I had walked right past that dingy little restaurant many times as I made my way into the 7-11 store to pay for my gasoline. Somehow, it never seemed to beckon me inside. “A Taste of Pakistan,” is what the place was called, and a glance through the smeared windows told me that it was a foreign world, indeed. Little did I know that this “lump of coal” held a gem inside.

There was absolutely no ambiance about the place. It was just a group of several clunky tables with mismatched chairs around them. There were some posters on the wall (I assume of places in Pakistan), but not much other decoration. Obviously none of the people inside were Native Born Texans. Usually it was only a bunch of men chattering in language I didn’t understand and shoveling food into their mouths with their hands! Now, here in Texas we may not be the most genteel folks you will ever meet, but our Mommas teach us table manners!

I had no desire to enter this restaurant. Obviously it had nothing in it to interest me. Then, one day I had missed out on lunch. When I passed the open door, an aroma greeted me that made my stomach growl. Plastered in the window was a new sign, with a copy of a review of the restaurant by the Fort Worth Star Telegram.

Now, I don’t believe everything that The “Startlegram” tells me, but this was written by someone I knew and trusted. He had wild praise for the chef, a “Mr. Azzizz,” so I thought, “Oh heck, why not. You only live once, after all. Of course, eating this may kill me.” But, I walked inside.

I came smack dab face-to-face with a rather stern looking man. Actually, he looked a little bit frightening. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest and his feet planted wide in an almost threatening stance. This man stared at me, with absolutely no warm welcoming smile! He reminded me of a bear. Seriously! His shoulders looked as broad as he was tall. While he was actually shorter than I am, he seemed massive. His neck was as big around as a tree trunk. I swan, I thought that man had a wild animal tucked in the top of his white shirt! He didn’t have a “hairy chest,” he had a pelt! As is often the case with men who are very hairy elsewhere, he didn’t have much hair on top of his head, and that was covered with a skullcap.

Well, I think I’ve told you that I’m not shy. I smiled and asked, “Are you Mister Azzizz?”

He stared at me for a minute, and then barked, “I am AzZIZZ!”

I began to chatter, the way I always do, “Well, Mister Azzizz, I read the review that the newspaper wrote about you and this place sounds like it has some good food. I’ve never had any food from Pakistan, and I don’t have a clue what to order. Let me look at that menu there and see if there is anything I recognize. Or, maybe you can help me decide what I want to have, because that all looks Greek to me.”

“Is Pakistani,” he said.

“Well, I knew that,” I said. “But, I’m not sure what to order and I think I’m going to need some help figuring it out. You just have the numbers and the name written on the board, do you have a menu that explains it for people who speak English? I want to try whatever is the best that you cook….”

I kept talking, and finally I looked at the man and saw the puzzlement in his face.

He was shaking his head, and he said, “I sorry. My English no is too good.”

I giggled and said, “Well, Mister Azzizz, your English is much better than my Urdu.”

I could see by his eyes that he was trying to wrap his mind around my words. Then, realization dawned on him of what I had said. He broke into a gap-toothed grin, threw back his head and roared with laughter.

“You make joke!” he said. “I like.”

With relief that we had established a connection, I pointed to an item on the menu and said, “Would I like that?” Mister Azzizz shook his head. He said, “Is has brains. Americans no have brains.”

I cocked my head and looked at him for a minute, and said, “Mister Azzizz, do you know what you just said?” When I explained it, he once again roared with laughter.

“I make joke!” he said. “I like. Now, I fix somezing special for ZHHHOU!”

With that, he went to work in the kitchen and soon presented me with a marvelous looking dish of food. I said, “Could I please have a fork?” He looked at me as if he didn’t understand, and I thought it was because I pronounce “fork” as “fo-wark.” I made a motion as if shoveling food to my face.

“No,” he said. “Eat with Nan.”

Well, I looked around to see who “Nan” was, but realized he meant the bread! It just didn’t feel right, but no one else was there, and my Momma wasn’t looking. I started eating with the bread as a utensil, while Mister Azzizz stood smiling down on me. Oh my! It was heaven.

After that, I visited Mister Azzizz two and three times a week. I was newly single, and a plate of food from his restaurant was huge, so I could make two meals out of it. Every time I walked in the door, he stopped whatever he was doing, came and hugged me and said, “I fix somezing special for ZHHHOU!” I’m certain that some of his other customers got angry, because my meal always got cooked first. I wasn’t complaining. It was nice to be special.

Mister Azzizz and I developed a friendship of a sort. If no one else was in the restaurant, he talked to me. I found out the reason he had looked at me so sternly when I moseyed in his front door that first day. He told me that he had never met an American who didn’t treat him with prejudice, especially not an American woman. I thought that was a rather sad commentary on our society, and resolved to do everything I could to redeem Americans in his eyes.

On Sundays, Mister Azzizz made a traditional breakfast that would be served in Pakistan, and the first time I had it I fell in love with a dish called “halwah.” It was orange, the texture of cream of wheat, and sweet. I could eat my weight in it!

The next day, a friend took me to an Indian restaurant, and I saw halwah on the menu. I ordered it, but it was nasty! I told the waiter they needed to hire Mister Azzizz!

By Thursday, I wanted some more halwah, and I wanted it cooked correctly this time. I went down to A Taste of Pakistan, and asked Mister Azzizz to make some for me. He got a sad look on his face and said, “Sorry, I only sell halwah on Sunday.”

He went on to make another dish, something special for me, while I whined about wanting halwah. I told him about the experience at the Indian restaurant as he puttered around in the kitchen. When he came out to ring up my food at the cash register, he had a devilish grin on his face. I paid for my meal, and then he produced a small package and set it on the counter.

“What’s this?” I asked.

He whispered, “It’s halwah.”

“But, you said that you only have it on Sunday!” I said.

He laughed and said, “I only sell halwah on Sunday! Is special for ZHHHOU!”

Not very long after that, I moved to another part of town. Occasionally I still stopped in to see Mister Azzizz, and he always told me, “I miss ZHHHOU!” I missed him, too. Then, I moved to Denton and it was just too far away to go back.

A few months ago, I was in the area, and thought I would stop in to see Mister Azzizz. Unfortunately, the restaurant was boarded up. I sat in my car and, y’all, I cried. Not just because I wouldn’t get his delicious food. I wept because I had lost touch with a man who was a gem.

These days, when I see a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, I usually am adventurous enough to give them a try. There might be another man like Mister Azzizz out there. But, I won’t know unless I walk through the door.

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