Arkadaşlar : a Talk to Muckefuck adventure™

[muckefuck]

rollick recently asked for everyone's "weirdest encounter...with a total stranger". I'm not sure which story to tell, since I'm sure our definition of "weirdness" varies. I don't get macked on on public transport, like every woman I know does, but I've been to a number of orgies, which I doubt many women have. Would discussing the Holocaust halfway down a staircase naked while men fucked all around me count? But this doesn't seem half as weird to me as meeting some rambling "angel" on the el.

Here's a story I was going to tell anyway, since it happened only last Saturday. Monshu is having ugly mouth problems with the result that he's now on antibiotics and pain pills. This rather screwed our plans for the weekend.

Rather than going someplace upscale and chic (like Pasteur or Atlantique) to celebrate the end of his class, we checked out the local cheap sushi restaurant, Tokyo Marina. It's fine. If Rokucha didn't exist, I might even like it. And the portions are gigantic. But, afterwards, he was feeling tired, I was feeling tired. I still didn't want to give up on checking out Bear Night, if only for an hour or two, but there was at least an hour-and-a-half to kill before anyone would be there.

I walked the old man to Broadway and then turned north. The chill air had revived me and I came up with a plan to grab a kazandibi and a Turkish coffee at Turkish Cuisine and Bakery eating, which should take care of an hour or so. When I got there, I found that a Turkish food store had opened up right next door. A young woman, whom* I recognised as one of the waitresses from the restaurant, told me the actual opening was the next day, but that I could buy something tonight if I wanted. I didn't. I just spent a third of an hour scanning every last item in the store and left. Was there no wrong candy? Of course there was! There wasn't an American product in the place. I just wasn't in the mood to cart a new purchase around all night.

I could hear the live music coming from the other room, so I asked if there was a seat free there. The owner was like, "For one? Maybe the table by the window." I knew which one she meant and, with the help of the geekboy to one side and an older woman to the other, I managed to slip back into the corner and scoot the table up to me. After a few moments, the woman turned to me and offered to fill my glass from her water pitcher. "If you wait for them, it will take a while," she explained. "Now I'll have to tip you!" I complained.

When the waiter came by and offered me a menu, I refused it, saying "I don't need that. I know what I want: kazandibi." He didn't seem to understand, so I repeated myself. Twice. The nice woman did also (correcting the stress placement to antepenultimate). Then I said, "And a Turkish coffee." That came minutes later; some time after that, my dessert still hadn't. I tried to catch a waitron, but they seemed overoccupied with the birthday celebration immediately to my right. Finally, I waved another waiter over and told him, "I'd like to order a kazandibi." "I sorry," he replied, "I don't speak Turkish." "KAZANDIBI!" I said, "that's what it's called on the menu!" Again, the woman on my left and her companion sought to intervene. Finally, exasperated, I wrote out the word on a scrap of paper and handed it to the guy. Shortly after that, it finally arrived.

(In fairness to the restaurant--which I do like and don't want to steer anyone away from--the guys weren't regular waitstaff and I suspect they were called in just for the weekend crush. They should still know the menu, true, but it's not as bad as it sounds.)

I went back to my magazine and, a while later, the woman turned and asked if she could ask me a question. "How can you concentrate with all this noise?" "I read a lot on the el," I said, "I'm used to screening it all out." She noticed that I had inverted my coffee cup in order to read the grounds and asked me if I knew fortune-telling. I said I could fake it. She told me that her companion was a whiz at it. "I had a party where I invited her and a Polish woman I know who can read palms. They told everyone's fortunes."

So I offered to read her a cheesy Korean fortune using my hwathwu. Before I finished the boring part, the belly-dancer emerged and we got distracted. She was not good. Not awful, but not a pimple on the bum of 'Umm 'Atā Allāh either. We soon turned away and were talking about Turkish desserts, dancing, and what-have-you. The two women lived in the suburbs and hadn't been to this part of the city in a year. They had actually started out at Arkadash up the street, but "the parking lot was empty". Now that some time had passed, they were heading up back there. Would I join them? There was no hurry; I should take my time and finish my dessert.

Shortly after they left, Ms Bargain Basement Belly Dancer had worked her way toward the nice geek on my right and convinced him to dance with her. I popped up to give him some advice, which he thanked me for a moment later. We had a nice chat, too, and I paid and left.

Now it was decision time. If I caught the bus, I would arrive at Touché at just the right time to cop a few feels, greet a few friends, and be back in bed before the wee hours. But Bear Pride is only three weeks away and, dammit, I wanted to dance!

Moments later, I walked into the other restaurant and gaped around for my two lovelies. They were at a table of four. I squeezed in and we finally did introductions: Di was the extrovert who had set the party in motion, and Turkan, her grounds-reading friend. They had met up with Turkan's brother Zeheb [my best guess] and his wife? girlfriend? Ayşa, both of whom looked a little put out by my scruffy appearance. White-haired Sab, in a suit and tie, cut a very distinguished figure, and the much younger but equally reserved Ayşa didn't have a lot to say to me. (At one time, when I turned in my chair to view the dancer, I may have brushed her leg; all I know is that I suddenly felt Zeheb's hand gently but firmly nudging my knee away from her under the table.)

But I didn't care. I just followed Di's lead through it all. I ordered a raki (Zeheb and Ayşa had a bottle but didn't over me any) and got Ayşa's advice on how to drink it. Beyond us, a circle of neo-hippies were sprawled on cushions smoking from hookahs. I could only see the performer, a young Arabic singer and keyboardist, in a mirrored panel on the wall. The owner Yumur [again, a guess] came by and shook everyone's hand. He was, apparently, the performer everyone was waiting for. A younger man with an electric violin warmed up and then Yumur started with some keyboard noodling; just when I was losing interest, the beat cut in and the dancer appeared.

Although she wasn't as good as the one Di and Turkan said they used to drive in just to see, she was good. Like the other, she went from table to table trying to get people to dance. On her second pass, she managed to pry loose an older hispanic couple. A bit later, the three of them were joined by some young 'uns from another party table and I convinced Di to get up. Damn, I am out of dancing trim! A few numbers and my legs were screaming; I had to default to a silly 80's dance motion just to stay out on the floor until the break.

When we got back to the table, Zeheb and Ayşa had left, leaving behind the raki bottle and near-full glasses. Who knows what that was all about. It was nearing midnight and Di had to get back all the way to Hoffmann Estates. Although I liked her verve, I was equally drawn to handsome Turkan's quiet confidence. At one point, she told me she was originally from Kars (I managed to squelch an urge to say, "Ah, yes, the Armenian part!") but had moved across the country to Edirne before finally immigrating to Chicago.

At one point, I asked them what the name of the restaurant, which I could never find glossed in any dictionary, meant and Di told me "friend". I said, "I thought that was kardeş!" and they told me, no, that meant "sibling". (I've since found a site on the web that describes arkadaş as a Kurdish term; clearly, more investigation is called for.) It took an inordinate amount of time to pay. In the parking lot, I told them, "See you in a year!" and I crossed the street to catch the 22 bus home.

*Ostentatious use of objective case for the pleasure of caitalainn, who still hasn't delivered me her proposal for adding cases to English.

Comments

Of orgies and Turkish Restaurants...

[darkphuque.livejournal.com]

Back in the early 80's, my Long term BF and I used to throw orgies on a regular schedule.
It would be 9-15 guys, weed, poppers, flicks, and a blue plate special. Usually I would make something like lasagna and salad with a light dessert. Our orgies were always very popular.

While on vacation in DC, we were in a restaurant and over heard a bunch of guys in the next booth talking about a "catered" orgy that one of them had attended in Chicago. As he described the setting/menu, I knew it was one of ours....I introduced myself and BF, and we chatted. The guy was a guest of one of our regulars, and he thought it was the neatest thing he'd attended in a long time...LOL

As to Turkish restaurants....I haven't been back to Chicago since DA and I met. I would love to know more about it...where is it located? what kind of menu? etc...
I adore Turkish Cuisine!!!! Even though I am 1/4 Greek

Re: Of orgies and Turkish Restaurants...

[muckefuck.livejournal.com]

I thought I'd written it up in an entry, but I can't find it now. However, I did stumble across my review of Cafe Demir in the process. Enjoy, and I'll update on TC&B soon.

[snowy-owlet.livejournal.com]

Oh, yes. Because I need another project.

*whinge* Can't I recover from wedding planning first???

[muckefuck.livejournal.com]

Compared to planning a wedding, redesigning the English language should be a breeze!

[rollick.livejournal.com]

Would discussing the Holocaust halfway down a staircase naked while men fucked all around me count?

Well, to my mind, no — at least, not the parts you yourself initiated. I mean, the fact that a given encounter happened while you were naked and surrounded by people fucking does give the story an interesting background, but it sounds like it wasn't weird FOR YOU, nor was it unexpected or surprising, so technically I don't think it counts toward your "weird" total.

But your adventures in ethnic eating and hanging out with total strangers are always enjoyable.

[prilicla.livejournal.com]

I'm sorry to hear that Monshu is having mouth problems. I hope he's able to get back to Seeing People and Seeing Life soon.