In the June/July 1993 issue of “Fortean Times,” a civil engineer named Tony Clark shared a striking story which he claimed to have experienced while working in Iran in 1956. There is evidently only Clark’s word that his bizarre tale actually happened, but as I can’t resist a good “time-slip” account, I will simply pass it on and let you make of it what you like.
According to Clark, one summer day he and an Iranian engineer traveled to Manjil, about 150 miles from Tehran, to assist with the building of a cement factory. It was then a very remote place, where they were unable to even find much to eat, so by the time they began the trip back to Tehran, they were famished. After traveling about 30 miles, they came to a village. It was a simple settlement of one-story mud huts, with a distinctive-looking pile of rocks. To their relief, the men also found there a “tchae-khana” (cafe.) They didn’t expect to find much in the way of nourishment there, but the men were desperate enough to take whatever they could get.
There was nothing unusual about the interior of the cafe--crude chairs and wooden tables, with a few truck drivers resting on beds of rope and wood hanging from the walls. The men were greeted by the owner of the establishment, who spoke perfect English. He was an Armenian named Hovanessian, who was married to a White Russian. Clark was pleasantly startled when Hovanessian and his wife soon brought out one of the best meals he ever had: cold cucumber and yogurt soup, wine, stuffed vine leaves, and kebab, followed by excellent Turkish coffee. After such a feast--eaten in a vague air of unreality--the men got a second surprise: the price their host asked was incredibly small. When Clark complimented Hovanessian on the “fantastic meal,” the Armenian beamed and said, “Do call again and tell your friends to look in.”
Before leaving, Clark took careful notes about his mileage, to ensure he could find the village again. He was convinced that he had stumbled upon the world’s finest restaurant, and when he returned to Tehran, he couldn’t wait to tell people about it. No one believed him. Such wonderful--and cheap--fare from some hut out in the middle of nowhere? Clark’s friends probably assumed he had been out in the desert sun for far too long.
Three months later, Clark had to make another trip to Manjil. He brought with him an English engineer who was one of the “miracle cafe’s” biggest scoffers. Clark was prepared to make his friend eat, not just soup and kebab, but a heaping plate of crow. Before long, they found the little village with its unmistakable pile of rocks. The only thing different about the place was the tchae-khana: it had vanished. When they asked a resident about the cafe, he assured them that in the forty years he had lived in the village, no such place had ever existed. Hovanessian? Never heard of the fellow.
The men drove away, feeling hungry, disappointed, and just a little bit frightened.
