Joseph Wambaugh - The Blue Knight

It was about that time that Yasser and his clan had moved here from New York where they had a small restaurant. They had pooled every cent they could lay hands on to buy the joint in Hollywood, liquor license and all, and had it remodeled and ready to open. We sat in Yasser’s kitchen that night, all of us, drinking arak and wine, and then beer, and we all got pretty zonked except Abd who was sick, and I picked out the name for the new restaurant.

It’s a corny name, I know, but I was drunk when I picked it and I could’ve done better. But by then I was such a hero to them they wouldn’t have changed it for anything. They insisted on me being a kind of permanent guest of Abd’s Harem. I couldn’t pay for a thing in there and that’s why I didn’t come as often as I wanted to.

I drove in the parking lot in back of Abd’s Harem instead of having the parking lot attendant handle the Ford, and I came in through the kitchen.

“Al-salām ’alaykum, Baba,” I said to Yasser Hafiz Hammad, a squat, completely bald old man with a heavy gray moustache, who had his back to me as he mixed up a huge metal bowlful of kibbi with clean powerful hands which he dipped often in ice water so the kibbi wouldn’t stick to them.

“Bumper! Wa-’alaykum al-salām ,” he grinned through the great moustache. He hugged me with his arms, keeping his hands free, and kissed me on the mouth. That was something I couldn’t get over about Arabs. They didn’t usually kiss women in greeting, only men.

“Where the hell you keep yourself, Bumper?” he said, dipping a spoon in the raw kibbi for me to sample it. “We don’t see you much no more.”

“Delicious, Baba ,” I said.

“Yes, but is it ber-fect?”

“It’s ber-fect, Bubba .”

“You hungry, eh, Bumper?” he said, returning to the kibbi and making me some little round balls which he knew I’d eat raw. I liked raw kibbi every bit as good as baked, and kibbi with yogurt even better.

“You making labaneeyee tonight, Baba? ”

“Sure, Bumper. Damn right. What else you want? Sfeeha? Bamee? Anything you want. We got lots of dish tonight. Bunch of Lebanese and Syrian guys in the banquet room. Ten entrées they order special. Son of a bitch, I cook all goddamn day. When I get rest, I coming out and have a goddamn glass of arak with you, okay?”

“Okay, Baba ,” I said, finishing the kibbi and watching Yasser work. He kneaded the ground lamb and cracked wheat and the onion and cinnamon and spices, after dipping his hands in the ice water to keep the mixture pliable. This kibbi was well stuffed with pine nuts and the meat was cooked in butter and braised. When Yasser got it all ready he spread the kibbi over the bottom of a metal pan and the kibbi stuffing over the top of that, and another layer of kibbi on top of that. He cut the whole pan into little diamond shapes and then baked it. Now I couldn’t decide whether to have the kibbi with yogurt or the baked kibbi . What the hell, I’ll have them both, I thought. I was pretty hungry now.

“Look, Bumper,” said Yasser Hafiz, pointing to the little footballs of kibbi he’d been working on all day. He’d pressed hollows into the center and stuffed them with lamb stuffing and was cooking them in a yogurt sauce.

Yeah, I’ll have both, I thought. I decided to go in and start on some appetizers. I was more than hungry all of a sudden and not quite so tired, and all I could think of was the wonderful food of Abd’s Harem.

Inside, I spotted Ahmed right away, and he grinned and waved me to a table near the small dance area where one of his dancers could shove her belly in my face. Ahmed was tall for an Arab, about thirty years old, the youngest of Yasser’s sons, and had lived in the States since he was a kid. He’d lost a lot of the Arab ways and didn’t kiss me like his father and his uncles did, when the uncles were here helping wait tables or cooking on a busy weekend night.

“Glad you could come tonight, Bumper,” said Ahmed with a hint of a New York accent, since his family had lived there several years before coming to Los Angeles. When he talked to the regular customers though, he put on a Middle East accent for show.

“Think I’ll have some appetizers, Ahmed. I’m hungry tonight.”

“Good, Bumper, good,” said Ahmed, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners when he grinned. “We like to see you eat.” He clapped his hands for a good-looking, red-haired waitress in a harem girl’s outfit, and she came over to the table.

Abd’s Harem was like all Middle East restaurants, but bigger than most. There were Saracen shields on the wall, and scimitars, and imitation Persian tapestries, and the booths and tables were dark and heavy, leather-padded, and studded with hammered bronzework. Soothing Arab music drifted through the place from several hidden speakers.

“Bring Bumper some lamb tongue, Barbara. What else would you like, Bumper?”

“A little humos tahini, Ahmed.”

“Right. Humos too, Barbara.”

Barbara smiled at me and said, “A drink, Bumper?”

“All right, I’ll have arak .”

“If you’ll excuse me, Bumper,” said Ahmed, “I’ve got to take care of the banquet room for the next hour. Then I’ll join you and we’ll have a drink together.”

“Go head on, kid,” I nodded. “Looks like you’re gonna have a nice crowd.”

“Business is great, Bumper. Wait’ll you see our new belly dancer.”

I nodded and winked as Ahmed hurried toward the banquet room to take care of the roomful of Arabs. I could hear them from where I sat, proposing toasts and laughing. They seemed pretty well lubricated for so early in the evening.

The appetizers were already prepared and the waitress was back to my table in a few minutes with the little slices of lamb’s tongue, boiled and peeled and seasoned with garlic and salt, and a good-sized dish of humos , which makes the greatest dip in the world. She gave me more humos than any of the paying customers get, and a large heap of the round flat pieces of warm Syrian bread covered with a napkin. I dipped into the humos right away with a large chunk of the Syrian bread and almost moaned out loud it was so delicious. I could taste the sesame seeds even though they were ground into the creamy blend of garbanzo beans, and I poured olive oil all over it, and dipped lots of oil up in my bread. I could also taste the clove and crushed garlic and almost forgot the lamb tongue I was enjoying the humos so much.

“Here’s your arak , Bumper,” said Barbara, bringing me the drink and another dish of humos a little smaller than the first. “Yasser says not to let you ruin your dinner with the tongue and humos .”

“No chance, kid,” I said, after swallowing a huge mouthful of tongue and bread. I gulped some arak so I could talk. “Tell Baba I’m as hungry as a tribe of Bedouins and I’ll eat out his whole kitchen if he’s not careful.”

“And as horny as a herd of goats?”

“Yeah, tell him that too,” I chuckled. That was a standing joke between Yasser and Ahmed and me that all the girls had heard.

Now that the starvation phase was over I started to feel pain in my leg and shoulder. I poured some water into the clear arak , turning it milky. I glanced around to make sure no one could see and I loosened up my belt and smiled to myself as I smelled the food all through the place. I nibbled now, and tried not to be such a crude bastard, and I sipped my arak , getting three refills from Barbara who was a fast and good waitress. Then the pain started to go away.