There is a restaurant I like in the city that serves mediterannean food and the best Moroccan mint tea. Above the door to this restaurant is a stained glass window that reads Le Billet Doux, though that is not its name. I like the way the words roll around in my mouth like a kibbeh. Le billet doux, le billet doux. Cold cucumber soup and karni.
It means love letter, and for years now I have been meaning to incorporate the phrase into my life somehow, but it's like a joke that I always forget to tell. Love letter. I am the worst joke teller ever, giggling before I get to the punch line, apologizing for captivity.
(At the bottom of the menu at this restaurant are the words Anoush ella! I find that I cannot forget these words smushed as they are next to the list of desserts. Rosewater infused pudding with pistachios. Like a song whose lyrics suffer the fate of an ear worm. Anoush ella! I think it must be said with an exclamation point, Armenian for may it be sweet.)
Dates and nuts rolled in phyllo, served warm.
Happy Friday (may it be).