You know that
24/7/365 place on Halsted just north of Chicago Avenue? Just past the Chicago Tribune distribution center and the Greyhound Bus service station? No? Across the street from the
Prairie Material gravel pit? The place with all the cabs in front?
Right.
THAT place.
Flaming Wok-n-Grill.
And you know how you always think,
Man, I should just go there. It's gotta be good. Cabbies and cops know good food. I bet that place is awesome.
And you know how you mention it to your wife whenever you drive past. "We should go there sometime," you say.
And she looks at you with THAT look. But you continue to smile. So she has to say it out loud.
"Are you serious," she asks.
You nod your head, raise your eyebrows.
She doesn't waste her time with any extra words. "No."
So you mention it to your guy friends. "Yeah, totally," they say. But it's been a year already and no one has brought it up since.
Maybe if
Steve Keith lived here...
So one day you're doing errands not far from there. And it's lunchtime. Time and space have intersected. Yes!
You park behind one cab and in front of another. You walk inside. The group of dark skinned men in Kafiyas and sneakers who are crowding the doorway yield nothing as you bump and squeeze past.
"Excuse me," you say.
You can feel their eyes follow you as their voices lower. You have no idea what they're saying anyway because you don't know Pakistani or Hindu or whatever language they're speaking. Maybe it's about
Downton Abbey. It sounded like the one said
Grantham.
As you take a few steps inside, more looks from other dark skinned men finishing their meals; bones in their mouths, rice and grease on their chins.
A few of them are flat out staring at you.
What's with whitey?
In the corner is a TV playing some sort of Bollywood musical. A woman in a veil is dancing and singing on a mountainside. All of a sudden a dozen women join her.
You search the wall behind the counter for a menu. There is none. There are a half dozen half empty chafing dishes behind a sneeze guard. Most of it is brown with pops of yellow, orange, or green; layers of red grease pool in the corners.
A man in a short sleeve dress shirt comes out from the back. The handwritten sign near the door says 'No admittance'. He seems genuinely surprised to see you. That must be where they sew the vests. It's like something out of
Homeland.
"Hi, how you doing?" he says.
"Good."
"How can I help you?"
You look down at the trays. "What's good?"
"It's all good," he says. "This, this very good. Goat. This very good, too. Chicken."
"How about a little of each?"
"You want bread? Rice?"
"Sure."
The man disappears to the back room. You are just standing there. Another man is standing there, too. He stares straight ahead at the blank wall. The table behind you is staring at the back of your head. You walk to the table under the tv by the window and sit down. Maybe short sleeves will bring you whatever you ordered. You pretend to read a text as you take a quick photo of the men standing in the doorway.
The men who walk past your table seem to slow down as they do. It makes you nervous, anxious. Finally short sleeves appears with two bowls of food and what appears to be a salad. It's really two pieces of lettuce, a couple carrot and cucumber slices, and half an onion.
You spoon in some of the brown and orange food. Damn, if it's not curiously delicious.
"You want rice, yes? I bring you rice and bread."
He comes back with both. They're steaming hot and good.
"Do I pay after?" you ask.
"Yes, yes. You pay after."
It's really more food that you need or want. You can feel yourself uncomfortably expanding. But it's good.
Is it really good? Is it great? You might have just been really hungry. It could be the adrenaline fueled terrorist cell dopamine drip you've accidentally set off inside your skull.
You push the plates away and pyramid the napkins. You reach up and feel the sweat on top of your head. Some of the best meals you've ever had end this way. It's almost like a wet stamp of approval.
No one seems to be staring at you anymore. You go up to the register. You give the thumbs up to short sleeves.
"You like, yes?"
"Yes," you say. "It was good. Thank you."
"Next time I make you goat. You ask for kebab."
You nod.
"How much do I owe you?"
He punches keys on an imaginary calculator.
"Nine dollars plus one. Ten dollars."
You give him twelve.
"Thank you, sir."
You nod. You pull on your coat and collect your things. The men remain in the doorway. The one has his back to you. He doesn't see you. You clear your throat.
"Excuse me," you say.
"Oh, yes. Sorry." He moves aside.
You smile, nod as you slip past. Once outside you think to yourself,
I'll ask for the kebab next time.
