I prefer the company of men. Their smoking dens, their workmen’s clubs, the places where they eat tripe soup. These are the places I like to spend time in. But being allowed entrance isn’t easy. They are not places for women. Sometimes it takes only a smile or a blotted attempt at Farsi and I am ushered inside. Other times my pleas are ignored and I am sternly pointed back in the direction that I came. The food is always bold, salty and generous. Sheep head and food soup with scraps of parchment like flatbread. Tongue sandwiches with tomato and chili sauce. Breakfasts of honeycomb, molasses and clotted cream. Tea served in smudged, not so clean glasses. No one talks much, and I like it that way. These are the places where the men hang out: 
