Oriental Delicacies

Time elapsed quickly, some twenty minutes passed when Samir left at last the Rits-Carlton's lobby, through its main entrance. On the pavement beside that huge edifice, he stood for a long moment undecided, at a loss almost. The free hand for a fortnight Karim has given him was in a way a setback! He didn't know where to start, what exactly to do. He wished he could have an escort, a guide in that bustling crowded giant metropolis. If only Karim wouldn't have mentioned the fact he was to be on his own, that fortnight - he might have felt much better now. But these thoughts are nothing but indulgence in self-pity! He scolded himself harshly, and raising his arm hailed a passing cab. He was terribly hungry, as he had in fact nothing to eat this morning. There were some urgent matters he had yet to deal with - such as adding some warm garments to his wardrobe, and a pair of boots. He needed a good map of that city and its huge suburbs, and a map of the underground of course. But first of all, he must have something to eat, to revive his dwindling energy.
'Where can one find an oriental restaurant?' He asked the driver. 'Try the Soho, tell you what, I'll drop you near Piccadilly - what do you say?' 'Would I find there what I'm looking for?'
'That's what I believe, there're plenty of restaurants down there, Pakistani, Indian whatever you want, just you name it; plenty of Italian restaurants too. Aren't you an Italian, or rather a Sicilian by any chance?' Added the cab driver bursting into a gay laugh. 'One of them good old boys?'
'No I'm not, I'm a Spaniard and I did some time in Morocco, Spanish Morocco.' Samir answered him.
'Oh I see,' muttered the driver. 'I know the right place for you, and I'll drop you right in front of it - don't you worry.'
It took no more than fifteen minutes to get there, despite London's heavy traffic at that hour of day. There he was on the narrow pavement in some ally, in front of the restaurant located for him by that cab driver. A small modest joint it was, with no more than a dozen tables; the windows were veiled with transparent white curtains, and there was hardly any movement inside. On the door to that humble and quiet haven, beneath its poster, which he didn't bother to pay it more attention than a quick glance; appeared an inscription in bright red letters: 'Oriental food, seasoned and tasty'.
He pushed open the door and walked inside. The place was empty he was its only guest. Picking himself a table in a remote corner, he sat next to it waiting patiently, looking the place over. It didn't take too long for someone to appear. A waiter with an open collar white shirt, the man's features were somewhat familiar as he walked towards Samir. He was carrying a menu under his arm.
'Shalom! He greeted Samir in Hebrew with a warm smile.
'What...?' He wondered aloud utterly surprised. I'll be doomed for eternity, if that dog of a driver hasn't led me to a Jewish joint! 'Don't you speak...' opened up the waiter in Hebrew.
'May I've a look at the menu please!' Interrupted him rudely Samir in English. 'I'm not deaf and mute, if that's what bothers you, I'm simply very hungry - and I hope I didn't disappoint you in some way or another. By the way what were you saying just now?'
'I was greeting you in Hebrew, that's my mother's tongue - and I was quite sure it's yours too.'
'I must have been mistaken then.' Remarked Samir feigning surprise. 'I thought it's a North-African restaurant.'
'Oh it is indeed,' hastened the Jewish waiter to assure him. 'I'm a native of Morocco myself and we serve an assortment of special Magreb delicacies, here have a look at it.' He pointed with his finger, the right column, in the open menu Samir was holding before him.
To get up and leave right now would be a mistake, negative episodes leave usually a harder mark - but anyway that's the first and last meal I'm having in here! Just to think of it... me spending money in a Jewish joint! Samir scolded himself inwardly.
Another Jew appeared and taking off his apron, nodded to Samir with a tight-lips smile - in a mute welcome.
One more Jew dog who might remember my face... Who might give an accurate description of my features to my pursuers! For if these two aren't on the Shabac's or Mosad's pay roll, they'll render them their services voluntarily; precious information on fools like me, who cross their threshold from time to time - and venture to stay and eat there!
The Jew next to his table mumbled something in his colleague's direction, some hint, which Samir couldn't grasp. It made the other one vanish right away, as fast as he had popped up.
'Yes, what will you have?' Asked him the Jew, who remained next to his table.
'I would appreciate very much if you would give up that personal approach!'
'I'm sorry sir, may I have your order sir?'
That's much better! Samir thought and almost said it aloud. I wish I could humiliate that Jew dog, trample him... But I'd better eat and leave - as soon as I can.
He ordered a plate of 'Houmous', 'Kebbab' and French fried with a pint of beer - and waited for his order rather impatiently, afraid he'll have to meet some more Jews.
But they did surprise him, his food was ready in quite a short while - and above all it was delicious.
Neither in Cairo nor back home, had he enjoyed a meal so much. But I must have been terribly hungry, and I didn't expect to find such excellent food in that restaurant; these must be the real reasons that had influenced my sense of taste, yes no doubt. He thought reassuring himself, again and again.
'No customers?' He asked the Jew waiter, as he brought him his coffee.
'You're rather early, it's just twelve fifteen, though we haven't got many for lunchtime, they arrive usually at about one thirty. But if you would like to dine with us sir, you'll have to make a reservation.
He didn't mean to, of course, but he took their card, paid and left a moderate tip. Standing a moment at the opposite side of the pavement, he watched the restaurant's sign up above its entrance - "oriental delicacies" it read in English and Hebrew.
To lose one's temper in such a place, or to challenge or try to make a laughing stock out of those Jews, would surely be a fatal mistake. But on the other hand, because of my particular appearance, I could always use that place as an emergency refuge! For who would ever think of looking for me there, neither my own colleagues nor the Israelis...Yes, it might be the right spot to shake off any pursuers, and then change direction abruptly! A secret I mustn't share with anyone!