my life in print

almafia alarabi…? mish. quais. | October 17, 2009

I’m sitting in this really sketchy cafe/restaurant that’s relatively close to where I live. I ventured out of the house, looking for food and internet (what else is new?), and possibly a place to study. Study. Right. How can I study when I am convinced this place is Amman’s own ‘Louis’ Italian-American Restaurant’?*

I walked into a cafe that I’ve never seen anyone eat in (usually that’s code here for drink the cocktails, smoke the arghilah, but dooooon’t order the burger), and am greeted by a server in a really fancy outfit. The chairs are plush, and the tables look like they’re meant for conference rooms, not a cafe. I try to order, and the waiter nervously asks me to wait; he gestures to the Boss, a man sitting at the only other occupied table in the place, who raises one finger. My waiter cowers back, begging off and scurrying away. Wha…?

It’s okay though, because momentarily the Boss finishes with the man he’s speaking rapid-fire Arabic to–with a dismissive wave, the poor guy (he doesn’t know yet he’s gonna give the name of the Dead Sea a whole new meaning) beats a quick retreat.

The Boss approaches me, asking how he can help me. I tell him I just want to order. I hope he understands when I say “just” that I wasn’t sent by the Gainesvegas family for a deal or something. I order in Arabic, and he asks me– do I know Arabic?

Um, no. I hate when people ask that. I say something in the language, and they ask me if I know the language. Well, if I’m not very good at it I’m obviously trying to be, right?! Right. But I’m not going to give the Boss a hard time about it. I order the first thing I see that looks appropriately inexpensive enough, and he says he’ll take good care of me.

Uh-oh.

At least I have a comfy chair to read in until….[insert finger swipe across throat here].

* The name of the eatery that the Corleone gang reportedly made most deals in, Bronx-side. I researched for ten minutes to give you that fantastic frame of reference.