Fatty Fatty Boom Boom: A Memoir of Food, Fat, and Family

by Rabia Chaudry

One day, Pummy Mamu asked if I wanted to have seekh kabab and I remembered the tiny, thin kababs I had eaten by the dozen the last time I visited. Yes, absolutely. This time there was no motorcycle ride. I followed him on foot through a labyrinth of blocks and alleys until we reached an open storefront with a four-foot line of skewers sizzling over coals. They looked amazing. There was seating behind the men who worked the grills, so we headed over and sat down. I watched as trays of skewers were carried from where the kababs were being shaped to where they were cooked. And then. Then I saw the man who was mixing the meat. He sat on a high stool with a big plastic tub full of raw ground beef in front of him. I watched him add onions, green chilis, cilantro, and fistfuls of spices. Once the meat was thoroughly covered in all the mixings, he pulled up his pajama legs, lifted his feet into the tub, and began kneading it. With his feet. Pummy Mamu saw my face change. “What’s wrong, moti? So what if he’s using his feet, they’re clean, washed.” The meat squished up around the man’s toes and ankles, clinging onto the hairs on his legs. “No. Oh no no no. I will not eat here, let’s go.”