"​Fathers Under a Snow Moon: A Visit to Yalla Mr. Halal"

Fathers under fluorescent light—where fried fish meets forgotten bloodlines, and a snow moon waits outside.

A fish salad alone didn’t seem sufficient to anchor a review of the new establishment on Main Street—Yalla Mr. Halal–Mohamed & Kaid—which opened last month on the ground floor of the Lofts on Main Apartment Building, directly across from Peekskill Plaza. My experience there wasn’t defined by the food, which, truthfully, failed to excite me. It wasn’t remarkably different from what one might find at their other bodega, Gourmet Deli, further down Main near Nelson at City Hall.

What lingered instead was the interior: black seats lining a long, open space, vibrant with oranges and warm light. The atmosphere was captivating. This location once housed Blondery, a popular spot whose closure remains a mystery to me. Appearances can be deceiving—what seems promising on the surface may conceal a different reality behind the scenes.

Meeting the Family
During my pickup (they’ve yet to offer seating), I met one of the owner’s sons. His name escaped me—not out of complexity, but because my mind tends to release names that aren’t as everyday as Bob, Tom, or Harry. Still, I remember his warmth, his pleasant demeanor, and the ease of our conversation. His black eyes held something quietly magnetic.

He prepared a salad topped with fried white fish for me. It was good enough, and I finished it over two days—mostly because I was hungry that night.

While he was in the kitchen, I met his father. I wondered whether the son would resemble him in time, and reflected on how people change with age. Youthful beauty matures into something else. Some improve with age, but not all.

Men often lose their hair or gain weight—changes I don’t favor, though I suppose they’re preferable to the alternative. So long as one is alive and active, there’s something to be grateful for.

Generational Differences
The father differed notably from his son—lighter in complexion, wearing a traditional Muslim cap after removing his hoodie. Though similar in height, he appeared much older than his likely late forties, especially beside his son, whose twenties still clung to him.

Meeting them stirred thoughts of my own father, who, I’d heard, was popular with women in his youth. I suspect I’m not his only estranged child. Stories about him reached me secondhand from the place I was born—a place I had to leave to avoid being consumed by regret, by a lack of love, by a culture that never felt like mine.

Curiosity led me to search his name online. I found his obituary and learned more than I ever knew: born January 7, 1940, affectionately called “Bubba.”

He had three acknowledged children—two sons and a daughter—but my existence, as expected for a love child, went unmentioned.

That didn’t bother me.

​I focused instead on his face, seeking hints of my own future in his aging features. He had aged well, though he looked different from the young man in the old photograph I once saw. Questions lingered—Did he drink? Smoke? What were my half-siblings like?—but I decided I didn’t need to know more.

Perhaps this history explains my indifference to family ties. The family I was meant to have never existed, and that absence has shaped my view of kinship.

Under the Snow Moon
All these thoughts drifted through me under a snow moon at the start of February, after I delivered the last Christmas present to Nathan G. at Whiskey River. When he came around the bar to hug me, I accidentally kissed his neck—a moment I had quietly wished for. I hoped, since he’s a married man, it didn’t alarm him.

As February begins and Black History Month arrives, the holiday decorations are packed away, the tree comes down, and the season shifts—quietly, expectantly.

And in honor of Black History Month, we might recall the words James Baldwin shares in The Evidence of Things Not Seen.

​He writes:

“White people don’t hate Black people—if they did, we’d all be Black.”
—as spoken by an old Black woman, standing on her porch in Alabama.

Two sons—one born of halal, one born of absence. Both standing, both becoming.