Restaurant review: Hello, is there any body in there? Injy El-Kashef speaks with her mouth full Luckily, Yassine produced a little item from his pocket a few minutes after we were seated. The plastic head of a decapitated Spiderman emerged, and he wiggled his eyebrows a few times at me. Setting it down on the table, fingers ready to flip it across to my side, he designated the goal areas for each before rhetorically asking if I was in. One quick look around and I was delighted that Spiderman's head was there to save the day -- for we needed a worthier pastime than staring at the blandness surrounding us until the menus arrived, and we were too hungry to engage in a meaningful conversation just yet. Before discussing the food, I must vent a few thoughts about the setting of Le Grand Royal. First of all, what kind of a name is that for a place that is neither grand nor royal? It reminds me of a story where a woman is suddenly seized by awareness: "you mean, I am not blonde?!" The woman, mind you, was not blind either. Le Grand Royal? Grand boredom, sure; and royal dullness. To speak of an identity crisis would indeed be an understatement: seats that imitate Heliopolis' Alain Le Nôtre; low tables that bring Abul-Sid instantly to mind; colourful jars of unidentified pickled things reminiscent of Johnny Carrino's; ultra modern lighting of blue circles overhead recall Indigo, Flux and a hint of the Cairo Jazz Club with traces of Café Mo; vinyl tablecloths (Lord have mercy) one would accept in a traditional fish restaurant but could not possibly tolerate in an enterprise with such a haughty appellation; and, last but not least, shelves crowded with coffee machines, coffee bags and Italian "blends". What? The score was 2-1 for him; my flips of the plastic head remained weak, for fear of landing it in the neighbours' soup bowl behind us -- a boisterous crowd of young adults high on their discovery of laptop computers. The waiter, an excessively helpful man, insisted on picking it up despite my asking him to let the boy "clean his own mess" and pick it up himself. He only obliged when I showed visible frustration at his leaping towards the fallen "ball" yet again. Why must one have to be unpleasant? Now food. I was in a mushroomy mood that night (surprised?), and so was Yassine, who has only recently acquired the taste for the delightful fungus. We began by sharing a Mushroom à la crème and a Mushroom Negresco for starters, giving the kitchen ample time to perfect our meaty main courses. The pasta was absolutely huge, with a clear film of a greasy substance around the edges of the dish resulting from the wrong choice of cheese to top the mixture. This is the kind of situation where parenting becomes a little trickier: do you insist on making your child eat what is before him, or do you acknowledge his right to judge a tasteless plate tasteless? After all, he is a self- proclaimed cook who appreciates, and can distinguish among real flavours. The Mushroom à la crème seemed to be none other than more of the same Negresco sauce, cooler in temperature, with some thyme, and without the cheese. Same parenting dilemma. The waiter shows up with our main courses and the immense plates which have become a staple of "elegance" in recent years (for reasons that still escape me) are laid before us. Yassine's piccata is covered with the same light-coloured crème sauce, while my filet is bathing in dark brown gravy with tiny mushroom slices. I am inspired by He who is up above on how to avert the impending crisis. "You know, it's true what they say: like mother, like daughter. Your granny always swaps orders with one of us at restaurants. Do you mind if we traded?" Fortunately, I got the lecture on what a bad habit this is, along with his piccata. The customers in the outdoors sitting area were still puffing on their shisha as we exited the premises, while more "regulars" arrived with checkerboards tucked under their arms for apparent all-nighters. Baffling, really. Reviewed order: LE210 Le Grand Royal 57 Al-Nozha Street Heliopolis Tel: 6901240
