Just so you know; this place is real. I've eaten there, it tastes like... well, my mother's cooking. — The sign was a cheerful yellow color and the words Garlic and Lemons is printed in slightly curling letters across it. Harvard Ave is busy, full of college students (but what street in Boston isn't during the lunch hours?) and business men and women. Altair tugs him inside and the first thing Malik recognizes is the smell. It smells like his mother's kitchen. There are four large slabs of meat on carousels, slowly turning in front of a low burning gas heater. It smells like garlic, lemons, more spices than Malik can name and meat. The walls are the same almost obtrusive yellow color as the sign. It wasn't particularly busy though Malik wondered how long that would last.
"How the hell did you know this was here?" Malik asked as Altair dragged him over to where you ordered, almost cafeteria style.
"I have my ways," and Altair winked at him. There was a cute girl behind the glass separator. Altair spoke to her in a tongue Malik didn't know. Apparently the girl did though for she nodded and went back into the open kitchen. A man who had a great appreciation for food appeared in a chef's apron, a bit of a grease stain on the front. Altair threw up his arms and said something in an enthused voice. The chef apparently recognized him and replied in the same tone. Malik just watched with mild confusion as they talked, both grinning. Malik knew English, enough Arabic to hold a slow conversation and barely enough Spanish to know how to roll his Rs. What these two were going on in though wasn't any language Malik knew.
After sharing a bit more pleasantry the man pulled out two plates and began piling food onto then. Malik watched as meat, vegetables, falafel, rice and pita bread was stacked onto the various plates which multiplied before his eyes. Altair took half the plates, still chatting to the man in whatever language they were going on in, and motioned for Malik to take the others. He did so and Altair sat them down at one of the small tables.
"What the hell was that?" Malik hissed once Altair sat down after grabbing them both silverware and a Coke.
"What?"
"You know that guy?"
Altair smiled, "We're friends you could say, yes," Altair said his smile telling Malik he hadn't told the entire thing.
Malik opened his mouth to ask before he shut it. Malik really did /not/ want to know actually. Altair wasn't just a guy after all. He was an assassin with a very powerful uncle on top of that. Who knew who Altair knew or why. He went for a more appropriate question as Altair dug into one of the kebabs which dripped all sorts of delicious and bad for you fat, "What language was that?"
"Armenian," Altair said after swallowing.
"You speak Armenian?"
"I speak languages I need to know," Altair shrugged.
"But this is Lebanese food," Malik said looking down at his plate. Well really it could have come from anywhere in the Middle East but it said Lebanese on the sign.
"Remember my hint? Who makes the best Lebanese food? Answer; the Armenians," and he smirked. "That and its free. Don't look it in the mouth," and Altair pointer his fork at Malik's still untouched plate. Altair had a point. He mint not be a college kid but even he appreciated free food. Malik decided he might as well eat before it got cold. He sighed when he finally took a bite. It reminded him of his mother's cooking. Comfort food if there ever was any. Some people liked meatloaf and mashed potatoes for comfort food. Malik preferred falafel and pilaf. It reminded him of his mother and a time before he'd gone off to the Marines.
He felt Altair watching him though he never actually caught the other man looking even though Altair's cutlery never stopped moving, clacking against the porcelain. Malik did his best to ignore him though if he was trying to be sly about it.
As they were finishing their lunch though he grew a bit antsy. "What is it?" he asked his fork poised with a quarter of falafel on it, the green disc slathered on a white sauce.
Re: Altered Flight Pattern (76?)
—
The sign was a cheerful yellow color and the words Garlic and Lemons is printed in slightly curling letters across it. Harvard Ave is busy, full of college students (but what street in Boston isn't during the lunch hours?) and business men and women. Altair tugs him inside and the first thing Malik recognizes is the smell. It smells like his mother's kitchen. There are four large slabs of meat on carousels, slowly turning in front of a low burning gas heater. It smells like garlic, lemons, more spices than Malik can name and meat. The walls are the same almost obtrusive yellow color as the sign. It wasn't particularly busy though Malik wondered how long that would last.
"How the hell did you know this was here?" Malik asked as Altair dragged him over to where you ordered, almost cafeteria style.
"I have my ways," and Altair winked at him. There was a cute girl behind the glass separator. Altair spoke to her in a tongue Malik didn't know. Apparently the girl did though for she nodded and went back into the open kitchen. A man who had a great appreciation for food appeared in a chef's apron, a bit of a grease stain on the front. Altair threw up his arms and said something in an enthused voice. The chef apparently recognized him and replied in the same tone. Malik just watched with mild confusion as they talked, both grinning. Malik knew English, enough Arabic to hold a slow conversation and barely enough Spanish to know how to roll his Rs. What these two were going on in though wasn't any language Malik knew.
After sharing a bit more pleasantry the man pulled out two plates and began piling food onto then. Malik watched as meat, vegetables, falafel, rice and pita bread was stacked onto the various plates which multiplied before his eyes. Altair took half the plates, still chatting to the man in whatever language they were going on in, and motioned for Malik to take the others. He did so and Altair sat them down at one of the small tables.
"What the hell was that?" Malik hissed once Altair sat down after grabbing them both silverware and a Coke.
"What?"
"You know that guy?"
Altair smiled, "We're friends you could say, yes," Altair said his smile telling Malik he hadn't told the entire thing.
Malik opened his mouth to ask before he shut it. Malik really did /not/ want to know actually. Altair wasn't just a guy after all. He was an assassin with a very powerful uncle on top of that. Who knew who Altair knew or why. He went for a more appropriate question as Altair dug into one of the kebabs which dripped all sorts of delicious and bad for you fat, "What language was that?"
"Armenian," Altair said after swallowing.
"You speak Armenian?"
"I speak languages I need to know," Altair shrugged.
"But this is Lebanese food," Malik said looking down at his plate. Well really it could have come from anywhere in the Middle East but it said Lebanese on the sign.
"Remember my hint? Who makes the best Lebanese food? Answer; the Armenians," and he smirked. "That and its free. Don't look it in the mouth," and Altair pointer his fork at Malik's still untouched plate. Altair had a point. He mint not be a college kid but even he appreciated free food. Malik decided he might as well eat before it got cold. He sighed when he finally took a bite. It reminded him of his mother's cooking. Comfort food if there ever was any. Some people liked meatloaf and mashed potatoes for comfort food. Malik preferred falafel and pilaf. It reminded him of his mother and a time before he'd gone off to the Marines.
He felt Altair watching him though he never actually caught the other man looking even though Altair's cutlery never stopped moving, clacking against the porcelain. Malik did his best to ignore him though if he was trying to be sly about it.
As they were finishing their lunch though he grew a bit antsy. "What is it?" he asked his fork poised with a quarter of falafel on it, the green disc slathered on a white sauce.