Bloody Steak by Mehdi M. Kashani
In the job interview, when asked why waitressing, I’d responded with what Melissa had advised me to say: I like working with a variety of people. Clichéd as it was—and putting aside the fact I needed the money—it was indeed a truthful answer.
Granted, Bellingham Airport, built for its namesake city of about eighty thousand, is no Heathrow. You won’t find as many interesting people. Actually far from it. But in the past month or so, since I started working at Scotty Brown the only decent restaurant after the security checkpoint, days rarely slipped into nights without meeting a couple of remarkable customers. If you approach everything with open eyes and a curious mind keen for surprises, you’d be surprised what you find.
Such was my attitude when I walked that lone man to a corner table. He had brown skin with raven black hair, though some parts of his carefully trimmed beard had turned white. Navigating through the tables was usually when I asked where my customers were travelling.
“Back home. LA!” he said while removing his laptop bag from around his neck and placing it on the seat next to him.
“Oh! I got my bachelor’s from USC,” I said, well aware of how common experiences can ignite conversations.
“Then you know how we spoiled Californians are allergic to rain.”
I apologized for the weather outside, as if I had caused it.
“After checking my luggage at the counter and the security search, how pleasant it is to sit in a cozy restaurant, chatting with such a lovely lady!”
I couldn’t place his accent but he appeared to be Arab. There was a strange cadence in his tone, an exaggerated emphasis on his t’s.
I smiled, gazing down. Many people had flattered me about my appearance, yet there was a sort of modesty hidden in the man’s words that distinguished them from the admiration of young men I would meet at bars and clubs.
I put the menu on the table. The man took a precursory glance at the list and, as if he had already made up his mind, put his finger on the words Top Sirloin.
“This morning I managed to close an important deal in Vancouver. What do you say if I treat myself to a steak?”
“Excellent choice! How do you like it cooked?”
He wanted it medium rare, next to a glass of Pinot Noir. On my way to the kitchen, I noticed a family of four being seated at a table nearby. In the kitchen, the cooks were idle. I passed them the man’s order, poured the wine and was about to find a steak knife when I was interrupted.
“Seattle, New York, London, Barcelona, Cairo back to Seattle! Sixteen hundred ninety nine before tax. How can you beat that?”
It was Melissa, enunciating cities and numbers like a travel agent.
“I probably can’t.” I placed the wine glass on a tray. “I can’t afford the trip. Yet.”
“But it’s for three months from now. You have time to save your tips. We really should buy the tickets though. What a price!”
Melissa always insisted on buying tickets as soon as possible. Every other day, she would come to me with a new route and a tantalizing deal. Her recent breakup with her boyfriend from our USC days had only heightened her penchant for travel, but changing its goal from discovery to recovery. This time the price was as alluring as the itinerary was tempting.
“Let me think about it.”
“Think faster!” she yelled as I left the kitchen with the tray and four menus for the family.
Up until that point, I had only travelled along the West Coast, always staying in the same time zone. New York! London! Barcelona! Cairo! These names had always been no more than abstract concepts and now they were gaining new significance. An old dream was about to be realized.
I delivered the menus and arranged the man’s cutlery and napkin before him. Then I served him his drink.
“The name of my eldest daughter is Emily too.” The man’s eyes sparkled at my nametag.
I smiled, struggling to find something nice to say. “How old is she?”
“She’s in her rebellious teenage years, you know, can’t hold a meaningful conversation with her parents to save her life.”
“We’ve all been through that phase, haven’t we?”
“Except that I was punished with a belt when I was her age.” He chuckled. “You live in this town, Emily?”
“Yes! Bellingham is my hometown. Where are you from?”
“Originally from Iran, but it’s been eighteen years since I have been living in the States, close to where you studied.”
“You speak Arabic then.”
The man frowned.
“The language of Iran is Persian. Has always been,” he paused, calming down, “Not that I have a problem with Arabs, it’s that it is not our language. We have such a rich Persian heritage, you know, that it hurts our pride when someone ignores it.”
He started talking about Persian culture and mentioned poets I’d never ever heard of. I’d always spent so much time learning about different cultures that not knowing that Iran’s language was Persian embarrassed me. The man wrapped up his soliloquy, stressing that I should take a trip to Iran.
“I’d really like to. As a matter of fact my friend and I are saving to visit Europe and North Africa.”
“You should do it. And you should extend it to more places. You’ll learn by traveling, not only by a university degree.”
“I wish I didn’t have to pay back my loans…”
“There’s a Persian proverb that literally goes, money is the pus coming off the hand, which roughly means,” he paused, narrowing his eyes.
“Money comes and goes,” I suggested.
“Cheers to that!” he lifted his wine glass.
There was a certain kind of mannerism in his behavior. He seemed to be as proud of his nationality as of his assimilation to this country.
The man in the next table, the family of four, waved at me, probably ready to order. My conversation time was almost up.
“How I wish Emily, my Emily, had your passion,” the Persian man said wistfully. “I keep telling her, she should taste the world before attending college. She isn’t even curious about Iran, where her roots are.”
“I wasn’t curious at her age either. I’m sure she’ll be in due time, having such an encouraging father.” Presuming I was compassionate enough, I continued, “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
He didn’t seem to hear me though. He started talking about traveling; how it opens up new horizons; how it breaks stereotypes; how it stirs dialogues and dispels misunderstandings; and other words of wisdom that I’d heard many times before. Yet, I listened out of courtesy—and also to make up for my ignorance.
As soon as he took a deep breath, I excused myself. I found the neighboring table were on the same plane as the Persian man. They had two young daughters, both hungry and throwing tantrums.
In the kitchen, the steak was ready. The cook placed it in the middle of a plate, garnished with mashed potatoes and chopped carrots. In the dining room, the man’s ravenous eyes followed the plate as I gently placed it in front of him. He thrust his fork into the meat.
“Perfecto!”
“Bon appétit! Anything else you might need?”
“A sharp knife and I promise I won’t bother you again.”
I looked down at the table. I thought that I’d already brought him his knife. The cardinal rule of airport restaurant service was to keep track of the knives. Within the transit area, it was forbidden to provide knives for most meals. Steak was the exception. All knives were numbered to ensure easier tracking. I returned to the kitchen to find another steak knife, scanning the floor, hoping to spot the first one. But I found nothing.
To comply with the rules, I had to immediately advise Melissa, who in turn had to inform airport security. We’d been told to take no chances. After my report, the man would probably be searched again. This time, it would be more aggressive. There was a good chance that he would miss his flight.
The man was carefully chopping steak into square portions, unmindful of his being watched. What were the odds this serene man would conceal a knife in his pocket and then use it to threaten the lives of his fellow travelers in less than an hour? Had his chatter been designed to deceive me? To gain my trust? Did he really have a daughter named Emily, if any?
I supposed it was all possible and yet, I couldn’t believe he was an assassin. If that friendly conversation hadn’t been sparked between us, would I be in this situation? Had I paid closer attention to my job, I’d have known for certain whether I’d given the man a knife. My mistake could easily jeopardize my career and my trip—not only mine, Melissa’s too.
At last the family’s order was ready. I balanced their plates on my inner arms and walked carefully towards them. The girls were impatiently waiting for their food. They were a beautiful family, like the ones hired for TV commercials. And they were his fellow passengers. I placed the steaming food before them. When I passed the man’s table, he asked for his bill. His steak was gone, only stains of red blood remained.
I ran to the kitchen, and examined the cutlery drawer. Out of fifteen steak knives, eleven were in place. I examined the other restaurant patrons. Other than the Persian man and the family I was serving, two old women sat at the bar drinking wine. I opened the dishwasher and bent over the silverware bin to hunt for knives. My coworkers stared at me. In the pile of cutlery, I found two more knives. Still one knife was missing.
I left the kitchen. The mother of the two girls was stirring her younger daughter’s food. Meanwhile, her husband was teasing the older one as she was tying her long blond hair in a ponytail. The Persian man was talking on his cell. I felt Melissa’s eyes on me as I wondered who the man was talking to.
“He wants his bill,” I said.
“And?”
“One of the steak knives is missing.”
Melissa’s eyes grew wide. She was more experienced. She knew what a disaster this could lead to.
“Why didn’t you mention it earlier? Prepare his bill while I call security. But make sure he doesn’t get suspicious. Don’t forget to smile.”
She didn’t wait for me to respond.
“What if I was wrong?” I yelled as she went to her office.
She dragged me to a corner, where no one could see us but yet we could still watch the man.
“I don’t want to sound racist or xenophobic or anything. But look, he’s obviously an Arab,” she pointed at him. “Doesn’t it all fit too conveniently?”
“He’s Persian, not Arab.”
“Even worse!” she said indignantly and then continued after a pause. “If you are wrong, you’d owe a few people an apology for taking their time. And if you are not wrong, you’d save the lives of hundreds.”
“Maybe someone in the kitchen needed a knife…”
Melissa turned to me. She looked resolute.
“Try to understand Emily! There’s not much time. The airline is already boarding his flight.”
I inhaled deeply and brought the man his cheque and a small candy in a tiny wooden tray. Feigning a smile, I claimed his dirty knife.
The man thanked me. “You look hurried.”
“Sorry!” I mumbled, afraid the tremble in my voice would betray me.
“I wanted to tell you that Emily in Persian means intelligent. It was very tough for us to find a name that resonates so well in both our cultures.”
“Oh! Interesting!”
I had to leave before the police arrived.
Four men from Homeland Security entered the restaurant. It seemed the one in the lead held the highest rank. Since I didn’t have the guts to stare at the spectacle, I leaned against the kitchen wall and listened to the exchange. One of the cops asked the man to go with them to be searched.
“I just came from there,” he replied.
I figured he’d be worked up but his tone was calm, though a bit surprised.
“I understand! There are some complications that require you to go through the process again.”
“Where in the world are passengers taken from a restaurant to be searched again?”
“I am sorry, sir! We have reports that you might be carrying a knife.”
My blood ran cold. I felt betrayed by the cops. I’d been hoping that with some absurd miracle the topic of the knife would never be brought up and the man would cooperate without asking questions. What was he thinking now? What was he thinking about me? It was as if I’d broken the rules of friendship. I sat down hugging my knees.
“Gentlemen, I am a citizen of this country. I work for an American company. The Constitution has given me the right to defend myself. What you are doing is insulted… I mean insulting… and absolutely unjustifiable. If the restaurant has made a mistake and a knife is missing why should I be held responsible?”
“According to the amendments of the same Constitution, I am entitled to use my own discretion to save the lives of passengers travelling through American air space. Please cooperate or I’ll have to use force.”
“Your discretion comes about because I have a Middle Eastern look to me, doesn’t it?”
For a few seconds there was silence. He was too proud to voluntarily cooperate. I knew him enough to vouch for that.
“For the last time I am asking you to come with us.”
I stuck my head out of the kitchen to witness the man’s reaction. The man was seated, motionless, observing the cops. To my surprise, the family of four was still there too. Each parent had one girl on their lap. With the first cop’s signal, two others grabbed the man’s arms and lifted him up. The fourth cop had bared his taser and was monitoring the proceedings. The man didn’t resist. Instead, he reluctantly followed the cops. The one in charge claimed the man’s belongings—cautiously.
I didn’t budge from where I was hiding until Melissa asked me to clean off the man’s table. I obeyed. The mother still had her youngest in her arms. Her husband smiled at me.
“You did the right thing,” he said, sipping from his beer.
I could no longer draw the line between right and wrong and I certainly didn’t want to discuss it.
I went directly to the man’s table. The plate was quite clean except for the bloody red stains. The prongs of the fork also had the red marks. The man had paid in cash: a fifty-dollar bill was in the tray. I wondered if he would have asked for change or had he intended to leave such a generous tip. With what had happened, it would have been only fair if he hadn’t left me a penny. Under a deluge of conflicted feelings, I picked up the wooden tray. Under the tray I found a hundred-dollar bill, so new that I had to use my thumb and index fingers to pick it up. Next to Benjamin Franklin’s headshot, in handwriting that demonstrated he was not a native English speaker, the man had written, “For Emily, bon voyage” in blue ink.
Mehdi M. Kashani lives and writes in Toronto, Canada. His work is published in Passages North, The Malahat Review, Portland Review, carte blanche, Hobart and Litro.
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