Restaurant review: The straight and narrow I snapped her head off and order was restored We're shopping for bears, again. It's a very hot day, too hot for bear shopping, if you ask me. I was sitting by the pool, leafing through a week's worth of newspapers, learning all about our future e-government and dreaming of the day when we'll all be filing our tax reports through our camcorders while sipping pina coladas in the Bahamas, when the Brunette arrived with news of the inevitable. A friend of ours has just had a baby and the baby needs jewellery to complement her really tiny but ever-expanding wardrobe. I have trouble purchasing jewellery, for I find anything smaller than King Tut's mask hard on the eyes. What with all the details, the incredible smallness of ornamentation? If the men who make these ultra-thin necklaces, these ant-like engravings need super- powerful monocles to get them right, how do you expect me, who cannot read your average restaurant menu in reasonable lighting, to be able to pass judgement? I suggest we buy an earthenware crib for the baby, a stonehenge headrest for the mother, something I can actually see, but no. It has to be small as the baby's match-stick fingers, thin as the Middle East's chance for peace, intricate as the NDP's plan for bank mergers, or it won't do. We'll need the Armenian. The Armenian knows me well. Not because I ever bought anything from him, but because I am always there for him, nodding in patience, whenever one of the assorted would-be wives of my friends gets on his case. He would prepare her the jewellery, according to her own ever-changing specifications, then he and I would take the future husband aside and tell him to get out of the marriage while he can. None did, but at least we tried. He chuckles when we walk through the door. And the bears arrive. They have tiny feet of red, eyes that shine like the pinheads on which angels used to dance before church told them to grow up, and bellies that can hold perhaps a drop of beer each. We get two, one for the friend, the other for my niece (I am wearing it right now, perhaps she'll get it one day, when her tiny matchstick fingers are strong enough to prise it out of my big hairy bear-like chest). We're sitting at the Great Divide, and we're having a moment of angst. I have seen many divides in my life, perfectly sensible ones. Between Germans and Germans (since they united you cannot buy second-hand, smoky, sweating, manly, let-the-environmentalists- filter-my-foot steel factories anywhere). Between Cypriots and Cypriots (the 30-year-old division kept the distinct styles of kebab developing in ethnically pure environments for extra flavour). But what is this divide for? The courtyard of Al-Gomhouriya grillhouse is 3.5 metres wide and divided lengthwise, to create two long, straight and impossibly narrow rooms. And this is the place that, I am told, has consistently, for the past 30 years, made the best pigeons in town. Glasses of steaming hot pigeon broth are passed around, once, twice, or three times before the meal. Then the treats arrive. The nifa (goat meat) tastes like duck. The meat is just fibrous enough to remain in one piece, and the crispness is something out of Chinatown. The Brunette has a momentary fit of horror when the stuffed pigeons arrive with their heads still on their shoulders. I snap her neck (the pigeon's) with a practised move and she looks better, so does the Brunette. The cucumber pickles are fresh, half-green half-olive in colour, and I am told that they have to be prepared daily to maintain their combat-camouflage look. Al-Gomhouriya Restaurant, (02) 392 3008, 42 Falaki Street, around the corner from Horreya Café, downtown, is open 1pm to 3am. Exceptional grills and stuffed pigeons in a segregated, divided Cold War ambiance. Take away but no delivery and no alcohol. Dinner for six, LE120. By Nabil Shawkat
