The man in the raincoat ordered a Mixed Grill. Mona wrote it on a torn paper slip, pinned it to the spinning wheel above the fryers, and said, "Twelve minutes. Don't stand in front of the window. You'll fog it up."

"What'll it be?"

A man in a soaked raincoat—the first customer of the evening—squinted at the card.

He stepped aside. Through the fogged glass, he could just make out the old man—Al-Basha himself—turning skewers over charcoal. No words. No smile. Just the hiss of fat dripping into fire, the thud of a cleaver, the shake of spices from a tin labeled only in Arabic.

"Forks are for people who don't know how to use pita. You'll figure it out."

He took the bag, the heat bleeding through the paper. Behind him, two more customers had lined up, already studying the card like it was scripture.