Often, on Saturday nights when I was growing up in Washington, D.C., a steady flow of guests would arrive at the home of my parents. Hors d’oeuvres (mezza) would be passed and drinks offered, all under the watchful eye of my mother. My brothers and I were the waiters, bartenders, and kitchen help. Being the youngest, I was always in the kitchen with my mother. (Little did I know that I was a work in progress.) Everything ran according to plan, the table had been set the night before, silver polished days in advance, and all food preparations completed before the first guests arrived. Following dinner and dessert, Turkish coffee (qahwa) would be offered to most, while white coffee (qahwa bida) was offered to others. Some guests would begin to leave, while others stayed late into the night playing backgammon and telling jokes. Others would play cards and listen to the latest Farouz tape.