"My parents, brother, and I left Iran in 1980, shortly after the revolution. After a brief stay in Italy, we packed all our belongings once again and headed west to the exotic and the unknown: Vancouver. We had recently been accepted as landed immigrants, meaning Canada graciously opened its doors and we gratefully accepted; we arrived at Vancouver International Airport on my 10th birthday, three suitcases and one sewing machine in tow. After respectful but intense questioning at immigration, we were dropped off at a hotel on Robson Street, which was then still a couple years shy of becoming the fashionable tourist hub it is today. We were jetlagged, culture shocked, and hungry, so that first night, my father and brother courageously ventured out into the wild in search of provisions. I fell asleep before they returned.

The next morning, I woke up at 5 a.m. and ravenously feasted on a cold Quarter Pounder with cheese and limp French fries that had been left by my bedside. This first bite of the West was full of promise and flavor; however, as is often the case with fast food, it didn’t properly fill me up. At the time, there was one Persian restaurant in North Vancouver, owned by the family of a new friend. The restaurant boasted a split menu: Persian food and all the trimmings on one side, and North American fare on the other. This menu told my story of navigating life caught in the “in between” better than I could, flawlessly code-switching from clubhouse sandwiches with a side of fries at lunch to dinner of kabab koobideh, rice, charred tomato, and sumac for sprinkling, all to be washed down with doogh." -  Naz Deravian