I’m on time practically to the second, and surprised to see that Vanya’s already there, sipping a beer. Maybe my little daydream of her as being perpetually late and forgetful was off base. And she definitely got an opportunity to change, as she is now wearing a plum-colored linen crop top over black jeans with a few layered necklaces. Her tattoo is visible now, but from here I can’t tell what it is, a person perhaps.
She’s shining like a precious stone, something unusual and arzhekavor—that Armenian word meaning “valuable,” but with more pizzazz, pops into my mind. Being around my parents always unearths my Armenian vocabulary.
It’s not that the bar is bad, no, it’s trying to be good, or rather trying to be nothing you want to notice. Dark granite countertop, striped-back bar chairs with brown leather seats, a series of lamps hanging that are unremarkable to the point of being invisible. There are people from the conference all over, lanyards with their badges hanging around their necks. Lots of pantsuits. But Vanya’s sitting here making everything around her glow.
As I approach, she cocks her head my way and then, recognizing me, turns on that smile, and I feel myself shooting one back. I scoot into the firm leather chair next to her.
“Purple really suits you,” I say, and then, like a homing device, my consciousness zeroes in on her tattoo, and recognition dawns. I know exactly what it is. I blurt out, “Is that Mother Armenia? Are you Armenian?”
God, I hope she’s Armenian and not some white person who thought the Soviet-era statue looked cool. But no, her eyes—she has to be from Armenia, Georgia, Iran, Palestine, somewhere.
And Vanya? She looks delighted, like running into a long-lost friend.
“I am. It’s my Armenian-detect-o-meter. Any Armenian knows her, and to everyone else, it’s a badass tattoo.”
She is a badass, sculpted in sixties Soviet style, her posture rigid, holding a sword horizontally across her body, ready to defend herself, the homeland.
Vanya continues, “Ellie the Armenian. Don’t think I’ve ever met an Armenian named Ellie. Or, Ellie,” she says with a heightened Armenian accent, drawing out the l’s.
“It’s really Nazeli,” I say. “But I go by Ellie. Easier for everyone.”
“Not everyone,” she corrects. “I love the name Nazeli, always did. One of our most delicate names. Like you’ve dipped your finger into the end of the pond and watched the ripples grow out of it.”
I gawk; she is incredible. The way she’s taken this name that I’ve always thought was “difficult” and turned it into something so beautiful. “You’re a poet then?”
She waves me off. “Not quite. But we can get into that in a bit. What’re you drinking?”
“Macallan, neat.” Then I say, “It’s on me,” realizing the brand name is going to cost us. Macallan is a bit of a beginner’s scotch, but since I’m not trying to impress a man tonight, I’m forgoing the Laphroaigs and Taliskers for something a little easier. Jamie’s the one who taught me that. She only drinks beer and scotch, and wine when paired with food at a dinner, so I followed suit.
“Oof, scotch. I wouldn’t have guessed you were actually three bros in a trench coat.”
I laugh, leaning toward her. “Once you get into it, scotch can be fun, trying to suss out all the flavors.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Can be fun, uh-huh. By the end of the night, I’m going to get you to try the girliest drink possible.”
“I’m up for anything.”
“I like to hear that.”
With that, she catches the bartender’s eye. “My esteemed friend here would like a glass of your finest Macallan.”
I put my hands on the bar and quickly interject. “Nope, not your finest, please. Ten-year works for me.”
The bartender nods and turns to pour my drink.
“You trying to bankrupt me, Vanya?”
She puts her hands over her mouth, contrite. “Whoops, forgot that there are levels of scotches. Not that this place would have a zillion-dollar bottle casually resting on the shelf.”
It’s easy, being with her. The realization comes suddenly. She makes me feel like everything I say is weighed with importance, that she accepts it all, even when she’s making fun of me. I don’t for a moment feel like I’m being assessed—am I funny enough? Pretty enough? It hasn’t been long, but with her, right now anyway, I feel like enough.
I pick up the drink in front of me and take a sip of the familiar bite, the sugar toward the end, searching for it like a palate lifeline. Then I wonder if I really enjoy this drink at all.
Vanya turns to me, almost marveling with that tilt of her chin. “Are you one of those fabled East Coast Armenians?”
I’m touched she thinks I could be from the East Coast. And I know what she means. The East Coast Armenians seem like a fairy tale; I’ve only met one or two in my lifetime.
“Nope, your run-of-the-mill Californian Armenian.”
“Me too!” she chimes, as if on the trail. I catch her excitement, too; we’re both hot on our way to uncover how connected we really are. With there being so few Armenians in the world, there’s always a high chance when meeting a new Armenian that you’ll know some of the same people. Plus, I was right—that dude she uttered from earlier could have been nothing but Californian.
“I’m not from LA, though” she says. “That would be too cliché.”
If she’s not from Southern California, the largest Armenian diaspora, and she’s not from the Bay Area because I would have at least heard of her, she’s got to be from—
“Fresno?” I ask.
“Nope. Bay Area.”
“What? That’s where I’m from. How do we not know each other?”
I thought I knew everyone my age from the area. Well, maybe she’s not my age; I shouldn’t assume. But I went to the Armenian school, my parents are deeply plugged into the community, almost too much into it. How’d Vanya slip under the radar?
Then she says, “Saratoga,” and I realize ah, that’s why.
“San Francisco proper,” I reply. “An hour apart on a good day.” And she nods along, understanding.
That hour-long distance is enough for us not to have met. None of the Armenians in the South Bay went to the Armenian school since the drive is so long. And Saratoga . . . she must be doing well to live in a ritzy area like that.
“What’s your deal with the food conference?” I ask. “Do you have a packaged brand, or are you in the grocery business or what?”
“I was about to ask you the same. I tried peeping on your badge earlier, but it was flipped around.”
I sit back in the chair and finish the scotch more quickly than I should to savor it. “My parents’ brand, it’s Armenian, maybe you know it. Hagop’s Fine Armenian Foods? You can find it in all the Persian and Arabic stores in the Bay. Lavash, manti, dolma, things like that.”
She squints. “That definitely sounds familiar.”
And I have to admit I’m the tiniest bit crushed that she isn’t familiar with my parents’ brand. But then that furthers my resolve to push them into expansion. Even Armenians don’t know about them? Come on!
“What about you?”
She finishes her beer. “Weirdly, same here. I work for my parents’ brand, and it’s also Armenian food, or more like, Armenian-food inspired. The Green Falafel? We’re in smaller grocery chains all over the Bay Area, delis, some health cafés. I’ve been working with them for the past four years, and it’s a pretty sweet gig.”
The name flicks some bell of recognition, and then it comes to me, a memory from a few months back. I was running errands during my lunch break and didn’t have time to eat, popped into the health food store next door, and grabbed a falafel, hummus, and dolma pack to go. The Green Falafel brand. And I remember it, specifically, because it wasn’t very good.
Excerpted from Lavash at First Sight by Taleen Voskuni Copyright © 2024 by Taleen Voskuni. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
