The Pizza Delivery Man, Part 1

When I do a unit on ethnic foods in my classroom, I reel off a list of restaurants that most medium-sized American cities have: Chinese, Thai, Italian, Mexican, Indian, etc. Most students are unfamiliar with them. So I ask: "What are some ethnic foods available here in Meknes?" The students scratch their heads for a while. They're often unsure. Eventually, one of the students ventures an answer, "Pizza Hut and McDonald's".

Then it is my turn for an uncertain pause. Yes, I think. Both are foreign. Yes, both are restaurants in Meknes. The student is correct.

And yet there is something different between the immigrant-run ethnic restaurants that populate America and transnational corporate franchises entering a new market. But my English class is not the place to explain the difference.

There is a Pizza Hut in Meknes, and I have never been to it. Since my Book-it days, I have been much more likely to eat American pizza from Papa John's if I'm going to eat from an American pizza chain at all.

Last week, when I arrived back at my parents' house, was no exception. There was little in the fridge, and I was tired after a long flight. So I called up Papa John's and ordered one of their specials. Forty minutes later my stomach was getting a little concerned it might not reunite with its favorite American ethnic food. So I called the store back up and asked what was going on. I was told to call back in five or ten minutes if the pizza still wasn't there. Sure enough, before I could pass the news on to my impatiently eager gut, the doorbell rang.

I scampered down the stairs and opened the door to find a dark-complexioned man in his 30's holding my beloved pizza pie. As I reached for the pizza and gave him the cash, he spoke to me. And he spoke to me in an eerily familiar accent, as though I had heard his voice before. The accent itself is no surprise in Northern Virginia, where my parents live. Walking through WalMart is a bit like visiting a poor man's UN with more children.

In my dazed and giddy state, I felt little of my typical inhibitions with strangers. So I spoke to him directly in Arabic, "Are you Arab?"

Taking a step back, he replied in English, "Uh yes."

Pressing on in the Moroccan dialect, I inquired, "Where are you from?"

"I think you know," came the reply again in English. He took another step back towards his car. Foliage hid the large neighboring suburban homes from view.

I continued, "So where are you from?"
"Taza."
"I live in Meknes normally."
"Oh, that's only a few hours away."

Besides a word here or there, he still insisted on speaking English. His shock gave way to a form of amazement. We continued to exchange pleasantries.

A bit idiotically, I asked, "What are you doing right now? Would you like to come inside and share my pizza with me?"
"No. I have to work," came the reply.

Unsure what else to do, I asked him to wait a moment, dashed inside, set the pizza on the kitchen counter, and bounded up the stairs to get a piece of paper to write my number on.

Coming outside I presented him the paper and asked, "Are there any good Moroccan cafes around here?"
"There are some, but more towards DC."
"Well, call me and we can meet to drink a coffee, if God wills."
"If God wills."
"Bye."
"Bye."

Still looking a slight bit startled, he got back into his car and drove away.