Last Name Basis

The chef's knife disappeared beneath my trembling fingers as I stared at the email glowing on my phone—confirmation for an 8:45 PM reservation at Umami, the most exclusive sushi restaurant in Seattle.

"Ya salam!" I exclaimed to my empty apartment. My cat Mochi—named during a misguided Japanese food phase—looked at me with typical disdain before returning to her grooming.

My name—Jon Khoury—glowed on the screen. I hadn't made this reservation.

Which could only mean one thing: there was another Jon Khoury out there. My name doppelganger had somehow entered my email incorrectly when booking this impossible-to-get reservation.

And now, according to the booking system's bizarre rules, it was mine.

I hadn't eaten anything but instant noodles in three days. My editing job at Northwest Literary Review paid just enough for rent, but precious little beyond that. Real sushi—the kind made by chefs who trained for decades—wasn't exactly in my budget.

I squinted at the reservation details. It was for tonight. Two hours from now.

"Inshallah, this is a gift from the universe," I told Mochi, who responded by licking her paw with renewed vigor.

I abandoned my sad cup noodles and threw open my closet door. Nothing remotely suitable for Umami. I dug deeper and unearthed a button-down that still had the tags on it. My teta had given it to me last Christmas with a pointed "Shu hal manzar? Dress like a proper Lebanese man now that you're thirty."

Tonight, though, would be different. Tonight, I was the other Jon Khoury—clearly someone with disposable income and exquisite taste.

I arrived at Umami fifteen minutes early, my heart thundering. The restaurant was nestled between a high-end boutique and an art gallery in Capitol Hill. Its exterior was understated—just a simple wooden door with the restaurant's name etched in small, elegant characters.

The host, a slender man with immaculate posture, greeted me with a slight bow. "Welcome to Umami. Do you have a reservation?"

"Yes, Jon Khoury, 8:45."

He consulted his tablet, then frowned slightly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Khoury already checked in about ten minutes ago."

My stomach dropped. "That's impossible. I'm Jon Khoury."

The host's smile remained fixed, but his eyes narrowed slightly. "Perhaps there's been some confusion. If you'd like to wait, I can speak with the other party once they finish their meal."

"How long will that take?"

"The omakase experience is approximately two and a half hours."

Two and a half hours! I'd be eating leftover knafeh from the back of my fridge at that rate.

"Can I at least speak to this person claiming to be me?"

"I'm afraid I can't interrupt our guests during their dining experience. It's against our policy."

"But that's my reservation! I have the confirmation email right here." I thrust my phone at him.

He glanced at it briefly. "Yes, I see. However, the other Mr. Khoury also had confirmation, and they arrived first."

I slumped against the wall. So close to actual good food, yet so far.

"Is there anything else left behind by this person? Any way I can contact them?"

The host hesitated, then seemed to take pity on me. "The other Mr. Khoury did accidentally leave a package when checking in." He reached beneath the counter and produced a sleek black box tied with red string. "We were going to return it at the end of the meal, but perhaps you could wait and deliver it personally?"

I took the box, which was surprisingly heavy. "I'll wait outside then."

Outside, I sat on a bench and examined the package. The tag attached to it read: "To Jan Koury, with appreciation. The Nakamura Collection."

Jan Koury? Not Jon Khoury? I squinted at the tag again. This wasn't my name doppelganger—this was someone with an almost identical name, separated by just two letters. A tiny typo had created this entire mix-up.

My curiosity got the better of me. I carefully untied the string and opened the box.

Inside was the most beautiful knife I'd ever seen. The blade gleamed in the streetlight, its Damascus steel pattern hypnotic. The handle was made of some exotic wood, polished to a warm sheen.

This was no ordinary gift. This was a custom-made Japanese chef's knife—the kind that cost thousands of dollars.

I closed the box quickly, my mind racing. Who was this Jan Koury? A famous chef? A food critic?

The idea of waiting around for two and a half hours suddenly seemed less appealing. What would I even say to this person?

As I deliberated, my phone buzzed with a text from my landlord. I went to reply, but my phone slipped from my fingers and clattered onto the sidewalk.

I picked it up to find the screen shattered, a web of cracks obscuring half the display. It still worked, sort of, but most images were now unviewable, and the keyboard was glitching badly.

Just as I was contemplating my terrible luck, another buzz—an email notification. I squinted through the cracked screen to read: "Attention Jan Koury: Your car is waiting outside Umami as requested."

A car? I hadn't ordered a car. But then again, I hadn't made a sushi reservation either.

I peered down the street and spotted a black Tesla idling at the curb, its driver looking at his phone.

An idea began to form. If I couldn't wait for Jan Koury, perhaps I could track them down. The gift tag on the knife box had a return address—The Nakamura Collection, in the International District.

I approached the driver, the knife box tucked under my arm. "Excuse me, I'm... Jan Koury."

The driver looked up, nodded without really seeing me, and opened the rear door. "Where to, Mr. Koury?"

I gave him the address from the tag, and he nodded again. I slipped into the back seat, my heart pounding.

As we drove through the city, I wondered about my almost-name doppelganger. In my mind, Jan Koury had transformed into a culinary genius, trained in Europe, with a collection of awards and maybe even a TV show.

"My mother would love Jan Koury," I muttered to myself. "Bet they remember to bring baklawa to every family gathering without being reminded."

We pulled up outside a small, elegant building in the International District. A simple sign read "The Nakamura Collection" in both English and Japanese characters.

"Should I wait, Mr. Koury?" the driver asked.

"No thanks. I might be a while." I slipped out before he could ask any questions.

The building was dark except for a single light burning in an upstairs window. I hesitated, then pushed the door, which surprisingly opened.

The interior was a gallery of sorts, with glass cases displaying various Japanese artifacts—ceramic tea sets, ancient scrolls, and an entire wall dedicated to culinary tools. Knives similar to the one in my box gleamed under soft lighting.

"We're closed."

I whirled around to find an elderly Japanese man watching me, his expression inscrutable.

"I'm sorry," I stammered. "The door was open, and I—" I held up the box. "I'm looking for Jan Koury."

The man's eyebrows rose slightly. "You are Jan Koury?"

"Well, no—I'm Jon Khoury. J-O-N K-H-O-U-R-Y. There's been some confusion with names. I'm trying to return this to Jan Koury. J-A-N K-O-U-R-Y."

"Ah." He nodded as if this explained everything. "You are not what I expected." He gestured to the box. "May I?"

I handed it over, and he opened it carefully, examining the knife with expert eyes.

"Beautiful workmanship," he murmured. "One of Yoshikazu's finest." He looked up at me. "This knife was commissioned for Jan Koury, the renowned Norwegian chef. That is not you, clearly."

Norwegian chef? This was getting more intriguing by the second.

"No, I'm Lebanese-American. And definitely not a chef. Unless you count microwaving as cooking."

Mr. Nakamura closed the box and handed it back to me. "A strange coincidence, these similar names."

"Could you tell me more about this Jan Koury? I'd like to return the knife personally."

He studied me for a moment, then nodded toward a staircase at the back of the gallery. "Come. Tea first, then questions."

I followed him upstairs to a small apartment above the gallery. The space was sparsely but beautifully furnished, with tatami mats and minimalist decor. He gestured for me to sit at a low table while he prepared tea.

"Jan Koury," he said as he measured tea leaves into a pot, "is a rising star in molecular gastronomy. Norwegian father, Russian mother. Trained in Copenhagen and Tokyo. Now opening a restaurant here in Seattle."

My head spun. This Jan Koury couldn't be more different from me—European, professionally trained, probably speaking Norwegian and Russian with the same ease I struggled through my broken Arabic.

"And you? What do you do, Jon Khoury who is not a chef?"

"I'm an editor at a literary magazine. Poetry, fiction, that sort of thing."

"Ah, a man of words rather than flavors."

Before I could respond, the door downstairs chimed. Mr. Nakamura raised an eyebrow. "It seems we have another visitor at this late hour."

We descended to find a tall woman standing in the gallery. She turned as we approached, her platinum blonde hair catching the light. Nordic features, striking blue eyes—nothing like my dark Lebanese complexion.

"Mr. Nakamura," she said with a slight accent that sounded like ice cracking on a fjord, "Jeg beklager—I mean, I'm so sorry to drop in unannounced, but the most bizarre thing happened at Umami tonight." She stopped when she noticed me, her eyes narrowing. "And who is this?"

"Jan Koury," Mr. Nakamura said, "meet Jon Khoury."

We stared at each other in mutual bewilderment.

"You're the email thief!" she accused, though her tone was more intrigued than angry.

"And you're the reservation stealer," I countered.

"Technically, it was my reservation. You just received the confirmation by mistake."

"And how exactly did you end up here, at this specific gallery, at this time of night?"

I explained about the knife, the car service, and my misguided detective work.

By the time I finished, she was laughing openly. "Så morsomt! So you stole my car, too? You're having quite the night of identity theft."

"I prefer to think of it as an extreme case of mistaken identity," I said, finding myself smiling despite my embarrassment.

"Well, Jon Khoury," she said, extending her hand, "it's nice to meet you, though I have to say, this is not how I expected my evening to go."

I shook her hand. "Likewise, Jan Koury."

Mr. Nakamura watched our exchange with evident pleasure. "Perhaps this calls for more tea? Or something stronger?"

"Actually," said Jan, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear where it had escaped her tight Nordic bun, "I haven't had dinner yet. Umami was sold out of their specialty fish—some issue with their supplier. They compensated with sake, but no food." She looked at me curiously. "I don't suppose you know any good late-night spots?"

"I know a place that serves decent Lebanese food until 2 AM. Nothing fancy, but the shawarma is pretty good."

"Perfekt," she said. "I've been wanting to explore Middle Eastern cuisine more deeply."

As we left the gallery, Jan glanced at the box. "So, you saw my knife?"

"I did. It's incredible."

"Mr. Nakamura knows I've been studying traditional Japanese knife techniques. Not exactly common in Norwegian culinary schools." She hesitated, then added, "You're welcome to keep it, actually. I can always commission another."

"La samah Allah, I can't accept that! It must be worth—"

"Consider it compensation for the identity confusion," she said with a smile. "Besides, maybe it'll inspire you to move beyond microwave cooking."

"How did you know about that?"

"Wild guess. Most editors I know subsist on kaffe and whatever's cheapest at the corner store."

We arrived at Cedars of Lebanon, a tiny family-run restaurant with just six tables. I watched nervously as Jan studied the menu. Would she find it too simple after the molecular gastronomy she was used to?

"Recommend something?" she asked.

"The shawarma is great. Or if you're more adventurous, try the kibbeh nayeh—it's raw lamb with bulgur and spices."

"Raw lamb? Herlig!" She closed the menu decisively. "In Norway, we eat rakfisk—fermented trout. Raw lamb sounds positively fresh by comparison."

I ordered in halting Arabic, blushing when the elderly owner corrected my pronunciation with an indulgent "Habibi" and a wink.

"Your Arabic is charming," Jan said when the owner left. "Like someone trying to speak Norwegian with a Swedish dictionary."

"That bad?"

"That honest." She leaned forward, her expression suddenly serious. "Can I ask you something, Jon Khoury?"

"Sure, Jan Koury."

"Do you ever write about food? Or have you ever wanted to?"

I thought about my sad attempts at cooking, documented only in apologetic texts to friends who declined dinner invitations. "Not really. Why?"

"Because I'm looking for a writer. Someone who can help translate the experience of food into words." She rested her chin on her hand. "My new restaurant concept blends techniques and flavors from different cultures. I want the menu and marketing to tell that story."

"Sounds fascinating," I said, genuinely impressed. "But I'm not sure how I could help."

"You edit poetry, right? What is food if not sensory poetry?" She fixed me with an appraising look. "What if this weird name coincidence was actually... I don't know, skjebne—fate or something?"

"You mean, us meeting like this? Because of a typo?"

"Sometimes the smallest details change everything," she said. "Think about it—almost the same name, completely different backgrounds, complementary skills. You know words, I know flavors."

The owner returned with our food. Jan took a bite of the kibbeh nayeh and closed her eyes in appreciation. "Nydelig! The spices—they're not what I expected. More complex."

"My grandmother used to say the secret is in grinding the spices by hand, not buying the pre-mixed stuff."

As we ate, I couldn't help but consider her suggestion. Was this bizarre evening actually leading somewhere?

"I don't know anything about fine dining," I admitted between bites of shawarma. "My idea of a fancy meal is when I add a fried egg to my instant noodles."

"But you know about communicating experiences," she countered. "And I bet you're a better writer than you think." She pointed her fork at me. "Everyone has a story to tell, Jon Khoury. What's yours?"

I looked at her—this unexpected almost-doppelganger who'd crashed into my life through a simple typo—and felt something shift. For years, I'd edited other people's words, helped shape their stories while keeping my own locked away. Maybe it was time for that to change.

"It might start with a reservation mix-up," I said slowly. "And a very expensive knife."

She grinned, raising her glass in a toast. "Skål to Jon with an O and Khoury with an H!"

I clinked my glass against hers. "And to Jan with an A and Koury with no H."

Outside, the Seattle rain began to fall, washing the city streets clean. But inside, over shared food, two people with almost-shared names bent their heads together, one dark, one light, their fingers occasionally brushing as they reached for the same piece of pita. Between an O and an A, between the presence and absence of an H, something new was taking shape.