The Somali Restaurant Owner
"Her restaurant on Nicollet serves the best Somali food in Minneapolis—a thick ebony widow who cooks like her grandmother taught her. When he becomes a regular, she offers to teach him her recipes. Some dishes are meant to be eaten in bed."
Mama Asha's Kitchen smells like home.
Even for someone who's never been to Somalia. The aroma of hilib ari, bariis, canjeero—it fills the small restaurant like a warm embrace.
Mama Asha herself is the heart of it.
Fifty-eight years old. Two hundred and sixty-five pounds of culinary authority. Her ebony skin gleams with the heat of the kitchen. She cooks everything herself—won't trust anyone else with her grandmother's recipes.
I come in for lunch.
"Soo dhawow." Welcome. "First time?"
"Yes."
"Sit. I'll bring you food. Real food." She doesn't wait for my order.
She brings plate after plate.
Hilib ari—goat stewed in spices. Bariis iskukaris—the one-pot rice that's become famous. Canjeero dripping with ghee. Muufo bread. Sambuus stuffed with meat.
"Eat," she commands. "You're too thin."
I eat.
She watches with satisfaction, the way Somali mothers watch their children devour food.
"Good?"
"Incredible."
"Mahadsnid." She beams. "My grandmother's recipes. Sixty years old. Older than me."
"Will you teach me?"
She laughs. "Americans can't cook Somali food."
"Then teach me to try."
I come back the next day.
And the next.
And the next.
Mama Asha starts teaching me after the lunch rush. Basic spices first—xawaash, cardamom, cumin. Then techniques—how to layer flavors, how to cook meat until it falls apart.
"You're not bad," she admits after a week. "For an American."
"High praise."
"Don't let it go to your head." But she's smiling.
"Why did you open this restaurant?" I ask one evening.
The kitchen is quiet. The last customers have left.
"My husband died ten years ago. Heart attack." She stirs a pot that doesn't need stirring. "We were supposed to open it together. Our retirement dream."
"So you opened it alone."
"Someone had to." She looks at me. "Food is love. It's how we show people we care. I couldn't let that love die with him."
"You're incredible."
"I'm stubborn." She sets down the spoon. "Same thing."
"Teach me your grandmother's secret," I say one night.
"Which one?"
"The one you've never told anyone. The one that makes your food taste like nothing else."
She studies me. Minutes pass.
"Come to the back."
The back room is small.
A cot for long days. Boxes of spices. And a jar—old, unmarked—on a shelf.
"This is my grandmother's secret." She opens the jar. "A spice blend she created. No one knows the recipe but me."
"What's in it?"
"Seventy years of love." She hands me the jar. "Smell."
I smell. It's unlike anything—warm, complex, unforgettable.
"This is what's in my soul," she says quietly. "My grandmother's soul. My mother's soul. My husband's soul."
"Why are you showing me?"
"Because—" She takes the jar back. "Because you're the first person who wanted to learn. Not just eat. Learn."
"Mama Asha—"
"Asha." She meets my eyes. "Call me Asha."
"I haven't been touched since my husband died."
We're sitting on the cot. The restaurant is closed.
"Ten years of cooking for others. Ten years of feeding people. No one has fed me."
"What do you need?"
"I need—" She takes my hand. Places it on her heart. "I need to feel like a woman again. Not just a cook. Not just a grandmother. A woman."
"You are a woman."
"Then treat me like one."
She undresses in the dim light.
Her body is magnificent. Ebony skin that's spent decades over hot stoves. Massive breasts with dark nipples. Soft belly from years of tasting her own cooking. Hips wide enough to fill a doorway.
"Ten years," she whispers. "Ten years since anyone has seen me."
"You're beautiful."
"I'm old and fat—"
"You're beautiful."
I kiss her.
I worship the cook.
My mouth tastes her like she tastes her dishes—slowly, carefully, savoring every flavor. She gasps as I kiss down her body.
"Lower—" She pushes my head. "Fadlan—"
I spread her thick thighs.
Taste her secret recipe.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams, her voice echoing in the small room. Her hands grip my hair.
"Ten years—" She's shaking. "Ten years I've been cooking—never tasted—"
I make her come until she's crying.
Happy tears. Release tears.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—fill me like I fill my dishes—"
I strip. She sees me and breathes something reverent.
"Subhanallah—my husband was never—"
"I'm not your husband."
I lay her down on the cot.
I push inside Mama Asha.
She screams—ten years of emptiness filling with me.
"So deep—" Her legs wrap around me. "Dhakhso—cook me like I cook my food—"
I pound her.
The cot creaks. Her massive body bounces beneath me. She comes twice, three times, each one louder than the last.
"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Inside me—give me your seasoning—"
I explode inside her.
We lie tangled together.
The smell of spices surrounds us.
"You'll come back," she says. It's not a question.
"Every day."
"For cooking lessons?"
"For everything." I kiss her forehead. "For you."
One Year Later
I work at Mama Asha's now.
She's teaching me everything—every recipe, every technique, every secret.
At night, after the restaurant closes, she teaches me other things.
"Macaan," she moans as I fill her. "My sweet, sweet cook."
The woman who fed my body.
The woman who fed my soul.
The grandmother's secret I'll never share.