A restaurant in Marseille

The day Grandma died, the best Lebanese restaurant in Marseille went straight to hell. She knew every corner of the business, perfectly aware if the price of tomatoes had gone up or if the regular customers were on vacation and where they were.

My wife never wanted to get involved in the business; she was the black sheep of the family. At first, I blamed her because our economic situation was a disaster, and I thought that if we worked in that restaurant, we could be a bit better off. But that day, when Grandma died, I understood the true magnitude of the word "calamity."

The first to bring gasoline were the brothers-in-law and sisters-in-law, with their comments and jealousies. The grandchildren followed, who knew little about history and a lot about ambition; they brought the firewood. Finally, the sisters and brothers lit the fire with their hidden resentments. The best Lebanese restaurant Marseille could have, burned and consumed within a matter of hours. The press arrived much faster than the firefighters; it was a dark day for the city, for the Lebanese community, and especially for the family that was already clearly divided.

Resentments only grew, not only did relatives stop talking, but they began to hate each other. Lawyers and judges formalized the punches in memorials and sentences. The inheritance and fortune were shattered; the empire had come to an end.

That day, Grandma died, along with the place and the scant dignity the family name had. It seems that someone opened a pizzeria a week later; I'll never know. Marseille is forbidden to me for a lifetime.