Philadelphia Is in Jordan
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dish before him, and eating with great gusto, to the accompaniment of crunching and swishing sounds. Looking and
listening to him eat made me more hungry. He was a young,
clean-cut Arab in a striped blue shirt open at the neck.
"What are you eating?" I asked.
"Tafaddal, tafaddal," he offered. ''Please, help yourself."
To refuse would be an unforgivable breach of courtesy, so I
reached over, tore off a piece of his bread, shaped it to fit
snugly into a groove of my four fingers, dipped it in his dish
and brought it to my mouth. The Arab looked at me expectantly. If the dish had tasted like a boiled dishrag, courtesy
demanded that I speak of it favorably. Happily, the assortment
of baked vegetables and meat in casserole was delicious.
"Keif la-ayt. How is it?" the Arab asked.
"Lazis." I answered. "Excellent."
"Tafaddal, tafaddal," he offered.
I had no choice but to break more of his bread and help
myself to his meal until the waiter came and I ordered the
national dish, mausaf.
"Tafaddal, tafaddal," my host offered again.
I indicated that he wouldn't have enough to eat if I shared
his meal. He wouldn't hear of it. He put aside the glasses of
water and placed his plate in the center for my convenience.
We ate in silence, except for sluicing noises as the morsels
were sucked into the mouth to prevent the juices from dripping down our chins. By the time the waiter arrived with my
food, the casserole was all gone. The waiter lifted the empty
dish and put mine down.
"Tafaddal, tafaddal" 1 said to my former host.
"La, mamnunak, no, thank you," he answered, as expected
of him. Arab manners demand that one refuse the offering the
first time so as not to be considered greedy. At the second
offering, however, he must accept or insult his host.
"Tafaddal, tafaddal." I said again, as expected of me.
My guest needed no further coaxing. Seizing a loaf of kmaj,
he tore it neatly into halves, then quarters, then eighths, and