Comfort Food

One of our favorite restaurants is India Palace, perched atop a hotel overlooking the St. Louis airport. We’ve been taking Ian there since he was a baby; the food for us, the planes for him.

The staff are welcoming and helpful, quick and efficient, and are led by a stoic Sikh wearing a blue turban. He talks little and smiles less, and leaves patrons to their meals.

Yesterday Kelly and I waited at the table while Ian’s grandparents took him to the buffet. Soon after, we heard a loud shatter and Ian’s voice, ‘It was just an accident!’ Frightened and embarrassed, he began to cry.

And the man in the blue turban—whose name, we’ve learned, is Singh—took my son into his arms, and gave him a hug.

Later, shards and tears swept away, Singh refilled Ian’s water glass and quickly turned to leave. Ian stopped him, ‘What’s your name?’

And Singh smiled.

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