Simply Falafel
Edmond, OK | July, 2020
I’m ordering chicken shawarma from Simply Falafel and end up with a large scoop of drama.
The teenaged cashier, Abby, tells me that her truck exploded last night. The other high schooler waitress chimes in, “I had to pick her up! It was a mess.” Apparently the tow truck Abby originally called got stuck in the mud on the way. The mechanic had to then call a smaller, more agile tow truck to get his truck free to then tow her truck. All the while, a torrential June storm raged on. I am shown a full Snapchat story of the debacle as I pay. I leave her a hearty tip because she is looking for a new truck. “My poor lil truck. She was so young.”
The other waitress, Mikayla, as it turns out, is not working today. She’s just here to hang out with Abby. She has a southern drawl that exaggerates her vowels into multiple syllables. “That’s usually how it goes. When one of us is working, the other comes up.” It is a busy afternoon; a handful of customers, frequent phone calls, chimes from the kitchen staff. “The phone’s ringing,” the off duty waitress says to Abby from her cushy booth seat, “You better answer it.”
As Abby rushes to the phone, jotting down an order, Mikayla tells me about her love life. She and her boyfriend have been together for over a year now, but his mom just found out about her three months ago. “She really don’t approve of me,” Mikayla explained. “My boyfriend likes to bowl, but I can’t bowl without the bumpers and his mom don’t like that way of bowling. So when we go bowling we gotta keep it secret from her.” Abby returns with my chicken shwarma, which I consider a bonus in light of the conversation they gifted me.
A few days later, I return for another order of chicken shwarma. Abby and Mikayla have the day off, so I am greeted by the owner himself. He is no taller than 5 feet, with deep blue eyes shrouded in wrinkles, buried underneath silver caterpillar eyebrows. “Welcome, welcome, I am so happy you are here!” he says while showing me to the counter. His Greek accent is thick like molasses. “This is my son, my pride and joy. He will take your order. I am so happy to have you in our restaurant!” I tell him how happy I am to be here and how much I appreciate his service. He returns to his post at the front of the restaurant. He watches a game show on the dining room TV and stands ready to greet patrons. It is a slow afternoon and I am the only one in line. Without Abby and Makayla’s stories of love and loss, I am able to take in the nuances of the restaurant.
The owner’s son, Andrew, stands proudly behind the counter, wearing an ironed polo and an apron with his name embroidered over his heart. His acne, braces and cracking voice place him somewhere in early high school. Behind him are family photos in Greek flag frames. The wall is decorated with community involvement certificates, thank you notes from the hospital across the street, and a string of rosary beads. Unlike the upperclassmen waitresses I’d met previously, Andrew was all business. “Chicken shwarma? Great choice. It’s a staff favorite.” he says.
I notice dolma listed on the chalk menu and my heart leaps! Dolma, stuffed grape leaves, is also a Romanian dish. It reminds me of my mother, who grew up eating fresh dolma made by her grandma, Dabbie.
Dabbie immigrated to Chicago from Romania, fleeing religious persecution. She faced rampant discrimination in Chicago and clung to her culture with great pride, raising a family of strong women like her. She spoke Romanian to her daughters, then to my mother and her siblings, which trickled down to my sister and I. Dabbie’s love language was food. She taught recipes and rituals from her home country and imparted a joy in being Romanian that has lasted generations.
While his dad stands watch for potential customers at the front door, Andrew and I bond over our shared love of dolma and our mutual pride in the courage of our predecessors. Andrew is first generation Greek-American and works at his family’s restaurant on the weekends and during the summer. His parents immigrated to the States with the hope of raising a family and sharing their love of Greek cuisine with their new neighbors, like Abby and Makayla.
What does dolma mean to Abby or Makayla? Someday when they see it listed on a menu, maybe it will remind them of each other and their summer spent keeping each other company at work. For them, dolma might taste like the Oklahoma summer Abby’s truck died, or the secretive bowling Makayla and her boyfriend did.
For Andrew and I, “Dolma tastes like home.”