MONTHS after the last post, I realized that i once again have that special kind of time on my hands, where its enough to do something in my interest, yet too late at night to do anything fun (and too early in the week to drink- boo). So I decided rather than write completely new material, i would dig through the ol' documents folder, and edit up some of the pieces from my Wellington adventures that never made it up here. There aren't that many, but there are enough to make it look like im still active on this thing. Therefore, Enjoy the first of these little reflections
MIDDLE EAST IN THE SOUTH PACIFIC
Walking down a street running parallel to the drunkard highway of Wellington, I found myself still holding my gaze toward the skyline, reading every sign for every restaurant, shop, and stall that stood along the line. Eventually I read a single word that I immediately recognized as foreign to the English language, and yet familiar to me. ‘Habebie’ shone out in red lettering on a white background, and flanked by the signature green tree of Lebanon. With my vast knowledge of Arabic- an entire semester!- I felt it would be kind of me to venture into the quaint eatery, and at least deliver the casual, ‘marhaba’ to it’s kind owner.
Little did I know that this would be the first of my encounters involving insider deals based on foundational foreign language vocabulary. After my probably butchered Arabic greeting, the man behind the front desk began to entreat my friendly approach by responding in a slower-paced Arabic. Of course, I had no idea what he was saying and had to inform him that English- tragically- would be far more productive mode of communication.
Nassar, one of the co-owners of Habebie, began to inquire as to how I knew Arabic. A brief reply soon gave way to an incredible dialogue of exchanged histories. After I explained how I got to the lovely city of Wellington, I politely asked him of his journey to the remote island country.
With the glorious sounds of sizzling oil and heating consumables emanating from the kitchen, Nasser began to tell me how his brother had asked him to help him with his restaurant venture in New Zealand’s capital city. From Lebanon he moved to the other side of the world in search of a life away from the complexities and conflict in the Middle East. His epic of hard work and travel soon gave way to the terrible realization of immigration reality. New Zealand, Nasser admitted, was a beautiful place. But the country was small, ‘you begin to know everyone. It’s just like a really big village. Its too small.’
As if on queue with the smells wafting from the kitchen, Nasser slowly transitioned into a sentimental nostalgic monologue of how he truly missed his homeland- how he wished he could return to his beautiful home, but was unable to because he just couldn’t make enough money at this restaurant.
This speech was not just some little pleasantry I got to experience. This was a reality check for myself, and my current situation. I had been filing my head for years with ideas that New Zealand was the ultimate goal, the finish line, where I belonged. But would I also, in finally deciding to come here and start a life, be trapped within its sapphire borders, forever struggling to return to what I realized all to late was my home?
Before I could entertain the thoughts for any real amount of time, Nasser asked me, without any reserve, ‘So are you going to eat anything or what?’
Sadly, I had already indulged in a dinner at a semi-commercial Thai joint up the road on Cuba. I told him simply that I would come back the next day, roughly the same time, and he could cook anything for me- the most exotic, his favorite, something no one ever ordered, whatever he felt like making- and I would eat it gladly, and pay for it. He agreed to these terms, we made a brief farewell and I departed to the local ‘watering hole’ for the evening.
Skipping to the next day, I walked in, the place a bustling mess of restaurant chaos- a thing of beauty, something akin to the many moving parts of a machine; a storm of seemingly disorderly pieces that all collaborate toward a single goal. I stood a good twenty feet away form the front desk, beginning to believe that maybe tonight was not the best night to have Nasser prepare me a personal meal of a yet undetermined size. My doubts were cast like dust as soon as Nasser noticed me. His brow was damp, and he had the fatigued face of a chef that hasn’t quite yet hit the ‘runner’s high’ of a busy night. Despite this state, he turned to the head waiter, said a few inaudible words, and then pointed me to the small two-seater table by the window. It was reserved for me.
The waiter, also Lebanese, told me it would be a few minutes but the food would be out in good time. I exclaimed as best I could that he could take his time- the fact that he remembered and reserved a table for our deal was more than enough courtesy. In the meantime, I pulled out my notebook and began scrawling a few notes down (as you do) when one is overwhelmed.
Before I could retreat into my inner thoughts for too long, the food was placed before me. I must have said something right, for the service was at a level beyond what I thought I deserved. Within twenty minutes of my seating I had before me a feast of both the foreign and the familiar.
Upon the porcelain vessel rested a collage of meats= chicken, beef, and lamb. They were each spiced to perfection, varying only slightly between their respective flavors and all carrying their distinct flavors as well as a slight bit of spice that gave it a pleasurable heat, but didn’t interfere with the overall flavor of the meal.
Bordering the mound of protein was a mountain of rice, and a crater of hummus filled with a lake of olive oil. With a basket of flatbread all to myself I made quick work of the hummus, and left the rice to be a delicious partner for the meats. In the corner rested a festive looking green and red, ‘salad’ of perceivably tomato and parsley. Later I learned this was called Tabouleh, and to me, this was a culinary masterpiece.
It was parsley, and tomato, and some other seasonings and spices. One could pick out the distinct taste of parsley in the dish. Let’s be real on this; parsley is NOT that great to eat. The taste, when combined with other herbs/spices can be used for good. If it is left on its own, however, the best use of parsley is already filled by its (in my opinion highly likely) not-so-distant cousin, cyanide. Somehow, the inventor of this dish- as well as anyone who makes it- has found a way to use this bitter-ass herb to flaunt their skill. In making Tabouleh, the chef essentially says to their diner, ‘I’m going to serve you one of the most awful plants on the face of this earth, enable you to taste it and recognize the terrible herb, but will then make you enjoy it and possibly want more.
Needless to say, I was impressed- thoroughly.
As if it weren’t enough, I still had a meatball-esque sausage dish in the corner. Imagine meatloaf that had the same wonderful, exploding flavor of spicy Italian sausage, and rolled into meatballs. You now have a general idea of what I tasted. Add that to all of the above (and a glass of CabSauv), and you’re on your way to the essential Habebie experience.
My devastated plates were removed, the water refilled, and soon after the check was placed before me. I thought to myself, ‘don’t bother looking at the bill- its worth anything he might charge.’ But, of course, being raised by a once-financial consultant, my conscience couldn’t bare blindly signing a bill.
It was enough already. Meeting Nasser, and having him tell me his life story would have been enough to make this experience unforgettable. But then he remembered our deal, then he reserved a table for me, then he cooked the amazing meal despite the bustle of his restaurant obligations. Looking at the check, I knew I found someone I would remember forever. Forty percent of my final bill was removed. There are no words. There is just a lifted wine glass, mentally or physically, every time I see well-made tabouleh, taste homemade hummus, or encounter the Lebanese culture.
Strangely, I also think of Nasser and the Habebie restaurant anytime I think of New Zealand. In all of its beauty, through mountains, blue waters, clean air, amazing views, New Zealand can apparently still be an inescapable land where (just like in the US) grand dreams can fall to mediocre and disillusioned pieces. The way I found myself coping with this devil’s-advocate-illustration toward my own desires of immigrating was strangely defeatist. I still believe that nothing but good could come of my permanent stay, and if I felt some tinge of regret at the loss of mobility, at least I would be trapped- not in some undesirable, jaded land- but in a land of exquisite beauty.
Being trapped in paradise; shielded form the serious troubles of the world, left only to enjoy the best things in life, and yet in exchange doomed to sacrifice ties to the past and the old country- New Zealand is beginning to sound like an Asimov novel…
No comments:
Post a Comment