The Musakhan Maker
"When Dina's restaurant struggles, a mysterious investor named Ibrahim offers help—but his terms extend far beyond business."
The Musakhan Maker
The restaurant was Dina's life—two years of savings, her grandmother's recipes, her soul pressed into every plate of musakhan and stuffed vine leaves. But rent had tripled, customers had dwindled, and now she sat alone in the empty dining room, adding columns that refused to balance.
"You're closed?" A voice at the door.
Dina looked up to find a man in an expensive suit, silver at his temples, authority in his bearing. He looked out of place against her humble décor—handwoven tablecloths, faded photographs of Palestine, strings of garlic hanging from the ceiling.
"We're closed."
"I know. I came to see you." He stepped inside, closing the door. "I'm Ibrahim Nasser. I own the building across the street."
"The new development?" Dina's jaw tightened. "You're the one pushing out all the small businesses."
"I'm the one who might save yours." He sat without invitation. "I've been watching you. The way you cook. The passion. It reminds me of my mother."
"I'm not interested in selling."
"I'm not asking you to sell." His smile was patient, knowing. "I'm asking you to let me invest. Silently. Whatever you need to survive."
"And what do you want in return?"
Ibrahim's eyes held hers. "Dinner. Once a week. Just you and me."
She should have said no. The offer was absurd, almost certainly predatory. But the bank had denied her loan, her landlord was circling, and something in Ibrahim's gaze promised more than money.
"Just dinner?" she asked.
"Whatever you're willing to give." He leaned forward. "I'm a lonely man, Dina. My wife died five years ago. I've built an empire and found it empty. What I want is... company. Conversation. Food that tastes like home."
"That's all?"
"That's all I'll ask for." His hand covered hers. "But I won't pretend I don't hope for more."
The honesty disarmed her. She'd expected games, manipulation. Not this raw confession.
"Maashi," she heard herself say. "But the musakhan comes with conditions. You eat what I serve. You don't critique. And you tell me about your mother."
Ibrahim's smile transformed his face from intimidating to handsome. "Ahlan wa sahlan."
The dinners became the highlight of her week. Ibrahim arrived every Tuesday at eight, dressed down from his usual suits, bringing flowers or fruit or once, an ancient olive oil press he'd had restored.
"For your grandmother's recipes," he explained. "They deserve oil made the old way."
He listened as Dina cooked, asked questions about her family, shared stories of his childhood in Jenin. The formality between them dissolved slowly, like sumac melting into bread.
"You're different," Dina said one night, watching him lick tahini from his fingers. "From what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"A shark. A predator. Rich men usually are."
"I've been both." His eyes were sad. "My wife taught me to be something else. When she died, I forgot. You remind me."
"Of her?"
"Of what matters." He rose, coming around the table to stand before her. "May I kiss you, Dina? I know I said I wouldn't ask for more, but—"
She answered by pulling him down.
They made love in the kitchen, surrounded by the scents of sumac and caramelized onions. Ibrahim lifted her onto the prep counter—the same one where she rolled taboon bread every morning—and worshipped her with hands that shook slightly.
"Ya Allah," he breathed against her breast. "Been astanna hada el youm." I've been waiting for this day.
"Then stop talking." She unbuttoned his shirt. "And show me."
For a man of fifty-five, Ibrahim had stamina that surprised her. He took her slowly, building her pleasure with careful attention, murmuring Arabic endearments into her skin.
"Inti nouri," he groaned as she clenched around him. You're my light. "Inti hayati." My life.
"Aktar—Ibrahim—please—"
He gave her more. Harder, deeper, until the restaurant echoed with her cries and the prep counter groaned protest. When she finally fell, he caught her, followed her, held her as they trembled together.
"Move in with me," Ibrahim said afterward, feeding her bites of musakhan from the plate they'd abandoned. "Not as... whatever you're thinking. As my partner. In this and everything."
"I barely know you."
"You know how I eat." His smile was tender. "My mother used to say that's how you know a man's soul."
"And what does my cooking tell you about mine?"
"That you're generous. Stubborn. Full of love you don't know how to spend." He kissed her palm. "Let me give you somewhere to put it."
Dina looked around her struggling restaurant—her dream, her burden. Then at Ibrahim—complicated, wounded, offering everything.
"The restaurant stays open," she said. "That's non-negotiable."
"I wouldn't have it any other way."
"And I want to meet your mother's grave. Bring her flowers."
Ibrahim's eyes glistened. "Ya rouhi. She would have loved you."
They finished the musakhan together, feeding each other with oil-stained fingers, the boundary between business and love dissolved like sumac in bread.
Some deals, Dina realized, were worth more than money.