The green sign beckons to me. A beacon in the distance, I am drawn to it. I am a traveller, a Marco Polo for meat, an Ibn Battuta of broth, ambling towards my salvation. Out of the desert, I need a Canteen. Alhamdulillah, I have arrived.
The streets of the great qasbah of Davis, California, American Empire are eerie this day. The great oasis in the desert, but a stone's throw from the seat of Sutter Health Stadium, home of the jinn-like Rivercats, harbors a secret of soup. Students of the honorable university bustle here and there. Here — one goes into a boba shop. There — one goes into a boba shop. And there — one goes into a boba shop, but with a twist — they also sell fried chicken (I assume halal). How delicious! Truly Davis is a wonderland of delicious culinary delights, where eight paradises of 8th Street and four gardens of grub await. Inshallah, I will there meet the great liquids I so desire.
Oh, Davis! From donkeys to cows with bloody rumps and professors with large members, you draw travellers from far and wide to your door. And now I have come, tired from my trek upon the road from the unholy City of Angels, to taste your wonderful liquids.
Davis is no heavenly panacea, oh, far from it. As with any qasbah, I search for the shrine of soup, for the Sufi saint of slurping broth. Hajji, where do you go? I go to find soup. Many in the bazaar of E street see me, and melt into the darkness. And the Dajjal calls out to me, all at once.
The Dajjal. There it is, Sophia's Thai. A dastardly bar. Loud, obnoxious. Poor outdoor seating that would alight the insecurities of the most COVID-conscious neurotic Jewish man. The Dajjal tries to tempt me.
But I am no magician. Sophia's Thai stands before me, and I attempt to resist its charms. The Dajjal feeds me a massaman curry, and I fight his ways. He serves me a tom kha gai, and that is when His salvation smiles upon me. The price does not match the portion. Sophia's Thai has underestimated the cheapness of a dhimmi. I may pay the jizya, but I do not pay excessive prices for small portions. Is this chicken even halal?
Just like this, the Dajjal has failed.
I am lost. I still have not found my soup. But I am reminded of the ways in which he operates. When Musa wandered in the desert, did he give up? When Yunus was in the belly of the great beast, did he forget His Name? When Yusuf found himself abandoned, did he lose his faith?
I use my now useless Persian knowledge. I recite this couplet, and I reaffirm my faith in soup.
من باید سوپ را پیدا کنم
من یکی با گوشت هستمFor those who are unlearned, this is one of the most beautiful couplets ever composed. It reads, "I must find the soup. I am one with the meat."
I must find the soup.
I am one with the meat.
For why have I travelled to this oasis town? Why do I seek the knowledge of the great scholars of soup? Why do I make pilgrimage to Davis?
I must find the soup.
I am one with the meat.
Fine, Sophia's. I will pay my zakat sales tax. Fine, I will see the mockery of the pork dishes on your menu. I will face the abuse of the heathen Nick the Greek restauranteur man across the street. But my faith is unbending. And I see the green sign.
Thai Canteen, it reads. Thai Canteen. It fills me with satisfaction. A chain restaurant, no doubt, but one which originates in Sultan Newsom's city of Sacramento. Caliph Biden surely knows of this establishment. It has been blessed, hallowed, then.
Mashallah! I had arrived. It was the most peaceful Ramadan in all of the Central Valley, and the hallowed Canteen opened its doors. A Canteen for a thirsty traveler in the desert. Far less classy than Sophia's, but simple — a simplicity which only a true believer in soup can appreciate.
It is then that my faith is tested.
The Dajjal is cunning. He makes me believe the numbers of the different dishes on the menu are their prices, and such very inflated. I will not pay in credit. I will not allow others to practice usury on this dhimmi's behalf. I consider fleeing. I will find heaven in another establishment. But I am reassured that these prices are actually quite reasonable. My heart is quelled.
I order the tom kha gai. Ah yes, a favorite of mine. I have heard tell of the Canteen's great dishes. Noodles with egg and soy, noodles with egg and tamarind. But I seek soup. I was Majnun, longing in the desert. But now, my madness has been quelled. I find soup.
The soup is presented to me. I say Bismillah. Sunni or Shia, Ismaili or Zaidi, Chishti or Naqshbandi, can we not all not enjoy soup? I take my spoon and dunk it into Sultan Newsom's liquid heaven.
But my faith is tasted again. This is no heaven. This soup is no good.
I am from the Hanafi legal school of soup connoisseurship. I first examine the precedent of the Quran and hadith. But in neither is knowledge of the soup I speak of. I look for analogy to the first decades of Islam, but in none of the stories of the Companions do I find solutions. No Thai delicacies are mentioned in the tales of Abu Bakr. In Umar's story there is no recollection of coconut soup from Southeast Asia. So I must find a qadi. But there is none. So I issue my own ruling. This soup is not good.
The chicken (hopefully halal) is too much. I did not travel this far for too much meat. I want to be one with meat, but I also must be one with broth.
The mushrooms are unholy. Unclean, unpure, poorly washed. Not even the special straw mushrooms, no, these are cremini. I shudder. They come from a land as unholy as Italy.
The broth itself must be mentioned. I search for soup, and it found me. Why does He test me like this? I find broth, but it does nothing for me. I find spice, yet it does not elevate me. I find viscosity.
Alas, the viscosity score is upon us. The viscosity of a tom kha gai should be as the viscosity of the milk of the goat I have given for zakat. But this viscosity is not right. I despise it.
I travelled to Davis across the sahara of California with a dream of soup. I was Hamza, Majnun, in search of peace. I found the Dajjal and fear, but I also found knowledge and the way of the ulema. In this qasbah of Davis, on Ramadan, I took iftar. He tested me with bad soup. But I have made my vow. I wrote my couplet. I will find good soup. Inshallah, I will find it yet.
Soup Score: Overall eh, 4.8/10
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