The Hilib Spot
"Hilib is Somali for meat. He becomes a regular at a Somali restaurant run by a thick widow. When the dinner rush clears, she offers him a taste of something not on the menu. Her kitchen has a back room, and her meat is always fresh."
The best hilib in Minneapolis is at a place called Iftin.
Small restaurant on Lake Street. Family owned. The kind of spot where the menu doesn't matter because the owner decides what you're eating.
That owner is Idil.
Fifty-three years old. A widow—her husband died seven years ago, leaving her the restaurant they'd built together. She runs it alone now, cooking and serving and counting the till, sixteen hours a day.
She's thick.
Wallahi, she's thick.
Two hundred and sixty pounds of Somali woman, always dressed in stained kitchen clothes, always moving, always commanding. Her arms are strong from lifting pots. Her hips are wide from years of tasting her own cooking. Her face is round and pretty, even lined with exhaustion.
I've been eating here every night for three months.
She's started to notice.
"Warya, you again?"
She sets down a plate without asking. Hilib ari—goat meat—with rice and vegetables. The same thing she's served me for ninety-two consecutive nights.
"Best food in the city."
"You say that every night."
"It's true every night."
She studies me. "You live alone?"
"Yes."
"You don't cook?"
"Not like you."
Something flickers in her eyes. Pride. Loneliness. Something else.
"The dinner rush is over," she says. "I close in an hour. Stay. I'll make you something special."
"More special than this?"
"Warya." She leans close. "You have no idea what I can make."
The restaurant empties.
She locks the front door. Flips the sign to CLOSED. Turns off the fluorescent lights, leaving just the kitchen glow.
"Come," she says. "Back here."
I follow her past the counter, through the swinging door, into a kitchen that smells like heaven.
"Sit." She gestures to a stool. "I'll cook for you. Just you."
I watch her work.
The efficiency of thirty years. The precision of someone who's fed thousands. She moves through the kitchen like a dancer, and despite the heat and steam, she never seems to sweat.
"Why do you come here every night?" she asks without turning.
"I told you. The food."
"Wallahi, don't lie to me." She sets down her knife. Faces me. "Why do you really come?"
I look at her.
Really look.
"You know why."
She crosses to me.
Stands close. Close enough that I can smell the spices on her skin.
"I'm fifty-three years old," she says. "I'm fat. I work sixteen hours a day. I have nothing to offer a young man like you."
"You have everything."
"Macaan—"
"Seven years," I say. "You've been alone seven years. Working yourself to death. For what? Who takes care of you?"
"I don't need—"
"Everyone needs." I reach out. Touch her face. "Let me take care of you."
She closes her eyes.
"The back room," she whispers. "I have a cot. For nights when I can't go home."
"Show me."
The back room is tiny.
Just a cot, a sink, a single light. But she doesn't need space. She needs touch.
I give it to her.
I kiss her in the back room of her restaurant.
She melts against me—seven years of loneliness collapsing. Her hands grip my shirt. Her mouth opens to mine.
"Xaaraan," she whispers.
"Everything good is."
I reach for her clothes.
She's wearing kitchen wear—pants and a stained shirt. I pull them off piece by piece, revealing the body beneath.
Her breasts are massive—heavy, sagging, brown flesh spilling from a plain bra. Her belly is soft and round, marked with stretch marks. Her thighs are thick enough to feed an army.
"Wallahi, I'm disgusting—"
"You're perfect."
I drop to my knees.
She screams when my tongue finds her.
"ILAAHAY—" Her hands grab my hair. "No one has—my husband never—"
I lick her against the back room wall. Her thick thighs bracket my head. Her whole body shakes.
"Haa—haa—seven years—ALLA—"
She comes.
Screams loud enough to be heard on Lake Street. Her juices flood my face.
I don't stop.
"Inside me—" She's barely standing. "Ku soo gal—please—"
I guide her to the cot.
It's narrow—barely wide enough for one. But we make it work.
I strip.
Her eyes widen.
"Subhanallah." She wraps her hand around me. "My husband was—nothing—"
"Forget your husband."
I push her onto the cot.
I spread her thick thighs.
Position myself.
"Ready?"
"I've been ready for seven years."
I thrust inside.
She screams.
The cot groans beneath us. Her walls grip me—tight, hot, wet—seven years of nothing making her impossibly snug.
"Alla—so big—you're filling me—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck her in the back room of her restaurant.
The smell of spices mixing with the smell of sex. Her massive body bounces beneath me, the cot threatening to collapse.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She claws at my back. "Give me everything—"
I pound her.
The cot slams against the wall. She screams and screams, seven years of frustration pouring out.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—fill me—"
I let go.
I flood the restaurant owner.
Pump her full while she shakes and moans. When I'm empty, I collapse beside her on the narrow cot.
"Macaan," she breathes. "Better than any dish I've ever made."
"I disagree."
"Warya—"
"Your food is still the best."
She laughs. Pulls me close.
"Come back tomorrow night," she murmurs. "Stay after closing. I'll feed you. And then..."
"And then?"
"I'll let you taste the special menu." She kisses me. "Only for my favorite customer."
One Year Later
I'm still eating at Iftin every night.
The regulars know me now. The guy who stays after closing. The young man who "helps" the owner clean up.
They don't know what kind of cleaning I do.
"Macaan," she moans every night, as I take her in the back room. "My favorite dish."
The hilib is still the best in Minneapolis.
But she's even better.