Persian Mirrors: The Elusive Face of Iran Read Online Free Page B

world-class wine cellar, and its view of the city and the mountains, it was once one of Tehran’s finest places to dine. It stayed open throughout the revolution (though no longer serving alcohol), even when armed leftist militias used its windows for target practice and hotel employees had to douse the leftists with fire hoses. The restaurant moved to the first floor during the long war with Iraq and then closed for renovation. The Polynesian restaurant down the hall took its customers. Maybe it was for the best. My most vivid memory of the Rotisserie was the six-foot-long tapeworm I once got from eating rare beef tenderloin there.
    Eventually, the Rotisserie reopened, and on a recent trip I decided to go back. Mr. Rasouli, one of the chief waiters, met me at the door. “Miss Sciolino?” he asked in disbelief. I was half disguised in my head scarf and we were both a generation older than when we had last seen each other. But Mr. Rasouli had served me at the same table, night after night, during the first year of the revolution. If we had been in the United States or Europe, we probably would have embraced. But this was the Islamic Republic, and he did the most daring thing he could: he stuck out his right hand for a handshake. We shook and shook.
    The restaurant had been redecorated, but the management tried to preserve the old flavor. The metal chargers with the Inter-Continental logo were retained, as were the ashtrays. Even the menu was the same as it had been twenty years before: onion soup, steak au poivre (minus the cognac), trout meunière, and crème caramel. I asked Mr. Rasouli for the wine list. We both laughed. I ordered a Coke, which Mr. Rasouli poured into an Inter-Continental wineglass.
    Mr. Rasouli was balder and plumper. But he retained his broad smile. I asked him how life had treated him over the years. “Hard,” he said, simply. I waited for him to explain. “Life was great back then. The restaurant was full every night. I loved coming to work. Now I’m just counting the days until retirement.” But he didn’t want to spoil the moment of rediscovery. “I’ve lost all my hair!” he exclaimed, in mock horror.
    After dinner Mr. Rasouli showed me where the redecorators had left the bullets embedded in the wood-paneled ceiling near the kitchen. “Remember, Miss Sciolino? We were standing right here when the shooting started. And the tear gas too.”
    Another waiter led me to a hidden cupboard in a storage room off the dining room. It contained dusty Inter-Continental brandy snifters from the old days. “Just in case,” he whispered.
     
     
    Ever since the beginning of the revolution, the Islamic Republic has tried with varying degrees of success to keep a leash on foreign and local journalists. I assume that the phone at my hotel, the cell phone I borrow or rent whenever I visit, and the local correspondent’s phone and e-mail are tapped. I assume that my comings and goings are watched, not all the time, but enough to build a pretty good dossier. There have been times when unmarked cars with two men in the front seat would plant themselves outside the homes of friends I was visiting. During one particularly tense period, two cars with two men each parked in front of the apartment building of a friend for a month. One night an apartment in the building was burglarized, and the local police questioned the men in the cars. They identified themselves as officials from the Intelligence Ministry and ordered the police off the scene.
    Technically, visits to shrines, universities, ministries, cemeteries, museums, and all travel outside Tehran require written permission from the Ministry of Islamic Guidance. Sometimes visits and appointments can be arranged privately; sometimes not. That means that whenever I visit Iran I stop by the ministry soon after I arrive. The ministry has an enormous portfolio. It funds, censors, and approves books and movies. It gives and takes away newspapers’ licenses. It