On the Noodle Road: From Beijing to Rome, With Love and Pasta by Jen Lin-Liu

Author:Jen Lin-Liu [Lin-Liu, Jen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Travel, Cooking, General, Essays & Narratives, Culinary, Biography & Autobiography
ISBN: 9781594632723
Google: JgI27iEenm4C
Amazon: 159448726X
Barnesnoble: 159448726X
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 2013-07-25T04:00:00+00:00

8.

After Yazd, Mr. Sanjar resumed his job as translator during cooking classes, lazy as he was. In Shiraz, I persevered and learned how to make several tasty pilafs that redeemed the bad name miserable Central Asian plov had given the dish. In Esfahan, I tolerated Mr. Sanjar at my side and shaped ground lamb and beef into kebabs. But when I got to Tehran, he had worn me down entirely. His constant mantra was a disingenuous “I’m at your disposal,” and after several weeks, I truly wished I could dispose of him.

One afternoon not long after we arrived in the capital, I reluctantly climbed into his car for the umpteenth lesson and, after battling horrendous traffic, we eventually arrived in a nice residential neighborhood. I was intrigued when Mr. Sanjar pulled up at a gated residence and told me to get out and ring the bell.

A middle-aged woman poked her head out the gate, exposing her floppy mop of reddish-brown hair while her black head scarf dangled around her neck. She and Mr. Sanjar exchanged a few words in Farsi, then he called to me from the idling car. “Jennifer, since the school is for ladies only, I won’t be able to go in with you.” I tried to look disappointed as I waved good-bye, and he happily sped away, relieved of his duties.

Come, come, the woman gestured, leading me into a compound that had a familiar suburban American feel. A shiny hatchback sat in the driveway, and fancy patio furniture and a barbecue decorated a pretty garden. She pointed me up a set of stairs and through an entrance to the house on the second floor. In the foyer, I removed my shoes and hung my head scarf on a coatrack. In the kitchen, the woman resumed making pots de crème and assembling a trifle, sans wine or spirits. A half-dozen women sitting at a long table paused in their note-taking to greet me warmly. Some of them wore chadors or dark head scarves while one had gone to the opposite extreme—my eyes settled on the women’s outfit: a blue-and-white polka-dotted tank top that revealed a black bra. A pointy green feather decorated her dyed blond hair. When she stood up, I couldn’t help noticing the black thong sticking out of her jeans.

With the help of her daughter, Yasmin, the woman who’d greeted me at the gate introduced herself as Mrs. Soltani, the head of the cooking school. A short woman with a beak-like nose, Mrs. Soltani had started this home business more than twenty years before, after quitting her job as a schoolteacher. She’d begun with Persian baking lessons, added khoreshts and polows (rice dishes), and later threw in some international dishes. By the time I visited, she’d taught thousands of women, and some had gone on to successful cooking careers.

Yasmin, the office manager, translated for me during class. In the confines of her home, she looked like she belonged on the streets of Manhattan. She wore tight jeans, heels, and a stylish top.

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