A Roots Trip

Houston rush-hour traffic is monstrous, but I have a few good reasons not to care: my car, the Exxon Valdez II, is a joy to drive, I’m revitalized by some tree-hugging at the Arboretum, and I’m heading for a Persian restaurant. The concierge at the Sheraton Astrodome couldn’t find a Persian place on my last visit, but I knew that Houston has a large enough Iranian community to support several (he also had a very bad toupee). With a little Internet research I find two white-tablecloth estabishments, and a styrofoam-plate class kebab joint. These are all located in a corner of the city filled with strip malls that showcase Indian restaurants, Asian groceries, Jewelry and Sari shops.

My father was born in Iran, but I know next to nothing of Persian language or culture. Ben Aminzade wandered through Egypt, India, Mexico, Texas, and finally New Jersey putting as much planet as possible between him and his domineering father. My mother told me he had “cut his family ties” long before I knew what that meant. Still, I can recall a few visits to distant aunts and uncles: large houses with beautiful rugs on the walls, steaming dishes of rice and meat, glasses of sweet tea and the rituals and strictures of Orthodox Judaism. Coloring books were forbidden on Saturday. I sat in a balcony with the women at Sabbath services and heard prayers that were different from the ones in our New Jersey synagogue.

I’ve never eaten Persian food in a restaurant, and especially wanted to do so this week, the week of the vernal equinox. The equinox marks the Persian New Year, No Ruz (or Now Ruz, or No Rooz…the English spelling varies), literally “New Day.” Moslems, Jews, Christians, and Zoroastrians in Iran all celebrate it. The mysterious and beautiful traditions and practices of No Ruz predate Mohammed and even Zoroaster.

I arrive at the restaurant to find a table in the entryway with an odd collection. There are what appear to be circles of lawn decorated with yellow ribbons, glasses of liquid, a miniature plastic fountain, and gaily cellophane-wrapped plates of some kind of sweet treat. It seems to be a shrine or altar of some sort, and reminds me of the offerings to ancestors I sometimes see in Chinese restaurants. It occurs to me that, Aminzade or not, I am a stranger and a foreigner here.

I later learn (from http://www.persianoutpost.com/htdocs/nowrooz.html) that the items on the table are the “haft sin” or “seven S’s” , seven things whose names begin with the letter ‘S’ in Farsi. The little lawns are sabzi, sprouts of wheat or lentil. Other items on the table are coins, vinegar, garlic, and some kind of flower. The treats are a sweet snack made of flour and sugar called Samanu. Like the Jewish Seder plate, each of these items has many and complex layers of meanings. I also learn that, true to my intuition, the “haft sin” began as an offering to dead ancestors, who, on the thirteenth day of the year (“sizde be-dar”), would enter the house and enjoy them. The family would (wisely) spend the thirteenth day on a picnic in the country. They’d take the Sabzi (sprouts) with them, and at the end of the day hurl it, along with it all the bad luck, illness, and pain waiting for the family.

I enter the restaurant. Sitting at a corner table are two bald men in their mid thirties who bear an astonishing resemblance to old pictures of my father. The waitress, who looks just like one of my Persian cousins, takes my order. She seems to be simultaneously surprised and bored to find out that my father was born in Iran and that I know not a single word of Farsi.

I order “dough” which is not a baked product, but a yogurt drink like the Indian Lassi or the hippy-cuisine smoothie — not sweet, but spiced with parsley and dill, a bit of pepper, and a pinch of salt and served on ice. I’ve heard of it, and, being a great fan of Lassis and Smoothies, I’m eager to try it. The waitress, without a hint of amusement, corrects my pronunciation. It rhymes with “shoe,” not “show.”

Before I order, I’m delivered a plate of feta cheese, radishes, fresh basil, parsley, and dill. As I start to nibble on a radish, a heavenly round flatbread fresh from the oven appears. I dine on an appetizer that is the crusty bottom part of a pot of Persian-style rice, a dish of rice with sour cherries (actually quite sweet) and tender lamb on a skewer. The “dough” is a perfect complement. I pass up the rosewater-scented baklava.

As I eat, I ponder time, change, and the twists and turns of fate. I wouldn’t have expected this business trip to Houston to be a “roots” trip, but it’s become one. And why not? I was almost a Texas boy. Ben and Dorothy and my two brothers lived in Laredo before I was born, until a Peso devaluation doomed my father’s border-trade clothing store and they moved to New Jersey.

Minnesota is coming up next, though it’s a short trip, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to write much about it.