God had blessed Nizam with a pair of hands that made everything taste delightful. Whatever Nizam touched tasted wonderful. He could make a boring lentil soup, Ades which the Indians and Turks had stolen from Naqshistan, and turn it into something quite extraordinary. He could make a simple sandeech, which the English had stolen, and transform it into something that men outside of Shahrepour would travel for. Sometimes women, unaccompanied by their husbands would turn up too. Nizam cared for nothing but that. He made sure to scour the Google reviews daily to check that none of his customers complained about his food. He would take it as a point of honour that the plate was empty when his customers left. If it was not and a simple crust was left, he would inquire as to why the crust was still on the plate.
As all the restaurants and chefs in Shahrepour sneered, Nizam was not a chef. He did not have the training in Paris, Istanbul or Dubai, like they did. He wasn’t a Michelin star chef. He’d never even been out of the city. He used too much of everything, too much butter, too much cheese, too much onion, too much dill. He was nothing, just an Instagrammer and influencer who got lucky.
Nizam was proud that he wasn’t a chef. He refused to use the Persian term for the word too. He was a Babursi andchallenged each and every one of the chefs to come and eat in his restaurant. Sometimes, he would stand in front of their restaurants in his traditional Naqshi clothes, remove the white cooking cloth which he always had on his rounded shoulders, and throw it down on the floor as a challenge. In the olden days this was usually a challenge a warrior made to another – an invitation to duel. But none of the chefs or their proprietors would take him up on the invitation. They said that his restaurant was too small, a rectangle of a box with six tables, and his kitchen was his domain, not theirs. So, he would say, let me cook in your shop. Still they would not take him up on his offer.
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