You see the sign,
like so many others.
Due to triple rent increase,
this nook of a restaurant
falls victim to gentrification.
In its stead,
a green restaurant, touting
Kombucha and smoothies
already claims the spot.
A flash kitchen hype
doesn’t hold a candle
to thousand-year recipes.
A green smoothie,
random vegetables tossed
together, doesn’t compare
to roasted pine nuts, swimming
in delicate rose water, sweetened
with grape molasses, adorned
with fresh mint leaves.
Can’t relive the warmth
of cumin and coriander lentil soup
with a protein shake.
Can’t satiate the
hunger quite like
kibbi be sineeya,
fresh falafels,
parsley-packed tabouli,
hummus made by
calloused, loving hands.
This culture runs deeper
than millenial pockets promising
peak physical performance,
a higher plane than smug,
altruistic selfishness.
This culture creates
culinary concoctions,
cultivating camaraderie.
Cooks conjuring cathartic emotion,
kaleidoscope flavors unravel
the deepest memories,
of sandstone temples
and fiery oases.
The next best thing can’t outlast
recipes passed down
by grandmothers in
head scarves.
Soul on Fire 