“What is this?” Remi asked, taking an even bigger bite than she did.
“Moussaka. It’s kind of a shepherd’s pie. But it’s got layers of sauteed eggplant and potatoes on the bottom, then a layer of spiced lamb and onions, then a thick and creamy bechamel sauce. They bake it until it gets a kind of crust on top of the bechamel. Oh, my God!” she said, taking another bite.
“Yeah, I’m going to need some of this for breakfast every day,” Remi said, finishing off the serving she’d put on his plate and serving himself some more.
Cristie laughed. “It’s addictive. I tell you, I go there all the time. But you can’t tell anybody! It’s my refuge, and my addiction.”
He mimed locking his lips and throwing away the key as he picked up a fried, football shaped thing. “What is this? Kind of reminds me of a dark weird shaped cornbread.”
She smiled teasingly at him. “Take a bite.”
Remi took a big bite from the end of it. He chewed slowly as he looked at it, then raised his eyes to hers. “What is this?”
“Kibbeh. It’s got ground beef and lamb with onions and cinnamon, allspice, pine nuts that are cooked to perfection. They use bulgar wheat to seal the meat mixture inside and they deep fry it. The outside gets crispy and the inside stays moist and soft. It’s so good. But try it with that cucumber yogurt sauce.”
Remi dipped it in the sauce she indicated and closed his eyes as he savored it. “Why have I never tried this kind of food before?”
“I know! Like I said, I’m addicted.”
“Me, too. I’m not even finished with my first meal yet, and I’m already thinking of when I can go get some more.”
Cristie laughed.
They ate until they were stuffed, took a break and watched a little T.V., then ate some more.
“You know we still have dessert,” Cristie said.
“We do?”
“We do. It’s called kunafa,” she said, getting up off her seat on the floor and heading into the kitchen.
“I’m game. Bring it on,” Remi said.
Cristie came out of the kitchen carrying a plate on which she’d placed six kunafa, and the rest of the tea to refill their glasses. She put two on each of their plates. “Bon’ Appetit!” she said.
Remi laughed. “We have to figure out how to say that in Arabian. It just feels wrong to say in French when we’re feasting on something that’s not French.”
“Yeah, we’ll have to ask Amir.”
“Alright, so tell me what this is,” Remi said.
“What you see is shredded phyllo dough. Inside is sweet cheese filling. They throw some ground pistachios on top and soak the whole thing in a sweet syrup made with rose or orange blossom water. I like both, but I prefer the orange blossom water.”
“What are these?”
“I don’t know. They smell like the orange blossom. Amir knows I prefer it, so if there was any left, I’m sure that’s what he packed for us.”
They each picked up one of the desserts and touched them together like they would champagne glasses, then took a bite.
“Oh! Mmmm, Mmhmm, that’s the stuff,” Remi said, taking another bite.
“Yeah, that’s the orange blossom one. The rose water is good, too, I just find I like the orange more.”
Remi nodded as he finished off his first one and reached for the second.
Cristie was right behind him, reaching for her second one.
Remi reached for his newly refilled glass of mint tea, and scooted back to lean against the sofa behind himself. “Been a while since I ate so heartily,” he said, resting the arm holding his glass of tea atop his bent knee, as he watched the show playing on the television behind Cristie.
