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Table of contents
- Mark Hamill - IMDb
- Lupin the Third Part II
- 100 - Max Schreck
- Translation of «cockily» into 25 languages
Stuck inside the apartment with baby Dikran, she could smell the flavors of Zankou floating through the cracks.
Mark Hamill - IMDb
This was as close as she would come to the business. So each day, without complaint, Rita finished rocking the baby and listened as the old lady told her story of survival, of the Turks rounding up all the Armenians in her village of Hajin in the spring of and herding them on a death march to the Syrian Desert.
Was it jagadakeer? She said she learned that day that there were no words to read.
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Without them, the Muslim Arabs would have ruled the country. With them, the Christian Arabs kept a narrow edge. It stayed that way until , when the civil war upended everything. Zankou was a gold mine. They poured its profits into rental properties throughout the city.
Lupin the Third Part II
Then one evening in , the war struck home. Mardiros was sitting outside one of their empty storefronts, not a block from Zankou, when two men on motorcycles sped by.
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- The Murder in the Red Jacket!
He had no reason to suspect that a dispute over rent with an Armenian tenant, a man connected to a political party, would turn violent. But the motorcycle drivers, wearing masks and clutching AKs, circled back around.
They fired dozens of rounds, hitting Mardiros with bullet after bullet, 16 shots in all. Mardiros had always been a student of maps, but what he found when he came to America was something else. What geniuses! Here was a whole bound guide of maps that divided up the sprawl of Southern California into perfect little squares with numbers that corresponded to pages inside.
Turn to any page, and you had the landscape of L. He pored over the maps at night, reviewed them again in the morning, and then took off to find his new city. By car and foot, he logged hundreds of miles that first week, close to a thousand the next. They had come with plenty of cash.
100 - Max Schreck
One thing was certain. His parents, looking for something easier, wanted no part of the food business. There would be no Zankous in America. They settled instead on a dry cleaning shop, only to find out that the chemicals made Mardiros sick. The deeper Mardiros journeyed into Los Angeles, the more he bumped up against growing pockets of immigrants fresh from the Middle East.
No restaurant, though, seemed to be dedicated to their cuisine, at least none that served it fast and delicious and at a price that would bring customers back. So in , he went to his parents and pitched the idea. His father resisted. His mother cried. They threatened to return to Beirut. He picked a tiny place next to a Laundromat on the corner of Sunset and Normandie—could there have been an uglier minimall in all of Hollywood?
Before long, the Arabs and Persian Jews and Armenians found it. So did Mexican gangbangers and nurses from Kaiser Permanente and the flock from L. Mardiros put in long hours. He tweaked the menu; his mother tinkered with the spices. It took a full year to find a groove. The first crowd of regulars brought in a second crowd, and a buzz began to grow among the network of foodies.
How did they make the chicken so tender and juicy? The answer was a simple rub of salt and not trusting the rotisserie to do all the work but raising and lowering the heat and shifting each bird as it cooked. What made the garlic paste so fluffy and white and piercing? This was a secret the family intended to keep.
Some customers swore it was potatoes, others mayonnaise. At least one fanatic stuck his container in the freezer and examined each part as it congealed. He pronounced the secret ingredient a special kind of olive oil. None guessed right. The ingredients were simple and fresh, Mardiros pledged, no shortcuts. Word of a new kind of fare, fast and tasty and light, spread to the critics. The L.
This is America, he told his parents.
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His parents fought expansion, but he kept pushing, and in the family agreed to a split. Mardiros would take the Zankou concept and build a chain across the region. Any new restaurants he opened, success or failure, would belong to him. In return, he would sign over his stake in Hollywood to his parents and two sisters.
The split was hardly a parting. The garlic paste still would be prepared by his mother and used by all the Zankous. As a favor to his sister Dzovig, he would pay her to manage some of his new stores. Nothing, he assured them, would change at home.
Translation of «cockily» into 25 languages
Greed must never rear its head. There is plenty for all of us. The boys were more like brothers than cousins. They lived only a few minutes apart in Glendale and attended the same private Armenian school. Dzovig would take them each morning, and Rita would pick them up. A gang of six, they climbed the hills, rode bikes, played video games. They had the coolest toys, the latest gadgets.
If they were spoiled, and they were, it came with the turf. As the grandchildren of Margrit, each one was something of a food snob. She made the best lentil soups, the best raw-meat-and-bulgur che kufta. Glendale was a city made new by three successive waves of Armenian refugees, first from Iran, then from Beirut, and now from Armenia itself. He picked a less grimy minimall squeezed behind a gas station for Zankou no. As soon as it began turning a profit, he found a spot in Van Nuys for Zankou no. Then came Zankou no. His white house, way up in the Verdugo Hills, was now known as the home of the rotisserie chicken mogul.
It sat higher than the mansions of doctors, lawyers, and investment bankers. Only a porn king looked down on him. He and Rita drove a Jaguar and a black Mercedes-Benz.