“I’ve heard you have the best pitas in all of Sofia.”
“Who am I to argue with what people are saying?” Jamal said, looking up from the cash register to find a well-dressed middle-aged man drumming his fingers on the counter. “What can I get you?”
“Would it be possible to make an order for one hundred and fifty?”
Jamal stepped back, not surprised at the large order but rather that the man was speaking to him in colloquial Arabic. “I’m sure that can be arranged,” he said, turning to his brother for confirmation. Standing near one of the ovens, Amar nodded his consent.
“Good,” the customer said. “I will pay you now, in advance. Could you have the order ready if I come by tomorrow at three?”
Jamal rang up the purchase and handed over the change and a receipt. “Dovizhdane,” he said, instinctively saying goodbye in Bulgarian.
“Shukran,” the man replied in Arabic as he left the bakery.
Read the rest of the story on Isele Magazine.
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