Moumon and Me, Part 2

08.12.08
Sometimes you lend a friend a hand. Sometimes you lend a friend an arm.
naan

I had become friends with Moumon, the owner of Shaheen Sweets, over curries and sugar and warm welcomes. He invited me to come in mornings to learn how to cook his food; I brought out-of-town visitors to discover his flavors and stories. I was always sorry that I couldn’t find the time to take him up on his offer, but one night, while there with a tableful of those visitors, I found my chance.

Moumon was sitting with us, talking with his mixture of charm and incomprehensibility, when one of his staff came over to get his attention. He waved him off. The guy came back a few minutes later and Moumon was irked, barking that he was with friends, and whatever it was could wait. Persevering, the man whispered something into his boss’s ear before running back to work. Moumon’s eyes widened; he slapped his forehead and called for Allah’s help. He’d forgotten an order, he explained while excusing himself from our table. He had to make 200 loaves of naan. In an hour.

I sprung to his aid. I’m a cook, I told him. He smiled but said no, he couldn’t accept my help. I insisted as my friends got up to go. I got into cook mode, asking for an apron, stripping down to my t-shirt. Moumon relented, but ever the host, told my friends not to leave.

He picked up a round pad as we stood before the wild heat of the tandoor oven. He stretched a ball of dough expertly, evenly over the pad. He demonstrated how to bake the bread, reaching his arm into the tandoor—all the way down to the shoulder—and slapping the dough against the wall. We had to make sure to use every inch of the oven walls because of how many we had to make, he told me, so we had to take time to aim our naan properly. But we also had to work quickly so as not to burn the bread; it turns out things burn fast when stuck to an 800-degree brick.

I listened at his instructions with seriousness. We were a team now, a team with a challenge. “Are you ready?” he asked, handing me a dough-covered pad. I took it and nodded, our eyes meeting. I got a good grip on it, looked into the tandoor for my spot, and visualized the angle I would have to use to hit it. Moumon was stretching more dough, getting us ready to move quickly. I saw a smile creep across his face as he worked, and I was excited, too, to be working alongside him.

I reached my naan down into the tandoor. Well, I reached it towards the tandoor, because I wasn’t actually within a foot of even getting it into the thing before jerking my arm back. I tried again, this time ready for the sudden blast of heat, and did better. The naan was only eight inches away from getting into the oven. It turns out your arm doesn’t want to go anywhere near an 800-degree brick.

Moumon laughed. “That’s why I keep my shirt on,” he said, and I noticed the heavy flannel of his sleeves. He rolled them up to show me his hairless arms. He thanked me again for trying, and then turned to my friends. “See? I told you not to leave yet.”

I moved away from New York to go to culinary school not long after that; by the time I came back, Moumon’s shop had closed and I never found out where he went. But I remember fondly the food I ate and what I learned, especially the lesson from that night: Being a good eater doesn’t make you a cook. You have to live it.

Subscribe to Gourmet