After the failure of his first restaurant, Moby’s Luncheonette in Bethesda, Md., Daryoush ditched the diner’s American fare and embraced the cuisine of his homeland. His decision eventually led to the debut of Moby Dick House of Kabob in 1989. By the time of his death, three decades later, Daryoush had created a mini-empire of 24 casual, counter-service restaurants. He did so without the kind of venture capital or private investment funds that have fueled the rapid growth of competitors such as Cava Grill and Sweetgreen.

“It was a point of pride for my dad,” said son Ned Daryoush, vice president of the business. “We’re not backed by any private-equity firms . . . This is all self-funded.” Of the 24 Moby Dick locations, only six are considered franchisees, and these businesses were established, Ned Daryoush said, as a way for his father to give loyal employees an opportunity to open their own restaurant.

No, Mike Daryoush didn’t seem to need the cash, or the advice, of outside investors. He had an uncanny knack for expanding his business without compromising the quality. He was an early adopter of the commissary, or centralized production facility, where the majority of Moby Dick’s foods would be prepared and then sent out to various locations, Ned told me. Moby Dick’s expansive commissary in the Landover, Md., area does everything from marinating kebabs to preparing appetizers, including the chain’s mouthwatering, garlic-laced hummus. The company even makes its own yogurt and ice cream, using milk from Marva Maid Dairy.

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“This is the lifeline of the whole operation,” Ned said of the commissary.

Rice is one of the few things prepared at each Moby Dick location, which tells you plenty about the company’s dedication to this essential ingredient of the Persian table. Perhaps Moby Dick’s cooks don’t use as much butter as those back in Iran — they don’t offer any crusty tahdig, either — but the rice still arrives with a small pat of butter. What’s more, the kitchen takes pains to tint a portion of its rice saffron yellow, adhering to the traditions back in Iran. It’s little wonder that customers rave about the rice, almost above all other dishes. A friend recently told me that he “can’t get enough” of those grains at Moby Dick, each one glistening with kebab drippings.

Mike Daryoush, an orphan by the time he was 8, moved to America in the mid-1970s, several years before the Islamic Revolution would strain relations between Iran and the United States, a tension that continues to this day. With little to tether him to his native country, Daryoush decided to study electrical engineering at George Washington University. He never finished that degree (although the family is working to have his degree granted posthumously because the elder never transferred his credits from another school, which would have given him enough to graduate from GW, Ned says). He found his work in the Washington restaurant industry more appealing, more suited to his interests and skills.

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As he became a restaurateur in the nation’s capital, Daryoush had to find a way to promote his business without alienating potential American customers. Ned wasn’t sure if it was a conscious effort on his father’s part, but Moby Dick House of Kabob did not aggressively bill itself as an Iranian restaurant, although the hallmarks of such a place were apparent to those in the know. The names of dishes are identical to those in Iran, and Moby Dick has never served beer or wine, in keeping with Islamic prohibitions against alcohol.

“He didn’t want to give any explicit reason for someone not to come and try the food,” Ned said. “I think he used food to kind of navigate that relationship . . . because he had a very hospitality spirit about him. I think his way of handling any animosity that existed was by feeding people.”

It was a formula that worked. Moby Dick has closed only two locations in its 30-year history, Ned said, and both had more to do with landlord-tenant issues than underperforming businesses. But more important, Moby Dick’s clientele has expanded over the years: At first, Ned said, the Persian community raced to support the restaurants. But these days, the demographics include Americans of every color.

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“I wouldn’t say we’ve lost the Persian community,” he added. “I would say that we’ve captured a whole separate demographic.”

On Monday night, as word of Mike Daryoush’s death continued to reverberate across the Internet, I visited the original location of Moby Dick in Bethesda (which has expanded to take over the space formerly occupied by Stromboli Family Restaurant). As I dug into sections of moist, onion-scented kubideh, washed down by long pulls of tart, fizzy housemade doogh, I noticed a family of five over in the corner, enjoying their own dinner. The mother wore a hijab. The father sported a T-shirt. The children were listening to a “Wheels on the Bus” educational game.

This scene, I thought, is the essential matter of the Moby Dick universe. In this restaurant, Persian cuisine can be enjoyed by anyone. You don’t have to be born in Iran. You don’t have to be wealthy. You don’t even have to know that you’re eating Iranian fare. You just have to recognize a good plate of food when you taste it.

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Which is why a Moby Dick storefront can bring together people from vastly different spheres like few others. You might be, say, a white guy from Nebraska pounding down Persian rice by the forkful, only to look up and see a woman in a hijab doing the same thing. In this moment, the universe of Moby Dick can become a very small, and very gorgeous, space. We can thank Mike Daryoush for that.