i climb up the foul smelling stairway of schwack cinema in male – it’s like passing by the toilets in majeediyya, getting smacked in the head with the stench of aged urine. dear god. i think faathumaafulhu is gagging behind me, remember her? my generous sister.

anyway, i won’t be here if not for sampaafulhu, who told me black pearl was worth checking out because the cool cliques were abuzz with word of the place.

faathumaafulhu runs into the restaurant ahead of me and then goes WOW…

it is a fairly fancy-seeming place: alternating white and brown leather booths, dark parquet floors, a white, geometric ceiling lit up with concealed LEDs, plastic ferns spilling over from the tops of the pillars. there’s only one other couple here (not that WE’RE a couple you pervs) so we decide to take a booth.

the menu of course arrives on a tablet – i think the first such menu i encountered was at the old newport. later, after iburey became president, newport was briefly functional in jazeera raajje as a dhivehi specialty restaurant, and by god i had not tasted dhivehi keun like that until the maldive kitchen opened for business years later. i still miss it. so, so good.

‘why are you crying?’ asks faathumaafulhu.

‘dry eyes,’ i snap, hoping to shut her up. ‘what are you having?’

‘i’ll get the caramel pudding,’ she says. i raise my eyebrow.

‘fine,’ she sighs. ‘i had dinner with a friend just then.’

‘great,’ i say.

‘please don’t pout,’ she says. i go through the menu again and settle on the black pearl grilled steak salad.

‘i really like it here,’ says faathumaafulhu. ‘where’s everyone though? why’s no one here?’

‘i dunno,’ i tell her. ‘but i got this message from dad today, it said the hospitals are full of the sick.’

‘well, you’re still here,’ says faathumaafulhu. i snort.

‘there’s some kinda bug going round,’ i say.

‘hmm,’ she nods, puts on her earphones and zones out. an excellent dinner companion.

the server brings our orders quickly. the salad is plated very well but i am still uneasy about the avocado and beef pairing. it doesn’t seem like it can work in my head, but i don’t let that get in the way. 

i skewer a piece of beef and a slice of avo, coat them in the vinaigrette and have a taste.

dear god.

‘why are you crying again? what’s wrong?’

‘nothing,’ i tell faathumaafulhu. ‘nothing’s wrong. everything’s GREAT. here, have a taste!’

she has a slice of meat and avo and some greens.

‘fuck me,’ she exclaims. ‘it’s fantastic!’

‘yes, and it’s MINE!’

the garlic bread accompanying the salad is flawless, crispy crust, soft insides, all wrapped in a delicious garlic butter taste.

the bill arrives and it’s under 300.

‘why are you dividing the GST by two?’ says faathumaafulhu. ‘it should be 8% of what i had.’

dear lord. this cheapass bitch of a sister wants to do the maths instead of putting down 10 bucks? the GST was 20!!!

‘don’t cry!’ she says, a little alarmed. ‘i was only joking.’

i wipe my face and she grins at me but there’s a sadness in her slanted eyes that belies the curl of her mouth.