“So why did you recommend an American instead of an Egyptian guide?” Mom asks as we tumble into Mr. Elhadad’s car, slightly sunburned and hungry.
“Tarek is Egyptian. Perhaps he does not need the money so much as the locals, but he understands that customer happiness comes before baksheesh.” Mr. Elhadad rubs his fingers together in a gesture many Egyptians use to indicate they want a tip for their services. “I was this way once, but Tarek taught me about TripAdvisor and I have changed. If people are happy with Tarek, they will be happy with me, and good reviews bring new customers to us all. Maybe this is not the Egyptian way, but one day my children will be married and I want to have the money for their weddings.”
Since I was born, my parents have been putting money into my college fund. They’ve never once discussed saving money to pay for a wedding. “What about college?” I ask.
“There is no cost for university in Egypt,” Mr. Elhadad explains. “When I was young, my family could not afford to live without my income, so I was unable to attend university. My wife, my son, and I have worked hard so Aya may go.”
I know my family would make those kinds of sacrifices for each other, but we’ve been lucky that we’ve never had to do it. I can’t help thinking about the intense pressure that Aya must be facing. The first to go to college. The expectation that she will succeed. I glance at my mom, whose eyes seem to reflect what I’ve been thinking. She reaches over and gives my hand a squeeze.
On our way through Giza, Mr. Elhadad suggests we stop for a snack, and I am not even slightly surprised when he stops at the koshary shop where Adam works.
The restaurant is shabby yet opulent, with crystal chandeliers and a tiered fountain in the middle of the dining room. Kind of over-the-top for a place that sells koshary, but it is packed with people. Some wait for their orders at the long takeaway counter, while others are seated in the dining room.
Adam stands behind the counter, dressed like an actual chef as he dishes koshary with assembly-line speed from a huge metal bowl into the plastic takeaway tubs. His efficiency is impressive, and the way his eyebrows pull together as he concentrates makes me smile. I watch him work until my mom elbows me and I turn away to find the waiter standing at the table, waiting to take our order. Mr. Elhadad wears a curious expression, as if he has discovered a secret about me, and I wonder if maybe he has. The heat that creeps up the back of my neck makes me think so.
Unlike the day Adam ordered koshary to go, the waiter brings us plates of pasta and lentils with side dishes of chickpeas, onions, and tomato sauce so we can mix our own proportions. There are also small dishes of garlic oil and spicy pepper sauce.
“It’s comfort food,” I say, and a look of wonder crosses my mother’s face. I like having this bit of local knowledge, even though I am still very much a stranger in Cairo. It might be a small thing, but it’s another step forward. I choose more pasta and chickpeas, fewer lentils, to make my own custom koshary.
Mom takes a tentative bite as Mr. Elhadad tucks in a bigger mouthful. “My wife would not be pleased to know I am eating koshary because she worries I eat it too often, but we will not tell her, okay?”
“Your secret’s safe with us,” my mom says.
I wonder if Adam might come over to say hello, but the restaurant is constantly busy. As we pass the takeaway counter on our way out, Mr. Elhadad calls out a greeting to his son. Adam raises a quick hand to wave at his father and surprise registers in his eyes when he notices me. He doesn’t wave to me—his attention turns immediately back to his work—but this time I don’t take it personally.
“He is a hard worker,” his father says, the pride thick in his voice, as we get back in the car. “I think one day he will be a great chef.”
After the sun, food, and trekking around in the desert heat, I am ready to go home for a nap. Mr. Elhadad starts the ignition, then pauses, placing a hand on his chest.
“Are you okay?” Mom asks.
“Just a bit of indigestion.” Sweat trickles down his temple and he fishes a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe it away, laughing. “My punishment, I think, for wanting to keep the koshary secret from my wife.”
“Are you feeling any discomfort in your chest? A squeezing sensation?” Mom asks. “Indigestion is sometimes a symptom of a heart attack.”
“No, no, no, it’s nothing so dramatic—” His words drop off as he draws in a sharp breath. “Or perhaps I am wrong.”
“Should we call an ambulance?” I ask.
“Too much traffic,” Mr. Elhadad gasps. “An ambulance is no good.”
I throw open the car door.
“I’ll be right back,” I call out as I run back toward the shop. Adam looks up as I come in alone. “Your dad is having a heart attack,” I say. “We need you to drive.”
He says something in Arabic to another man behind the counter, who gives a quick nod of assent. Adam rushes out from behind the counter, shoves his way through the crowd, and runs to the car. Mom has helped Mr. Elhadad into the backseat and is instructing him to chew an aspirin tablet as Adam flings himself behind the wheel. The doors are barely shut behind us when he pulls out into traffic, cutting off another car and earning an angry, prolonged honk.
From the front seat I look into the back, where Mr. Elhadad has released the top button on his shirt. His face is pale and sweat rolls down his cheeks, but Mom has her hand wrapped around his. I know from experience that she is telegraphing reassurance, helping him feel calmer. That’s her superpower, even when there is nothing else she can do.
“We’ll find you a male doctor when we get to the hospital,” she teases, keeping her tone light and a smile on her face. “But for now you are stuck with me.”
“Adam is a terrible driver,” I add. “So it won’t take long.”
Mr. Elhadad gives a weak laugh. “With this team looking after me, I have nothing to fear.”
CHAPTER 12
Mr. Elhadad is sitting up when we arrive at his hospital room a couple of days later. We brought him to the emergency room in time and the heart attack was not severe, but the doctor decided to admit him for a few days of observation. Mr. Elhadad still looks a little pale and tired, but he is smiling.
“Is this a good time?” My mother holds up an old Steve McQueen movie on DVD and a box of really nice chocolates. “We come bearing gifts.”
“Oh yes,” Mr. Elhadad says, beckoning us forward. “Please come in.”
Sitting in a chair beside the bed is his wife, wearing a long heather-gray dress with a red hijab, and in a second chair is a girl who glances up from her cell phone as Mom and I enter the room.
Mr. Elhadad introduces us, explaining that Mom saved his life. It could be argued that Adam’s insane driving probably had more to do with it, but his wife looks so happy to see my mother.