The sun had just dipped below the rooftops, leaving the street bathed in a warm, golden glow. The narrow lane was alive with clattering pans, sizzling oil, and the sharp hiss of dough hitting hot griddles. Amina set up her cart as she had for the last twelve years. The air around her was already rich with the scent of cardamom tea and fried onions. Her specialty was fuchka — crisp ... https://dev-hungrycourt.pantheonsite.io/