Cafe Make in Dubai Marina was filled with young professionals, eyes locked on their computers. A tall, thin woman in her 30s, wearing gray starched pinstriped pants and a vest to match, stepped into the room on 5-inch black strappy shoes. In her steps followed a woman in Louis Vuitton ballet slippers, a shiny gold Fendi belt hanging over her white jeans and a green silk scarf choking at her neck. They strutted the crowded cafe before noticing the last two open seats, my table, and me. Without hesitation the taller woman marched forward on clicking heels, coming to rest in front of me. “Do you mind if we sit here?” she asked. Her comrade slid up behind her. “Yes, please,” I answered.
After a few minutes of hovering over their menus, the shorter woman looked up and broke the silence. “What are you gonna have?”
“I don’t know,” the taller woman said, her eyes on the menu, an elbow on the table and her head in her hand. “I don’t see anything with chicken.”
The shorter woman loosened the scarf around her neck. “You know,” she said. “Weekends I cook like one or two main courses, so I have food for a few days; ’cause I don’t like to eat out every day. I mix different recipes together.”
“That’s nice,” said the tall woman as she turned to the waiter to order a chicken sandwich.
Her friend ordered a tuna salad and continued, “What is a famous Russian dish?”
The tall woman crossed her legs, leaned forward and answered, “A borsch, which is a Russian soup. It’s a very thick vegetable soup. Dumplings.” She punctuated her words with her hands, “but not like Chinese dumplings. It’s different. Well, a little bit different.”
The other woman nodded her head and said, “My friend invited me to her kid’s birthday party on Thursday. I am working on Thursdays. Why does she invite me?” Her hand found the silk scarf again, stroking and rolling the end of it with her fingers.
“She keeps talking about her kids. She’s talking, talking, talking about the kids. I am not interested!” she blurted. Her tall friend sat motionless and blank. “All night long,” she continued. “Why do I have to go if they talk about their kids all night long?” She leaned back a bit as the waiter delivered the food.
“And if you don’t go,” she smirked and grabbed her fork, “they get upset.”
She jabbed at the lettuce and tuna a few times before shooting a forkful into her mouth. She circled the fork in the air as if urging herself to chew faster.
“There are no good girls in Dubai. There are not!” she stated, and jabbed the tuna again. “I am searching for a girlfriend, but I can not find. Everyone complains wherever I go.
I think expectations are very high, not like olden-days.”
The tall woman wiped her mouth with a napkin, pushed her half finished chicken sandwich to the side and reached for her notebook. “Ok,” she said “Lets start editing.”
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