The Hottest Dishes of the Tartar Cuisine

All the time in the world

One evening John and I were driving to the opera because I had bought myself a new dress and John had gotten hold of tickets. I was caressing the silk in my lap and the leather of my new handbag when John stopped at a traffic light and I looked to the side. I saw an open door that led to a dimly lit room. It was a bar called Istanbul. The windows facing the street were filthy. There were a few tables and chairs out on the sidewalk. I tugged on John’s sleeve and said, “Can you pull over?”

He parked in front of the bar. We had some time to kill. I took my handbag, hooked my arm through his, and we went into the place and sat down at a table. The table was covered with a layer of grease and I refused to touch it. John leaned back in his chair and said nothing.

From a side room came a stocky man with a bushy black moustache and the eyes of a beaten dog.

“Closed,” he said.

I could tell from his nose that he was no Turk. He was an Azeri.

“Closed,” he repeated.

I didn’t move, and John asked for the wine menu.

“CLOSED!” yelled the man. “NO WINE MENU! RESTAURANT CLOSED FOREVER!”

We remained seated.

He left, rustled around loudly in the next room, and finally returned with a bottle and three glasses.

“You’re my last customers,” he said. “I’m broke.”

We lifted our glasses and drank them down without clinking them together. We respected his sorrow. His moustache was already soaked. Then I stood up and went into the kitchen. It smelled like burnt oil and a spice that reminded me of the childhood I had never had. I found a rag and a nearly empty bottle of dishwashing liquid. I squeezed the last drops out of it and began to clean the cooking surfaces. The bar owner came and stood in the kitchen doorway. I heard him breathing but I didn’t turn around.

He left me alone again and continued talking with John in the other room. I didn’t listen — accounting didn’t interest me. I moistened crusty stains and thought about Aminat. I’d read in some paper that she was pregnant by a Canadian who was actually an Indian whose tribe lived in Toronto. I didn’t believe anything anymore — but that I believed straight away. Aminat had never listened to me. She always did the opposite of what I wanted of her. Now, barring any unforeseen complications, she was going to give me an Indian great-grandchild. So be it, I thought — as long as they didn’t name the child Jacqueline.

I had all the time in the world to wait for Aminat, and I wanted to make good use of that time. John always kept his word in the end. Pressuring him was unnecessary. Besides, I was a little afraid to ask him when Aminat would be coming back to me. I was afraid to hear that she had already been there and that I hadn’t noticed. I much preferred freeing metal countertops from encrusted bits of food and sending silent thanks to God, mechanically, out of courtesy — I mean, so he wouldn’t feel totally useless.