" What is the best thing you've ever eaten?"
Poulet rôti. I was sure that my mother was going to say the poulet rôti from L'Ami Louise in Paris because she'd sat next to Jacques Chirac there and he'd said that since she was a chef, perhaps she would cook something for him. And so she did. She went right back into the kitchen and whipped up something fabulous. After that, they used goose as well as duck fat when frying their potatoes, because it had been her way.
I mouthed Poulet rôti into the pillow. But my mother was quiet. She could have made conversation, little noises while she was thinking. But she didn't. Lou didn't care.
"Masgouf," she said. "From an Iraqi restaurant that's closed now."
I sat up. I opened my mouth. I almost yelled, What? But she was still talking.
"I went there with her dad years and years ago." I imagined her jerking her thumb in the direction of my room. "The company was like watching paint dry, but the food was fantastic. Out of this world."
"And?" Lou said.
"And," my mother said, "I went back a couple of years ago, just to see, and it was closed up. Totally empty and sad. One silver tray sat in the middle of the place, I remember. Broke my heart to pieces."
"Masgouf?" Lou said.
I was already out of bed, sockless and by the bookshelf, ripping through the index of The Joy of Cooking, then Cook Everything, then, finally, Recipes from All Over. I found it. "'Traditional Iraqi fish dish, grilled with tamarind and/or lemon, salt, and pepper,'" I whispered, shocked.
"It was heaven," my mother said. "Literally heaven. I've tried to replicate it, I can't tell you how many times."
For a second, I saw spots. I would have bet my life on it- on the poulet rôti.
"You know how they say that life imitates art?" my mother said. "Well, life imitated masgouf. The fish was so good, so tender, and we ate it with our fingers. For a little while, I convinced myself that life could be so simple."
Which meant happiness. Masgouf was my mother's happiness. "
Image for Quotes
Poulet rôti. I was sure that my mother was going to say the poulet rôti from L'Ami Louise in Paris because she'd sat next to Jacques Chirac there and he'd said that since she was a chef, perhaps she would cook something for him. And so she did. She went right back into the kitchen and whipped up something fabulous. After that, they used goose as well as duck fat when frying their potatoes, because it had been her way.I mouthed Poulet rôti into the pillow. But my mother was quiet. She could have made conversation, little noises while she was thinking. But she didn't. Lou didn't care.
"Masgouf," she said. "From an Iraqi restaurant that's closed now."
I sat up. I opened my mouth. I almost yelled, What? But she was still talking.
"I went there with her dad years and years ago." I imagined her jerking her thumb in the direction of my room. "The company was like watching paint dry, but the food was fantastic. Out of this world."
"And?" Lou said.
"And," my mother said, "I went back a couple of years ago, just to see, and it was closed up. Totally empty and sad. One silver tray sat in the middle of the place, I remember. Broke my heart to pieces."
"Masgouf?" Lou said.
I was already out of bed, sockless and by the bookshelf, ripping through the index of The Joy of Cooking, then Cook Everything, then, finally, Recipes from All Over. I found it. "'Traditional Iraqi fish dish, grilled with tamarind and/or lemon, salt, and pepper,'" I whispered, shocked.
"It was heaven," my mother said. "Literally heaven. I've tried to replicate it, I can't tell you how many times."
For a second, I saw spots. I would have bet my life on it- on the poulet rôti.
"You know how they say that life imitates art?" my mother said. "Well, life imitated masgouf. The fish was so good, so tender, and we ate it with our fingers. For a little while, I convinced myself that life could be so simple."
Which meant happiness. Masgouf was my mother's happiness." style="width:100%;margin:20px 0;"/>