It reminded him of the Libyan dish mardoma, where the meat is slowly cooked in cinders. We ate well. “I’ll never find this place again,” he said as we were leaving. I stood him in the middle of the alleyway and pointed out the silver shop on the corner, the large brass lantern blackened with age on the opposite side, the old man selling pickled lupins and the sign above him that read: MERCIFUL. Father took note of all of these markers, but then repeated, “I’ll never find it.” But perhaps taking Uncle Mahmoud to the tailor had reminded him of our meal together and the location of the
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