Last night, went out with F for my favourite dinner-in-London experience - Lebanese at the bottom of the Edgware Road. My birthday seems to be going on forever, which is cool, and we went to the Maroush on Seymour Street.
My optimal meal always includes humous, and ocassionally includes felafel, and we had a veritable feast of middle-eastern dippy things; baba ganoush, fouls medames, tabbouleh. Fabulous. And of course, mint tea and sticky cakey things.
I used to have a job round there, in a truly English place where they thought I was ethnic because of my curly hair. Which I guess I was. And also because of my pushy personality. I mean friendly. So because Lebanese restaurants are full of the kind of people you see in Israel: overweight men and shouty people, I always feel very at home, and the menu is food I understand. When I used to take my work colleagues there, they were terribly impressed that (a) I knew enough arabic to order (and that's only because it's pretty much like Ivrit), (b) I wasn't fazed by the shoutiness, and (c) the bottom of the Edgware Road is a parallel universe where women like me - zaftig, buxom, womanly - are looked upon adoringly. So I always get fabulous service, baklawa on the house, and lots of admiring looks.
Was weird being back there: the whole area has a feel of being on holiday somewhere Mediterraneanish. And also reminded me never to talk myself into a job that requires me to straighten my hair. Which I did, but that's another story.
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