hasanfulhu calls me up on a wintry november morning.

‘sup,’ i say.

‘i saw a great crap place.’

‘what?’

‘i meant a great CREPE place,’ he corrects himself.

i am interested.

‘how do you know it’s great?’

‘i’ve seen their instagram. you should hit them up.’

as you may have guessed, i love being told what to do.

‘i really should huh?’

‘i gave them your number.’

‘WHAT?’

‘you’re getting a free crepe, thank me laterrrr.’ he hangs up.

when i hear from yalla crepe, yalla being arabic for ‘come on’, it is one mother of a rainy afternoon. they patiently explain where they are several times before a bulb flickers above my head. goddammit! i’ll have to call maintenance.

it’s almost right next to where athi’s cafe was, that venerable henveiru institution (that i thought was owned by the famous x-ray athif) with chess players fuming near the entrance.

no more.

my contact at yalla crepe is ibrahim. he’s a TALL, amiable man, presumably from morocco though i don’t ask, but i mean you’d have to be, right, to be an arab interested in crepes? right? given the geography? the proximity to europe?

i get on my avas with my massive green umbrella that stops most of the rain from getting on our person.

‘what is that?’ asks sampaafulhu when i enter our apartment. a very loving partner.

‘it’s called chocolate lovers,’ i tell her.

‘what is it? come on,’ sampaafulhu can smell something.

‘it’s a crap.’

‘WHAT?’

‘i meant crepe.’

‘put it on a plate.’

a most patient woman, she.

it looks really good on the plain white plate so we tear it apart and stuff it in our mouths.

‘ahhh, love the chocolate,’ i say.

‘and the bananas. there’s something underneath them though,’ says sampaafulhu. ‘cherry sauce?’

it’s true, there’s that distinct undertone – it’s not too pleasant but i think it might be for some. after all, it’s a matter of taste.

‘i think i’ve had enough,’ says sampaafulhu so i finish it up. my verdict: i could easily go for more but i’d tell them to hold whatever sauce that was.

‘how was it?’ messages hasanfulhu when the november deluge has turned to a trickle.

‘yalla habibi.’

‘what? don’t you have a gf?’

‘i meant it’s OK, weirdo.’