Fattoush

In May, I reached Toronto to embark on my new life post-undergrad with my then-boyfriend. We received a warm welcome and found ourselves at a table in The One-Eighty, perched on the fifty-first floor of the Manulife Centre. Our server arrived with our drinks and appetizers. The appetizer was plated beautifully but was clearly airplane guacamole—the type you encounter on domestic flights in a "charcuterie box"—paired with taro chips you could purchase at the grocery store. We had both selected the same drink.

My then-boyfriend took a sip and grimaced. "This tastes like…"

"Cherry cough medicine," I interjected. "It tastes like the Emetrol I had as a kid."

"Yeah, it’s awful," he admitted. "That’s disappointing. But I’m thrilled you’re here. I can’t believe it’s happening. I got you a gift. Close your eyes and hold out your hands."

I complied and felt a box placed into my hands. Opening my eyes, I discovered a black matte jewelry box. Inside rested a tiny black Movado watch with a small, round black dial, a single dot at the 12 o'clock position, thin hands, a stainless steel case, and a narrow strap.

"Aw, thank you," I said, slipping it onto my wrist. It fit perfectly.

"I wanted to get you a respectable starter watch as you enter the professional workforce. You should attempt to find work while you await your work permit. Or perhaps go to grad school," he proposed.

"Isn’t it challenging to find under-the-table work in Toronto? In Canada in general?" inquired.

"Maybe try non-profit work or fundraising, or something in fashion," he recommended.

So, I set out to find work. I updated my resume, used every portal, and reached out to everyone I could for interviews. Landing interviews was straightforward—that wasn’t the problem. The real issue was that I wasn’t allowed to work in Canada. I was just a tourist.

My first interview was with the Jewish National Fund, as my then-boyfriend suggested because his father was involved in all matters related to Jewish civil service. Everything proceeded smoothly, and I knew I presented well and was knowledgeable about the Jewish trees— the Zionist shrubs. I belted out Hatikvah in Arabic at the table. They liked that. However, things shifted when I found myself in a room with three middle-aged women—the bloat of Human Resources.

"We really enjoyed interviewing you," said one woman with a giant wart on her chin, "but why didn’t you fully complete your form? Where is your SIN?"

"My sin?" I asked, puzzled. "Aren’t we all born with original sin? That’s why birth is excruciating and why I’ll need a mommy makeover once I have kids."

"No, your SIN," the pudgy redhead next to her corrected,"Your Social Insurance Number."

"Oh," I replied, fidgeting nervously. "I don’t know what that is. I have a Social Security Number, and I’m from North Carolina."

"You’re an American?" the dirty blonde at the end of the table sneered.

"Uh, yeah,” I confirmed. "Is that a problem? I know English. Many people move here and can barely speak English. It’s a disaster."

"You can’t work here if you don’t have a work permit," the woman with the wart shook her head.

"Do you ever sponsor people?"

"No!"

I walked out, dejected. A few days later, I had another interview, this time for business-to-business sales. I took a cab to the waterfront and rode the elevator to the twenty-third floor. After getting lost, I eventually found the office.

A fat guy resembling the Michelin Man opened the door, wearing a scratchy polyester button-down and slacks. "Are you here for the interview?"

"Yes," I responded.

The interview proceeded smoothly.

"I've asked you all the questions. Do you have any for me about our company?" he inquired.

"What do you guys even sell?" My hands felt clammy, and I rubbed them on my leather pencil skirt.

"We don't know," he admitted, then pointed at my wrist. "Hey, nice watch. I have the same one."

"Oh," I said, glancing down at my wrist, then at his. He wore a similar Movado watch, but his wrist was far less dainty, and his watch strap looked ready to tear. I realized Movado was the timepiece of novice salespeople and janky call centers with water-damaged ceilings. Movado was a lie. A Casio F-91W would be better, way cheaper, and at least it could tell the time.

"I think you could be great at sales. You have a certain moxie about you," he said approvingly. "When can you start?"

"I can begin tomorrow. Do you sponsor Americans?"

"No, why would we do that if we can just hire a Canadian?"

A few days later, boredom struck, so I roamed around Yorkville. Living on Spadina, between Bloor and Dupont, I was just a ten-minute walk from the area. I wandered into boutiques to try on clothes I couldn’t afford and then headed to ONE restaurant at the Hazelton Hotel to unwind. Sitting outside with my old-fashioned, I made eye contact with a man diagonally across from me, scribbling in a Moleskine notebook.

"Hello," he greeted.

"Hi," I smiled back.

"I think I saw you in my store," he said, his accent hinting at Montreal.

"Your store?"

"Yeah, TNT," he clarified. "I'm Ari. You looked great in the clothes. You should wear some of my pieces for social media."

"Oh, do you hire Americans?"

"Of course," he waved off my question like it was absurd. "Come by the store at nine in the morning."

Excited for the under-the-table work, I showed up promptly. I worked alongside a fashionable Korean stylist named Melissa. Most of the customers were wealthy older women clinging to the vestiges of their youth, often accompanied by chihuahuas and golden doodles in prams. They tried on Balmain coats with heavy shoulder pads and wore dreadful Comme des Garçons high-tops.

Their faces barely moved, making it hard to tell if they were happy or not. Many simultaneously lamented or rejoiced their divorces from wealthy husbands. Despite their complaints, they shopped at a nice store and had kids, unlike me, who only wore expensive dresses for advertising purposes. They often inquired about my background, assessing my epigenetic makeup.

Melissa and I handled clients together. After securing their card and commission, she would either praise them or gossip behind their backs. I wondered how many of these women had genuine friends and feared aging in spite of all their wealth.

One day, I walked into the backroom with extra merchandise and saw Ari gifting Melissa a Bottega Veneta hobo bag and twisting her nipples and lunging his tongue down her esophagus. I didn’t stick around to watch more—it wasn't my scene. Besides, I was more of an exhibitionist and less of a voyeurist.

Payment never arrived. Each time I asked Ari, he brushed me off. One day, I confronted him at ONE restaurant.

"Hey, Ari, can we talk about my payment? It's been a month," I said, trying to stay calm.

Ari’s phone rang, and he snapped, "Yes, what?! I wanted that shipment from Montreal to Vancouver, but you idiots messed it up!"

He hung up and glared at me. "WHAT?!"

"When do I get paid? I’ve been working for a month without any compensation."

"You are so annoying and spoiled. I let you wear nice clothes and have a cool internship. I came from nothing. My family fled Lebanon to escape anti-Semitism, and I grew up in the worst part of Montreal," he ranted.

"I thought this was a job, not an internship. I just want to know when I get paid. And your parents left Lebanon, not you. They did the work for you. You lived in Montreal, not Chi-raq."

"Shut up!" he snapped. A pretty young brunette woman approached, and Ari’s expression softened. "Princess!"

"Daddy, I need your card to buy an Issey Miyake dress and go to Canoe this evening with my boyfriend. Can I use your card?"

"Sure, sweetheart," he smiled, handing her the AmEx. "Just keep doing well in school."

"Thanks, daddy!" she said, flipping her hair. "We need to discuss my rhinoplasty. I got the dorsal bump off, but my nose could look better with another finesse rhinoplasty."

"Anything for my princess, as long as her grades are good," Ari looked at her lovingly.

"Hey, before you get your daughter another nose job, can you pay your employees first? Are you just mad that I won’t do whatever Melissa does with you?" I interrupted.

My parents would never do that for me; they were consummate schnorrers, and my father was never warm towards me. I never really had a "daddy," except during college, I guess.

I hated that I cared about any of this shit. I hated that my commodified desires stemmed from a bunch of cackling ad-exec homos in a back room deciding that I should care about these clothes or surgeries.

Ari never paid me.

I stormed off and wandered around Yorkville, entering stores and inquiring about under-the-table work. Only one person showed interest—a Jamaican woman named Donna, who owned a tiny hair salon. "Yeah, I need a desk lady, and you look, high-class. You’re perfect. And I can experiment on your hair," she said.

Apparently, I did look high-class enough because one of her filthy rich clients came in for extensions. As I chatted with her in a superficial hostess-like manner, she narrowed her eyes and sneered with her gross, hydraulic lips, "You sound... educated."

"Umm, I only went to undergrad," I replied, feeling ashamed. "Speaking well costs nothing."

Donna genuinely paid me ten bucks an hour. However, there was one guy she hired who I suspected she didn’t pay—a schizophrenic homeless man named Tommy Rango. Tommy swept hair, worked in the backroom, took out the garbage, and ran some errands for Donna, but I never saw her give him any money. One day during our lunch break, we shared the same wooden bench outside, and I asked him, "Does Donna pay you?"

"No," he admitted. "Well, she pays me in food. She says she can’t pay me because I don’t have an address. Also, you need to stop eating that shit." Tommy pointed at my A&W Beyond Meat burger. At that point in my life, I refused to eat non-kosher meat outside the house, so I opted for dairy or pareve food, like this Beyond Meat sandwich.

"Why?" I asked, staying silent about my cash payments.

"Because they use stem cells to make the burgers. I know. I saw it. They’re trying to poison you with that vegan shit. You’re going to grow an ear out of your back like the lab rats they use."

A few weeks later, I got fired for buying the wrong cat food for Donna’s new designer Bengal and refusing to get an undercut for her social media page.

By this point, my distrust had reached its peak, and I made it clear one evening when my then-husband mentioned a new job opportunity facilitated by his father, who worked in Jewish civil service, particularly in fundraising. The job involved helping a dubious figure named Mr. Wynn, a wealthy slum lord, improve his tarnished reputation through philanthropic ventures, including funding the foundation where my then-boyfriend’s father served as executive director.

"This sounds sketchy," I voiced my concerns to my then-boyfriend.

"Well, he is sketchy," my then-boyfriend conceded. "But I could earn an extra $250,000 a year setting up and managing a fund for him. He’s planning to leave the country soon anyway."

My then-boyfriend met Mr. Wynn at a restaurant below his office, just a stone's throw from our apartment on Spadina, to discuss business over fattoush and shakshouka.

"How did it go?"I inquired upon his return.

"He loves the fattoush, and I mentioned you make a mean one,"my then-boyfriend replied.

That much was true—I did make a solid fattoush.

"He talked about his plans to move to the Bahamas full-time and showed me pictures of his 'tight' Colombian girlfriend—his words. Apparently, she’s seventeen and still wears braces,"my then-boyfriend continued. "He also bragged about cutting corners on property maintenance. He wants to meet you, both of us actually. I showed him your pictures, and he’s interested in having you make him fattoush and possibly drafting a contract."

On the weekend, we made our way to Forest Hill to dine at Mr. Wynn's sprawling seven-bedroom Current Classical Revival mansion. In the kitchen, the ingredients for fattoush awaited. I deftly sliced ripe tomatoes, crisp cucumbers, radishes, and green onions, focusing on the task while my then-boyfriend and Mr. Wynn delved into business matters in the dining room. As I toasted the bread and crafted the dressing, curiosity about their discussion lingered, but I pushed it aside. Finally, I garnished the salad with parsley and mint.

Carrying the bowl into the dining room, I presented the fattoush to Mr. Wynn, who sat at a long, polished table with an air of anticipation. He smiled appreciatively as I set it down before him.

"Thank you," he said smoothly, his voice resonant. "This looks exquisite."

I nodded briefly, meeting his gaze before taking my seat. Mr. Wynn savored the first bite, the flavors of fresh vegetables and tangy dressing mingling perfectly with the crispy pita. He leaned back, visibly enjoying the culinary creation.

"This is better than the fattoush at my usual spot downstairs," he admitted with a satisfied grin.

"Thank you,"I replied graciously, then lapsed into silence, allowing the men to continue their conversation. Mr. Wynn, equal parts charming and ostentatious, regaled us with tales of his escapades with women, his young Colombian girlfriend, and the impending family squabble over the Wynn fortune, which he described vividly enough to conjure images of animated Studio Ghibli-esque pigs in linen suits and Tommy Bahama hats casting lots over their father’s fortune.

My then-boyfriend nervously chuckled along, attempting to stay in Mr. Wynn’s good graces, while I seethed internally.

"Hey toots," Mr. Wynn interjected, his speech slightly slurred, turning to me, "I need more napkins. Can you grab some?"

"Sure," I replied tersely, eager to escape the uncomfortable atmosphere. Arak had dulled our senses enough.

In the kitchen, I retrieved the napkins and returned, placing them on the table. As I did, Mr. Wynn brazenly touched my backside. My then-boyfriend remained silent as Mr. Wynn remarked, "What a fine lady you have. Yummy, like this fattoush. She’s sharper than you, buddy. She’s converting too. Amazing. She’s practically a desert Latina, like my Colombian."

"I’m going to excuse myself," I announced firmly, feeling violated, and left the dining room.

Ascending the spiral staircase to the third floor, I stumbled upon a wood-hewn atelier. Inside, an elegant older woman in a silk chemise was painting at an easel, surrounded by canvases in various stages of completion.

"Who are you?" I asked, suddenly aware of intruding upon her sanctuary.

"I’m Saul’s wife."

"Oh."

"Care for some weed?"she offered casually, lighting a joint.

"Thanks, but no," I declined politely. "Are these paintings oil or acrylic?"

"Acrylic,"she replied, taking a drag from the joint.

We stood in silence until tears welled up in her eyes, and she began to sob uncontrollably.

"What’s wrong?"I asked softly, feeling a pang of sympathy.

"I’m going to be all alone. Saul is leaving."

"I’m sorry to hear that," I offered awkwardly. "Honestly, you might be better off. He doesn’t seem like the best company."

"If you marry for wealth,"she said, "you earn every penny."

We shared a moment of understanding before I descended the stairs. My then-boyfriend was standing, ready to leave. He took my arm firmly. "We’re leaving, babe. Goodbye, Mr. Wynn."

As we exited the heavy birch door, I asked, "What happened? Why storm out now?"

"He’s not interested in philanthropy or preserving the family legacy," my then-boyfriend confessed. "He wanted a facade of charity, and now the Canadian Revenue Agency is on his tail. He’s off to the Bahamas soon, and he wanted me to take the fall for a measly $250k a year."

"I knew it,"I said, feeling a mix of disappointment and anger, actually just malignant contempt, towards my then-boyfriend for not standing up for me and for believing Mr. Wynn’s dubious schemes.

A few months later, the building that housed Mr. Wynn’s office and restaurant was demolished entirely, and we never heard from him again.