I haven’t eaten alone in a restaurant since I was 12 and my parents left me at the table while they attended a party in the banquet room next door.
That was when I knew I was a grown-up.
Also, it was some scary shit.
So if I have to eat alone, I generally get food to-go and bring it home to my Internet, where at least I know I’m not completely alone *flips on fetish webcam*.
Today was different.
I was hungry. No…I was starving.
Mental faculties were starting to slip. Protein bars would not suffice.
I was 30 minutes from home.
I needed food. NOW.
I stopped off at a little Armenian restaurant in Encino off Ventura. I could tell it was Armenian, of course, by the red, blue, and orange lettering above the door.
And the curtains in the window. Legit.
I walked in to see the waiter chatting with an elderly couple in Armenian. The place was otherwise empty. I picked up on the language though. Another sign this place was legit.
All three looked at me as if I was lost. I sat down with a menu, and the waiter mustered his best broken English to ask this little ginger kid what he wanted to order.
It’s a Saturday. It’s Armenian tradition to eat Kheyma, a dish consisting of raw beef with cracked wheat, parsley, onions, and cayenne pepper.
I know that freaks most people out. Raw meat?! It should. It’s the Armenian version of spicy tuna.
And it’s also amazing. The luxurious texture, the fresh and spicy flavor, the way it makes you feel perfectly full without being too full…it’s what I would probably choose as a Death Row last meal. As a kid, I never understood why the old folks ate it. Now, I get it anywhere I can find it, because it’s delicious and reminds me of home and family.
So I’m pleased to discover they have Kibbeh Nayeh on the menu here, which is Kheyma, just the Lebanese term. I order that, with a chicken kebab sandwich (if you’re an Armenian restaurant who can’t cook amazing chicken, you shouldn’t be in business) and a glass of tahn (Armenian yogurt drink).
The waiter paused in shock. The old couple stopped talking and looked over.
“Do you know vhat zat is? Are you SURE you want to order zat?” the waiter offered, finally mustering up a few words.
Before he could explain further, I calmly raised my hand and explained I’m Armenian, and that it’s one of my favorite foods. The look on his face went pale, then returned with a confused but ebullient smile. “Oh, just vanted to make sure because…” before he could finish I offered, “I know, I don’t look all that Armenian, it’s cool.” He excitedly worked his way back to the kitchen to start cooking the meal.
The couple started talking to each other in hushed Armenian as I played with my phone, waiting for my food.
The kebbeh came out and I felt like a kid at Christmas, pausing to take a quick picture of it before I literally tore through it like a deranged wolf. At a pause to drink in my meal, I looked up and the older gentleman began to speak in a heavy accent: “ve don’t know you Armenian but veen you order zat ve vere sooprized!” I reassured them like I did the waiter that I was indeed Armenian and began chatting them up on where I was from, where they were from (Paris), and had a beautiful conversation with them. The gentleman explained that most Fresno Armenians were from Eastern Turkey, near Erzurum, and that my family name (Torosian) likely came from the “Toros/Taurus Mountains” in Southern Turkey. I remember hearing from my grandfather before he passed that we were indeed mountain people, from a village high up in the mountains, so it really struck me to hear that.
In a five minute conversation with strangers, I learned more about myself than I ever thought possible.
The wife mentioned how impressed she was that I ordered a food that the young people either don’t know about or don’t appreciate, and we delved into a discussion about life and the importance of staying active even in older years. The couple were world travellers, and said the same thing all the older people in my family have said, “I look old but I feel young. My mind is young.”
It made me pause and realize how we seek to make our bodies young and neglect our minds, letting them age and deteriorate with the trials and tribulations of life and letting the little things bother and age us.
“So never stop learning?” I said.
“Of course!” she replied, as her face lit up like a child’s at a candy store.
I noticed my chicken pita was getting cold, so I scarfed down each half. Moist. Tender. Perfectly roasted. I’ve only had chicken this good once, at one little restaurant back home, where a little old man and his wife cook, almost like this setup. Like eating in someone’s kitchen.
The waiter sensed that after engulfing my food I was looking for a typical LA-style eat-pay-n-go meal but he advised me to sit and take my time. I did, and continued to enjoy conversing with the older people.
He proceeded to bring out three perfect little slices of watermelon for dessert. It was the ideal digestif to the wonderful meal I had just consumed.
Had I not stopped to eat alone and overcome a fear, and instead gone to Jamba Juice on the way home, I never would’ve had such an eye-opening yet grounding experience. I never would’ve met these inspiring people. I never would’ve widened my horizons. I would have stopped learning, cemented my closed-mindedness, gone with the safe route, and ultimately had a ho-hum afternoon.
Instead I had an incredible day, all because I chose to overcome that fear.