The Shawarma Stand | محل الشاورما
"Late night in London. A drunk woman stumbles into his shawarma stand. He feeds her, walks her home, and starts a love story that tastes like garlic sauce."
The Shawarma Stand
محل الشاورما
2 AM in Brick Lane.
The clubs are closing, spilling drunk Londoners onto the street. Most stumble past my stand without stopping.
She stumbles into it.
"Hellooo," she slurs. "Are you the shawarma man?"
"I am the shawarma man."
"I need shawarma. Desperately. Like, life or death shawarma."
"Then you've come to the right place."
Her name is Poppy.
White, thirty-ish, thick in a way that suggests she doesn't care about fashion magazines. Her mascara is smeared from crying, but she's trying to pretend she's fine.
"Bad night?" I ask, wrapping her lamb shawarma.
"The worst night. I caught my boyfriend with another woman."
"Astaghfirullah. I'm sorry."
"Are you? That's nice. You're nice." She takes the shawarma. "This is nice."
I'm Hassan.
Palestinian, forty, running this stand for ten years. I've seen every kind of drunk—angry, happy, sad. Poppy is sad.
"Extra garlic sauce," I say. "For the broken heart."
She laughs. It sounds like sunshine through rain.
"How much?"
"On the house."
"I can't let you—"
"My stand, my rules. Eat."
She eats. Messily, enthusiastically. Garlic sauce on her chin.
"This is the best thing that's happened to me all week," she declares.
"Can I walk you home?"
It's late. She's drunk. The streets aren't safe.
"That's very chivalrous."
"It's just sensible."
"My mum always said Muslim men were gentlemen. I didn't believe her."
"Believe her."
We walk.
Her flat is fifteen minutes away. She talks the whole time—about her ex, her job, her cat that died last month.
"I'm sorry," she says at her door. "I've been rambling."
"Rambling is fine."
"You're very patient."
"I've had practice."
"Can I come back? For more shawarma?"
"The stand is there every night."
"For more conversation too?"
"That's also available."
She comes back.
The next night. And the next. And the next.
Sober now. Dressed better. Still sad, but trying.
"Why do you keep coming?" I ask after the fifth visit.
"The shawarma."
"Just the shawarma?"
"...Maybe the conversation too."
"Poppy, I'm not looking for friendship."
"What are you looking for?"
"I don't know. But I feel it when you're here."
"Feel what?"
"Something I haven't felt in years."
"I'm not Muslim."
"I know."
"I eat pork. Drink alcohol. Break all your rules."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because rules aren't everything. Connection is."
The first kiss tastes like garlic sauce.
Behind the stand, at 3 AM, between the lamb and the chicken shawarma.
"This is mad," she whispers.
"Completely."
"My family will have questions."
"So will mine."
"I don't care."
"Neither do I."
We date like teenagers.
Movies, parks, long walks along the Thames. She learns to ask for extra tahini. I learn to watch her terrible reality shows.
"I love you," she says one night.
We're in her flat. Eating shawarma. Where else?
"I love you too."
"Even though I'm not Muslim?"
"Even though."
"Would you want me to convert?"
"Only if you wanted to."
"What if I never want to?"
"Then we find a way. Love adapts."
She starts learning.
Not converting—not yet—but curious. Asking about Ramadan. Fasting with me for solidarity. Reading Quran translations.
"I don't understand all of it," she admits.
"Neither do I. That's why we keep trying."
We marry in a registry office.
Her mother cries. My mother cries. Everyone eats shawarma at the reception.
"Unconventional," her sister observes.
"We're an unconventional couple."
Five years later
We have a daughter.
Layla. She has her mother's eyes and my stubborn streak.
"Baba, shawarma?"
"Always, habibti."
Poppy watches us behind the counter.
She helps now—weekends, holidays. The customers love her.
"Happy?" she asks.
"Every day."
"Even though I'm still not Muslim?"
"You're still mine. That's what matters."
She took shahada last year.
Quietly. No pressure. Just something she wanted.
"I believe," she said. "I finally believe."
"In Islam?"
"In everything. In Allah. In us. In what we built."
I close the stand early that night.
Take her home. Show her how much her faith means to me.
"I love you," she breathes.
"Ana bahibbik."
Alhamdulillah.
For drunk women who stumble into the right shawarma stand.
For garlic sauce and patience.
For love that tastes like home.
The End.