zaatar restaurant is named after god knows what and what the hell are names anyway? do we even care? i wait for my brother to get back from his smoke, and if you haven’t guessed, i’m hungry af, ‘ravenous’, as saththaaru might say. where is that guy? i mean ibrahimdi.

we ordered the chicken mandi and it’s already here. why must young people smoke so goddamn much?

‘like you didn’t quit just last year,’ says ibrahimdi when i complain.

‘that was THREE YEARS AGO,’ i say, shocked.

‘right,’ he says and begins to dig in to the mandi. i do too, going immediately for the chicken because there’s just two chunks of meat here. it is very good, a little charred, tender, moist.

‘moist?’ says ibrahimdi. ‘that’s such a gross word.’

‘YOU’RE gross,’ i mutter.

we eat in silence for a bit in our booth, bathed in the warm light of the restaurant. it is absolutely PACKED because it’s xmas, and middle eastern cuisine is big among the city’s muslim population – for they all seem to be muslim here with the beards and burugas. they don’t seem to mind celebrating an xtian holiday. i mean honestly, why?

‘what are you mumbling?’ asks ibrahimdi.

‘shut up and eat your mandi,’ i say.

‘all right, mr grinch,’ he says.

we sit without talking, eating nonchalantly. i look at my brother’s face to see if he’s smirking. he’s not, and to be fair, i don’t think i’ve ever seen him smirk. to be fair. a faathumaafulhu phrase.

‘did you turn out like this because i showed you pan’s labyrinth when you were little?’ i ask. ‘did i ruin you for the world then?’

‘more like you ruined the world for me,’ he says smiling.

‘funny.’

he tears a piece of flesh with his fingers and eats it, nodding.

‘you know what? this has made me realise thoum’s mandi is actually pretty decent,’ he says.

‘good.’

‘it’s really good,’ he replies. ‘don’t you like it, bruh?’

‘not half as much as i like you.’

‘weirdo,’ says ibrahimdi.