London Brick Lane Restaurant
"She runs a Somali restaurant on Brick Lane—a thick ebony widow competing with curry houses. When he discovers her hidden gem, he becomes her champion. Some meals are served upstairs."
Brick Lane is curry territory.
Rows of Bengali restaurants fighting for tourists. But hidden among them is Ayaan's Kitchen—the only Somali restaurant on the street.
I find it by accident.
"Soo dhawow." She looks surprised. Fifty-three years old. Two hundred and forty-five pounds of culinary determination. Ebony skin, London cynicism, the exhaustion of swimming against the current. "You lost? The curry houses are next door."
"I'm looking for Somali food."
"Then you're in the right place." She almost smiles. "First customer today."
The food is extraordinary.
Hilib ari, bariis, canjeero—flavors that make the curry next door seem bland.
"Why is this place empty?" I ask.
"Because no one knows Somali food." She sits across from me. "They know curry. They know kebabs. African food? They walk past."
"That's criminal."
"That's London." She shrugs. "Eight years fighting this battle. My husband started it. I continue it."
"Where is he?"
"Dead. 2016." She doesn't flinch. "Left me the restaurant and the dream."
I become her advocate.
Reviews, social media, telling everyone I know. Slowly, customers trickle in.
"You're doing this," she says one evening.
"You're doing this. I'm just telling people about it."
"Why?"
"Because this food deserves to be eaten. And you deserve to be successful."
"Wallahi?"
"Wallahi."
"Come upstairs."
The restaurant has a flat above it. Her home.
"I've never invited anyone up here," she says. "Not since he died."
"Why me?"
"Because you're the first person in eight years who's cared about my dream. Not my cooking—my dream."
"They're connected."
"Haa." She opens the door. "But you saw the difference."
Her flat is small but warm.
Somali textiles, London rain outside, the smell of spices drifting up from below.
"Eight years," she whispers. "Eight years of cooking for no one. Fighting a battle no one cares about."
"I care."
"I know." She turns to me. "And I don't know what to do with that."
"Let me show you."
I worship the restaurateur.
In her flat above the empty restaurant. Her body is East London resilience—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly.
"Eight years—" She gasps as I undress her. "Alone with the stoves—"
"Tonight I cook for you."
I lay her on her bed.
While Brick Lane buzzes below. Her body is the feast.
I spread her thick thighs.
Taste her special menu.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—eight years of struggle releasing. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I serve her until she's satisfied. Three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—fill me—"
I strip. She watches with those warrior eyes.
"Subhanallah—"
"Main course."
I push inside the restaurateur.
She screams.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I give her the full tasting menu.
Her massive body shakes. London rumbles outside. She comes twice more.
"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Finish inside me—"
I release inside her.
We lie in her Brick Lane flat.
"The restaurant opens at noon," she murmurs.
"I'll be the first customer."
"You always are."
One Year Later
Ayaan's Kitchen has a waiting list.
The dream is alive. And so is she.
"Macaan," she moans in the flat above. "My best review."
The restaurateur who never gave up.
The woman I'll never give up on.
Five stars.