Dina
‘… Practically unheard of. When I was facing all of this, I didn’t even have anyone that I could speak to about any of—’
‘Does this look crooked to you?’ Deen’s question interrupts me rewatching Maya’s interview onThe Warm Up.
I lock my phone, slip it into my pocket and look up to see Deen eyeing the peacock painting that we salvaged from one of the charity shops. He tilts his head this way and that, frowning at the painting as if this is the crowning achievement of the restaurant, even though it’s a small painting off to one side. He has been up since the crack of dawn, working on finishing touches, even though everything was already finished and ready days ago. Still, even as we wait to open up the restaurant, he adjusts things.
‘It looks fine,’ I insist.
‘I’m just not sure. Maybe this is the wrong painting to have here. Maybe there shouldn’t even be a painting. I mean, do peacocks even fit into the aesthetic of the rest of the restaurant?’
I can recognise a spiral when I see one, so I march towards Deen and grab him by his shoulders – which is a little difficult considering he is significantly taller than me,and he’s craning his neck to look up at the painting. I still manage somehow.
‘Deen. The restaurant looks great. Stop freaking out.’
He looks down at me before taking a deep breath. ‘Yeah, you’re right. I need to stop freaking out. I mean, if this doesn’t work, all it means is that my dreams are over, and so are Baba’s, and Ma will be disappointed, and you will be disappointed, and—’
‘I won’t be disappointed,’ I interrupt before he can list a string of other relatives who probably don’t give Deen a second thought most of the time, but Deen will somehow convince himself that he and this restaurant are the centre of their universe. ‘Ma won’t be disappointed. And if Baba were here right now, he would be proud of you. For taking a risk. That’s what he was doing when he started up this restaurant in the first place.’
Deen nods, though I’m not sure if I’ve really got through to him.
‘Come on, sit down and take a deep breath.’
I drag him by his hands to the seat that I have just been occupying and he plops himself down on it. Closing his eyes, he takes another deep breath, and when he blinks his eyes open again, he seems at least a little bit calmer.
‘You would tell me if the restaurant looked terrible, right?’ Deen asks, looking around at the place.
‘Yes, I would. It looks good.’ I look around too, trying to see things from Deen’s point of view. The place is a mishmash of things; it’s difficult to even focus on one specific thing because there’s so much to look at. There are colourful lanterns strung up corner to corner; they cast a dim, romantic light over the tables. The walls have been repainted to a dark, sophisticated shade of green, and avariety of paintings line the walls, each somehow evocative of Bangladesh. Then, there’s the mural on the centre wall, which is visible as soon as you walk into the place. Against the green wall, in dark red paint, it readsEkusheyin both Bengali and English, each language shadowing the other, as if they’re caught up in some kind of dance.
It’s nothing like the different iterations of the restaurant that Deen and I have discussed over the years, but it’s a beautiful combination of all of those things. Only Deen could have done this; it feels like his vision.
Deen takes another breath and nods. His shoulders relax a little, almost like he’s making a conscious decision to let go of the rest of his worries. ‘OK … I guess we’re ready to open then.’
I give an encouraging smile as he stands up and walks over to the front door. He flips the sign from closed to open, and peers outside for a second, as if he’s hoping for a queue of people. Clearly, he doesn’t find one, because he returns from the entrance, looking nervous.
‘People will come soon,’ I say.
Just then, the door whooshing open sounds. Both Deen and I eagerly turn towards the entrance, but only Thea and Aisha walk in, waving at us hesitantly.
‘Hey, are we early?’ Thea asks.
‘No, you’re right on time, actually,’ I say, glancing at Deen, who looks a little crestfallen that it’s just my friends. ‘You guys want some free samples?’
‘Yes, obviously!’ Aisha says enthusiastically.
I walk them over to the table Deen has set up with samples of a selection of his dishes, offering each of them a plate.
‘How’s your brother doing?’ Thea asks as she piles a variety of foods onto her plate – creamy chingri malaikari,tangy shatkora mangsho and murighonto. I’m not sure she has any idea what she’s actually taking, but she’s always been a fan of Deen’s cooking from the leftovers I’ve supplied.
‘He’s pretty nervous,’ I say.
‘I can just imagine,’ Aisha mumbles, though she’s too busy eyeing all the different types of bhortas that Deen has laid out to really pay much attention to the conversation. Bhortas aren’t fine dining, but considering they’re such a signature Bengali dish, Deen thought he’d go all out. He basically tried to make bhortas of everything that felt right – aloo bhorta, daal bhorta, begun bhorta, even chingri bhorta.
‘This food is so good,’ Thea says, taking a massive bite of a mix of things. ‘Somehow, way better than the leftovers you always have in the fridge.’
‘You mean to tell me freshly made food tastes better than days-old leftovers that smell like the back of our fridge?’ I ask.
‘Good point.’
