A very dark-skinned Indian man walks in and orders a chicken plate for after salat. For a moment we stare at each other, and then I look away.
“For after salat?” says the proprietor. I’m not used to hearing it as salat, instead of salah. “Friend, I’ll make it for you after salat. It’s not so good otherwise.”
And the customer walks to the back of the store, to where the washrooom is.

The halal shawarma place down the street, besides the best falafels I’ve ever had, also sells kafiyyehs and Puck and Vimto and tiny glass bottles of Arabic shatta. All of them terribly overpriced, but regardless.

And tonight, with two weeks to go in this strange city, I learned they also have a musallah.