The Halal Caterer | متعهدة الطعام الحلال
"She caters every Muslim event in Toronto. He's the widower who hires her for his daughter's wedding—and keeps finding reasons to meet again."
The Halal Caterer
متعهدة الطعام الحلال
Every Pakistani wedding in Toronto, I've catered.
Every graduation, every aqiqah, every gathering where food matters. Fatima's Kitchen is institution.
Then Imran calls for his daughter's wedding.
I'm Fatima.
Forty-seven, divorced, three staff, and a reputation for biryani that makes people cry.
Imran is a grieving widower with a daughter getting married.
"My wife always handled the food planning."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"It's been three years. I should be better at this by now." He pauses. "I'm not."
"Tell me about your daughter."
"She's marrying a good man. She's happy. My wife would have loved the planning."
"Then let's plan it the way your wife would have wanted."
I shouldn't get attached.
He's a client. Professional boundaries exist for reasons.
But the way he lights up talking about his daughter...
"Why did you start catering?"
We're at his house, doing a tasting. His daughter is at work.
"Because feeding people is love I can give without risk."
"Without risk?"
"Food doesn't leave. Doesn't disappoint. Doesn't break your heart."
"That sounds lonely."
"It sounds safe."
"Safe isn't the same as living."
"You've lost a wife. You understand safe."
"I do." He's quiet. "I've been safe for three years. Waiting for Aisha's wedding. Now it's here, and I don't know what comes next."
"What do you want to come next?"
"I don't know. But talking to you... it's the first time I've wanted to find out."
The wedding is perfect.
Food everyone praises. Bride glowing. Father crying.
After, he finds me in the kitchen.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"No. Thank you. For making this what my wife would have wanted."
"Can I take you to dinner? As thanks?"
"Caterers don't eat out."
"Make an exception."
"Imran—"
"I know it's inappropriate. I know I was your client. But the wedding is over, and I don't want this to be over."
The first kiss is in my industrial kitchen.
Between the tandoor and the prep stations. He tastes like the mithai from the wedding.
"This is unexpected," I say.
"The best things are."
We take it slow.
Both of us cautious. Both of us burned.
But over months, something builds. Something real.
"I love you," he says one night.
"You barely know me."
"I know your food. That's knowing your soul."
He undresses me in my apartment.
The same apartment where I'd resigned myself to cooking for others' celebrations.
"Beautiful."
"I'm not thin—"
"You're substantial. In the best way."
He worships me like good food.
Savoring, appreciating. When I come, he looks satisfied.
"Ya Rabb—Imran—"
"Like that?"
"Exactly like that—"
Two years later
We're married now.
His daughter was our biggest supporter. "Baba deserves happiness," she said.
"Happy?" he asks.
"Happier than I ever expected."
"Best recipe?"
"This." I kiss him. "Definitely this."
Alhamdulillah.
For weddings that bring connections.
For widowers who try again.
For caterers who finally get fed.
The End.