My Lahmajoon Lady

BY ARMEN D. BACON
Guest Columnist

Armen Bacon

In the span of our lifetimes, people come and go. They enter and exit our lives. We sometimes bump into them quite by accident and somehow, they become valued and cherished friends. Go figure.

I have often wondered if these are accidental or chance meetings, or a result of fate, kismet or the design of destiny. For now, I am quite satisfied to think of them simply as magical moments where lives intersect and connect.

Who really cares how or why we might find each other across a crowded room? Or in the instance I am about to describe, in a tiny, almost anonymous bakery right off Ashlan Avenue and Freeway 41 in Fresno. This story is about a special friend I have found. I know her only as “My Lahmajoon Lady.”

She works tirelessly behind the counter and behind the one-way glass window of my favorite lahmajoon kitchen, The Bread Basket. She kneads the dough, works the register, stocks the shelves and waits on customers. She bakes from dawn until dusk. “Harrd vork,” she once confessed to me, under her breath with a thick Armenian accent.

I imagine that we live worlds apart, even though we both reside in Fresno. Each morning, as my alarm sounds, I have the luxury of sipping my coffee and leisurely reading the newspaper. From what little she has shared, she is already busy at work, in the storefront kitchen, well into her 12-hour workday.

Her uniform is a stain-soaked apron. Mine, by contrast, is a tailored suit that includes heels and matching handbag. We are different as day and night, and yet, from the moment I first met her — I sensed a special bond, a sisterhood that has, over time, become a quiet, unspoken friendship thicker than the dough that is made in the back room of her modest bakery.

Our eyes lock immediately each time I scurry in for my usual order — a dozen lahmajoon (the spicy variety), two pounds of seeded string cheese, and of course, fresh lahvosh bread. There is rarely time for anything more than small talk. I am rushing through my lunch-hour errands. She has other customers waiting.

And so, we go our separate ways, knowing almost nothing about one another. But my sixth sense, that Armenian intuition, those cultural vibrations can’t help but believe that we have thoughts in common — about life’s journey, its uncertainties, the untold trials and tribulations, and other personal struggles. Neither of us asks too many questions. There is no time for inquisition. The simplicity of a smile and a warm handshake as she hands me my purchase, is sufficient for now.

The sweat drips visibly off of her weary forehead. In the moment of that observation, I make a mental note that our connection most certainly must transcend this weekly lahmajoon transaction. It feels centuries old, probably embedded deep within us through our heritage. We are both Armenian women. The lines on our face are evidence of dreams. And disappointments. I can see that she remains hopeful. Driven. And determined. So am I.

But we are too busy to discuss this now. What a shame, since there is a small wooden table in the bakery that would be a perfect retreat — a momentary time out for us to drink coffee and make conversation. Maybe another day.

Eventually, I think we both got curious. It was time for the exchange to move beyond the purchase of lahmajoon. I stalled my usual exit. The small talk lingered. I remember it felt like an oven in the store; I must have acknowledged the heat and offered sympathy for her working conditions. She conceded that it came with the territory. I confessed that I loved the heat of our summers.

And then, almost in unison — we each offered a morsel of detail about our personal life — our birthdates. We were both born on the third of July.

Funny how a small coincidence can cement an unexplainable connection that both of us had been feeling for months. The floodgates opened. We shared pieces of our lives. We spoke of love, loss, of life’s hardships. Our whispered exchange felt like the true confessions between high school girls. And then one of us gently hinted that we might treat ourselves to a glass of wine, a cup of Turkish coffee, or something to celebrate our friendship on the occasion of our upcoming birthdays.

Had the counter been a few inches shorter — we might have embraced at that very moment. But instead, she bagged up my purchases, and returned to her back room. Her 12-hour day was only half done. My lunch hour was almost over and it was time for me to return to my air-conditioned office.

July 3 came. I stopped by to wish her a happy birthday. She insisted I join her in the back kitchen to share a piece of birthday cake. She had a gift waiting for me. I presented her with this story about two Armenian women. We embraced, celebrating a shared birthday and a special friendship. And a bond born from lahmajoon.

Armen Bacon was born and raised in Fresno, California and is Administrator of Communications & Public Relations for the Fresno County Superintendent of Schools. She has a BA degree in psychology as well as a master’s degree in organizational management. Since 2004, her thoughts and writings have been published in the Valley Voices section of The Fresno Bee. Armen also writes and voices a daily radio feature for KJWL 99.3 titled Live, Laugh, Love. She can be reached at armendbacon@aol.com

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6 Comments

  1. Robert Kachadourian said:

    I applaud your article.  However, let’s once & for all get rid of the nomenclature using “Turkish coffee”.  Use “demitasse”, Armenian coffee etc.  

  2. Garo Avedis said:

    Turks being Mongolian origin,their national drink is tea,there is no Turkish coffee,only Armenian coffee

  3. boghos vranyan said:

    seriously, folks? the Asbarez publishes literature on its pages, and all you can do is obsess over the word Turkish and whether the author has a right to call the coffee Turkish or Armenian?

    Is that all you can comment on? is that all you walk away with?

    Is there no respect to poetic license in literature? is there no regard for the history that came with being born an Armenian in Fresno and why entire generations who escaped the genocide were taught to call what they drank as Turkish coffee?

    Why must all of you be so limited and judge everyone’s words and misinterpret intentions and deliberate the shapes of clouds when there are nuclear rockets aimed right at you ready to obliterate your diaspora?

    Maybe it’s this literature and these commentaries (and these are not news articles or academic papers) with their unique verbiage and voices that is meant to build our culture rather than make it an object of pointless criticism?

    Can’t anyone out there nurture our writers, encourage them, react with some intelligence? how do you expect future generations of aspiring writers to read these essays, read the comments after, and even consider writing in our community media and press? why should they?
    my apologies to those i offended.

  4. Gayaneh said:

    Thank you, Armen, for the beautiful story, I enjoyed reading it and I could see you two in that cafe, looking at each other and having that feeling of same origin.

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