Restaurant review: Twists and turns If you judge a book by its cover, the plot is bound to thicken It has been the story of my life while writing this column to be launched on false trails by good-intentioned friends: they know I need to find a new spot to sample; they remember seeing "this fantastic place" that I will love; they also remember "exactly" where it is, proceeding into a detailed geographical description following which they hound me on a daily basis until I set out on its quest. Following their description to the letter, not finding the spot in question, and ending up somewhere completely different is definitely a blessing in disguise though, for it ultimately results in a review nonetheless. Yet, my last adventure was dramatic enough to put a lid on this little tradition, hopefully for good. I was accompanied by son and sister, both of whom rained derisive and highly-charged comments on me as we walked endlessly down Mohandessin streets, carrying bags all packed with the necessities of a short trip to Alexandria. Oh, and we had a train to catch. After wading through the concrete jungle for a good 45 minutes in vain, we collectively decided to heed the luring call of an attractive restaurant sign that simply read: Lipstick -- with an addendum describing it as Café de Paris. Hmmmm... interesting. We walked in and I immediately arched an unpleasantly surprised brow as the corner of my lip curled for the finishing touch of the disappointed look. Although the garden seating was nicely set up under a tented roof in the open air, one step inside the closed restaurant area brought shock and awe: 1) shisha-smoking, college-drop-out-category clientele; 2) bits of tinsel plastered to the windows misspelling some poor birthday boy's name; 3) overhead TV sets all bellowing out different video clips/programmes/football matches simultaneously in a blasting cacophony. I stood at the door, petrified in horror. Sister: "So?" Me: Blank expression. Sister: "I think it looks okay; what do you think?" Me: Disgusted look at sister. Son (eyes glued to the TV screen): "Wow! Did you see that goal?" Me: Disgusted look at son. The waiter shows up and offers to assist us. I beg to be seated outside -- thankfully, the company concedes. It is impossible to understand how that delightful outdoor could be affiliated to the same management of that hideous indoor space. Thankfully, however, the nightmare was over, our weary feet were resting and our famished appetites now had a very long list of items on the menu to choose from. The ma"tre d' arrives and, with a self-congratulatory grin, "begs forgiveness" for the fact that "no poultry ingredients whatsoever" are available. The standing ovation he expected for such care of the customers' health never came. When the order arrived, I was once again baffled to discover that the food was actually really really good. My son's pizza margarita with sausage was large and generously supplied with mozzarella cheese, fresh tomato paste and tasty slices of beef sausage over a thin, pita-like, soft base of pizza-oven-baked dough. How totally unexpected, I mused, thinking that my own private little hell was starting to exhibit signs of cooling. My sister's spaghetti marinara was similarly delicious. The large portion of al dente pasta was bathing in a rich and garlicky sauce of tomato paste and fresh medium-sized shrimps. It was actually so good that I had to "sample" her plate at least four times -- until she asked me to knock it off before she makes me. Last, but certainly not least, was my grilled filet with mushroom sauce. Oh, that was heavenly. The brightly- coloured medley of accompanying sautéed vegetables glistened with the sheen of melted maison butter. The sauce, rich and superbly balanced in flavour and texture, sat in a separate side tub, chunks of fresh mushrooms resting at the base while the dark brown liquid topped them to the rim. And the filet -- ohhhh that fillet -- was tender, and thick, and grilled to a perfect well-done; sliding the steak knife through the lean cut to slice off a piece was, in its own right, a mouth-watering act. If there is one lesson to be learned from this meal, it is that a good chef will always save the day -- which, incidentally, ended with the three of us dashing through Ramsis Square with our bags, jumping over the endless fence at the train station as we raced against the ticking clock, and eventually making the trip to Alex standing in the wagon corridor. Actually, it was loads of fun. Lipstick 6 Al-Thawra St, Mohandessin Tel 749 3910 Reviewed order with soft drinks: LE114 By Injy El-Kashef
