The first is to my BFF, housemate and illustrative assistant who did a beautiful job of welcoming some new neighbours this week when she fell into a spontaneous embrace with a naked mannequin she was carrying out to the backyard. I'd just like to mention here that both she and myself are single. Ideally we are looking for boyfriends with yachts but we will also consider Tommy Hilfiger boating loafers or just really excellent backpack decals.
Anyway, the way we work is that when I write the blog, I give three keywords to her and she scurries off to her imagine space and comes up with a picture. That's how we work this thing.
Now that business is seen to, here's my second shout out. This nod goes to a friend I made on my recent sojourn in Turkey. Much like English tradition calls for a person who makes anvils to be called Smith, a person who makes bread to be called Baker and so on, I like to think of my restaurateur friend as Baklava. We met Baklava one night on a search for somewhere cheap to eat. In Istanbul, many restaurant owners stand outside their establishments complimenting people in order to strike up a chat and eventually invite them in for a meal. It's important for them to have an interesting opening line, so we heard ice-breakers like 'hey, beautiful', 'come in, I just want to talk' and 'are you Swedish?' as we passed.
It got me wondering: what happens after the introductions? Imagine you stop for a while to discuss how you are in fact Swedish, and how could he tell? What does he 'just want to talk' about? I was thinking about this when we approached Baklava's place and I was in a mood to draw out a conversation as long as possible. When we met him, he was radiating with serene hostfulness and trying to guess our nationalities. When we could draw that game out no longer, he showed us a few of his tables. They all looked fine, to be honest, but I pointed to a table where an adult couple were awkwardly forking around in their shish kebabs under the hawk-eyes of a pair of prospective in-laws. 'I want to sit there,' I said. 'We can wait'.
Baklava looked into my eyes and recognised his challenge. He swished us off the street and there was a brief silence as he racked his brain for interesting topics on which he could schmooze us. This weak start almost gave us permission to wander off in boredom like cows that had forgotten they already had their mouths full of grass, but suddenly Baklava was in gear. 'You see, I thought you were Swedish at first...'
I had picked my competitor badly--he was pretty much the Fred Astaire of sparking pre-dinner conversation. He was so good he had us flirting with him without even realising it. I can't clearly remember what he said due to my Freudian survival strategy of forgetting the details of my failures, but I remember being flattered into sharing secrets that I probably wouldn't have even given my own mother. "I ate sixteen pieces of Turkish delight today," was something that I would have been ashamed to say aloud to anyone but the charming Baklava. "I was convinced all ancient Romans were midgets so I asked my tour guide why the buildings were so big". As the awkward family started feebly poking the skin of their rice pudding, I noticed an unmistakable shine on Baklava's brow. It was the shine awarded by the agony of a battle hard won.
I stepped out of the ring when an elderly English woman sauntered up to greet us. Baklava seemed to know her well and they shared an in-joke about tea that made me feel weird and uncomfortable. A pass or fail grade had been given at the pudding table and we were shown to our new places, where we spent the night ham-acting the dinner banter whenever our so-called friend was within earshot.
Parts of this story are somewhat true. Which brings me to the subject of today's post. Baklava. Glorious, delicious baklava. Thanks for reading; hope y'all can find something to do with the rest of your day at work.
