There’s no real line; everyone seems to be standing around, waiting for their orders to be filled. I called in my order, but that always makes me uncertain about the protocol. Do I step up to the front and let them know? With my back to the beverage cases, I stand next to a woman in a purple coat who stares straight in front of her with an expressionless face, like a wax figure.
Mustafa, the owner, is gone tonight. Last month we ate here on Lilly’s birthday, when my parents were visiting. It had snowed that day as well. As he made our dinners, I asked Mustafa if he would have to drive or walk through the snow to get home.
“No, no, I sleep upstairs. House upstairs. Work downstairs,” he said, his index finger first pointing up and then down.
“That’s good,” I told him. “The roads are a mess tonight.”
Then, as we went to pay, Dad asked Mustafa if he was from Turkey, pointing to the huge mural of Istanbul on one of the walls.
“No,” he said, “I am Kurdish. Kurdistan, my country, is taken away. My people killed or sent away. I have no country. I live in Germany now, but I have no home.”
I nodded, remembering then how he said “house upstairs,” not “home,” how I had assumed it was just the linguistic quirk of a non-native English speaker. But maybe it was something more.
Tonight, a petite woman with blue eyes and auburn hair cut in a short bob–his wife, I think—is working alongside Mustafa’s young nephew. After a moment she makes eye contact with me and says, “You call in order, yes?” I nod with an eager smile. “Just one moment, okay?”
“No problem!”
Settling into my spot beside the beverage case, I look around. Everyone is bundled up against the cold with hats pulled low over their ears, even though it's warm inside and the windows are fogged with condensation. A young father wearing a bulky coat and glasses holds a little girl, maybe three years old, in his arms. He has a trim beard; her jacket is the color of a fading rose. Her straight, honey-colored hair is clipped back on one side of her forehead, and she studies her father’s face with big blue eyes, resting comfortably in his arms even though she’s not a baby any more. Her sweet voice carries like a song over the noise of the shop–the beeping alarms insisting that something needs to come out of the oven NOW, the sizzle of potatoes and falafels in oil, the meat grillers, and the chatter of customers. Mustafa’s nephew shaves meat with a giant knife and piles it onto plates and into pita bread, tucking fresh vegetables in next to it and smothering it with creamy tzatziki.
I can’t understand the little girl’s chatter, but she points to something, and her father answers, “Genau!” in a smooth baritone voice. I know this word! It means “exactly.” She says something else, and he repeats it: “Genau.” Encouraged, she goes on and on, pointing to signs, the beverage case, the meat grillers, and every time he replies, “Genau,” inflecting just enough to assure her that he’s really listening, he really means it. It’s like a call-and-response song.
As I watch, she places her palms on his cheeks, fingers spread open, and a dimple appears as she says more words that I don’t understand. The beard moves, and I hear his voice again. “Genau.”
One day, so many years ago, I was a little girl like that, pushing my hands flat against the deep grooves of my granddad’s face. He had come to visit us in Bangladesh, and I was talking to him, looking into his sparkling blue eyes behind the thick glasses he wore. He nodded, listening intently. A thought occurred to me, stopping the flow of words. I had to tell him.
“Granddad,” I said, his cheeks still in my little palms, “you have a cute and pretty face.” I couldn’t think of a better way to say it, but I thought he should know. He leaned back and laughed until tears were in his eyes. It’s been twenty-six years almost to the day since he died, but I’m still caught off-guard by how much I miss him.
“Your order is ready!” Mustafa’s wife lifts a white plastic bag filled with foil-wrapped falafel1 sandwiches over the counter toward me. Taking it, I thank her and turn away, pushing my free hand deeper into my pocket, bracing for the cold as the doors slide open again. The icy air stings my nostrils, and tears—reflexive, I think—spring to my eyes.
At the sidewalk, I glance into the shop one more time. The little girl’s hands are still on her father’s face and her nose almost touches his. He leans his head forward and nuzzles her gently. I think she just said she loves him, and she knows he loves her. And as his mouth moves in reply, he says, “Genau.”
Exactly.
I realize the irony of writing about a kebab shop and then saying, “We got the falafels.” However, we are mostly all vegetarian. Matt and Wyatt occasionally eat meat, but trust me: the falafels can’t be beat.
Beautiful writing and a beautiful window into this memory. Thank you.
This is so beautiful, Joy! I was in that shop with you.❤️❤️