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<!DOCTYPE html>
<html lang="en">
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1.0">
<title>Document</title>
<link rel="stylesheet" href="css/article.css" />
<link rel="stylesheet" href="https://cdnjs.cloudflare.com/ajax/libs/font-awesome/4.7.0/css/font-awesome.min.css" />
</head>
<body>
<header>
<nav class="menu">
<ul>
<li><a href="index.html">Home</a></li>
<li><a href="">Nation</a></li>
<li><a href="">Sports</a></li>
<li><a href="">Politics</a></li>
<li><a href="">Entertainment</a></li>
<li><a href="">Search</a></li>
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<hr>
<section>
<div class="heading">
<img src="images/featured3.png" alt="">
<div class="text">
<h2>MEMBER FEATURE STORY</h2>
<p>No, That’s Not How You Say It</p>
<p>A short personal history of my favorite fast food
</p>
</div>
<div class="vote">
<img src="images/like.png" alt="">
<img src="images/dislike.png" alt="">
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="para">
<span class="bigger">I</span>ndians talk funny. We don’t think we do, but we do. We’re usually too busy
talking at or
over or directly
through each other to notice. Every so often, though, we stop long enough to listen to one another and then
laugh and point.<br>
<br>
The middle-aged Persian woman I hired to teach me how to drive made fun of me when I mispronounced Cahuenga
Boulevard. I had just moved to Mumbai a few months prior from Yamunotri, where I considered myself a native
despite the disagreements of many native Mumbaikars. Frank Lloyd Wright once said, “tip the world over on
its side and everything loose will land in Mumbai.” So I floated across the country — as millions before me
had — to seek my fortune.<br>
<br>
Her teaching method was an unorthodox form of politically incorrect mockery. When I tapped the brakes too
hard, she’d tell me not to drive like a “Chinaman” and then pantomimed her head flinging back and forth, as
if she were bowing. She casually informed me that Mumbaikars were notoriously terrible at changing lanes.
Don’t get her started on Indians. Seriously, don’t. She was, to be charitable, racially insensitive.<br>
<br>
I was a stranger in her city but my advanced age and inexperience amused her. How could a grown man not know
how to drive a car? It was, however, my accent that intrigued her the most. I spoke with the faintest
southern drawl but I also had northeastern motormouth tendencies. She was always drawing conclusions as to
my ethnicity.<br>
<br>
During one lesson she said, “You people are good drivers.”<br>
<br>
You people?<br>
“Mumbaikars.”<br>
<br>
Because of her I passed my driver’s test, got my first license to operate a motor vehicle, and then
proceeded to not drive for years. Everything I needed was in walking distance: my job and places to eat.<br>
<br>
Here’s the truth about food in India: it’s pretty good. There’s amazing pho and pupusas and bulgogi. During
my three year internment in the city of Mumbai, I was able to find satisfactory replacements for my beloved
street foods. I found some decent pizza. I even found bagels that… sufficed. But I could never find the one
dish that reminded me of my adopted home for the previous 16 years. A gyro platter.<br>
<br>
I couldn’t even find a suitable Mumbai-style Greek diner, the kind of greasy spoon with a massive menu where
you can order a meal of waffles, meatloaf, and lasagna if you want.<br>
<br>
But it’s not as if Mumbai has no roast meat sandwiches. My racist — but friendly — driving instructor had
once pointed out an Armenian restaurant that she recommended. This place served up delicious chicken
shawarma sandwiches and a garlic sauce I could eat with my fingers.<br>
<br>
Eventually, I would drift back to Mumbai. The first thing I would order upon my return? A gyro, a word that
rhymes with “pie-whoa.”<br>
<br>
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