217 Babel Street | Apartment 11
“Ha ha," laughed Mustafa, pointing. "You have a pimple. You want sex."
Fehmi scowled. "And you don't."
"At least it's not written all over my face."
"Eye yi yi! Is there more than one?" Fehmi rushed to the bathroom mirror.
Mustafa got to work on the maklubeh. The rice was still warm to the touch; it moulded easily to the bottom and sides of the pot. Next, he stirred the aubergine mash into the potatoes and lamb, poured the mixture into the mould, and sealed it with a final layer of rice. Only as he lowered the lid and turned on the heat did Fehmi return, his panic subdued. "The oranges, Fehmi."
"I know." Peel first, Fehmi remembered, then slice, so they stay succulent. They'd make the perfect garnish once the maklubeh tower was turned out on to the plate. Secretly he wished he could snap a picture of their culinary efforts and text it to his mother. "Is Kara definitely bringing her English friend?"
"Scottish."
"Hmm?"
"Her Scottish friend."
Fehmi nodded approvingly - Mustafa had mastered political correctness for the British. "What will I talk to her about?"
Mustafa dumped the last of Fehmi's lager down the sink. "Firstly say: Hello, I am not a fundamentalist. Secondly say: In Islam the heart is so precious a thing, we make laws just to protect it. British women like that. Then three, much later" - Mustafa waggled his over-sized eyebrows - "ask if she has ever had Turkish delight?"
Fehmi scowled again.