Free I'm Not a Terrorist, But I've Played One on TV by Maz Jobrani Page A

embrace.
    â€œSo?”
    â€œDon’t you want to hug?”
    â€œWhat are you, a freak?”
    â€œNo. I just figured since we’re both Iranians we should hug.”
    â€œLook around you. The whole place is Iranian.”
    â€œWait. What’s your name?
    â€œTony.”
    â€œAn Iranian named Tony!”
    â€œAnd that’s my friend Tony. And over there, that’s my other friend, Tony.”
    It was as if I had finally come home.

Los Angeles, California
    M oving to Los Angeles from Northern California was a culture shock to me, much as I imagine it would be for someone from the Midwest. Growing up in Northern California, it was ingrained in us to hate Los Angeles. We were the cool, down-to-earth, lovey-dovey Californians, and Angelenos were the superficial, over-tanned, annoying Californians. They were the hip place everyone in the world had heard of; we were the suburbs. They drove red Ferraris; we drove green Saabs (except for my dad, who, of course, drove the Rolls-Royce, throwing off this entire theory).
    My family had moved into a high-rise on Wilshire Boulevard in Westwood, the Iranian Jeffersons. All of the high-rises on that boulevard were packed with Iranians. One family must have moved into a condo sometime in the 1950s, then word got out and one by one everyone came—cousins, neighbors, aunts, grandparents,roosters. It’s amazing how long a cousin can live out of a suitcase. They come for a week and stay for decades. Whenever you step out of an elevator in a Westwood high-rise your nose is instantly infused with smells of kebabs, saffron, and shambalileh, which are fenugreek leaves. They are an ingredient in a dish called ghormeh sabzi, which is a green broth that we put over white rice and one of the most delicious foods known to mankind. It’s the Iranian equivalent of gravy.
    Persian food is generally some of the best food in the world. If you’ve never had it, find your nearest restaurant, order ghormeh sabzi, chicken kebabs, and the burnt rice at the bottom of the pan called tah deeg. (I know it sounds horrible, but it’s delicious.) And always—ALWAYS—check the bill at the end of the meal because they may try to inflate it. A rule of thumb: If the Persian waiter keeps calling you “my friend” during the meal, chances are you’re going to get overcharged. This is true when dealing with Middle Easterners in any transactional situation. As soon as they call you “my friend,” put your wallet away, back out slowly, then run to the most American establishment you can find—a Sbarro, or an all-you-can-eat Chinese food buffet. Remember, they are NOT your friend.
    I had this happen to me when I visited Morocco years ago. Having grown up in Marin County, I had forgotten the “my friend” rule when a rug salesman invited me into his store to have an innocent look at his wares.
    â€œMy friend, come look at my rugs.”
    â€œWow, that’s so nice. Sure, I’ll come in.”
    After a few minutes, I was checking out the rugs and thinking what a pleasant afternoon it had turned into.
    â€œMy friend, which ten rugs would you like to buy today?”
    â€œTen rugs? I’m sorry, my friend, but I live in a small room in my mother’s condo. The room already has a carpet, so I don’t really have anywhere to put any rugs.”
    â€œNo problem, my friend. Tell me—which three rugs you would like to buy?”
    â€œYou don’t understand, my friend. I don’t have any space. Not even for one rug.”
    â€œMy friend, you buy today for twelve hundred dollars. You sell tomorrow at a great profit in the United States. Just buy, my friend.”
    He had doubled up on his “my friends,” which made the whole thing more confusing. How can you resist two “my friends” in one paragraph? I ended up buying three rugs. I had nowhere to put them, but I had convinced myself this stranger was