Friday, April 17, 2020

The door to my favorite shawarma joint is open. A sign outside, taped to the propped-up lid of a styrofoam cooler, says that they are only doing deliveries. The owner sees me pass and calls out “Hi! Shawarma? But don’t come inside.” A line of chairs blocks the entrance. He and the other worker put the shawarma together, asking if I want each of the ingredients, skipping those that they remember that I don’t get. As I wait, a young man, his mask dangling below his beard, vaults over the chairs and heads straight into the restroom. The other worker shrugs. She shrugs again when he runs out and away. She brings the shwarma, carefully packaged, to where I stand, puts it on a chair, and takes my credit card. We wish each other a good Sabbath when she returns with it. Turning, I see that a couple of more people have lined up behind me. The larger shawarma joint, two doors down, and another falafel joint, far down the street, have longer lines. The food may be better, but I like the people here. Most of the food stores downtown are open, though they have few customers. Most of the other stores are closed. I look into a new kitchenware shop at the Heart of the City. The items there are too high-end for impulse buys. I get a challah and some pita at a bakery, waiting outside until they beckon me in. When I get home, the shawarma is still hot.