Restaurant review: A local miracle The Platonic ideal was never nearer When you have written about food for a number of years, and have been faced with all manner of cuisines from around the world, you discover that among the hardest gastronomical experiences to describe are those pertaining to your own country's local dishes. As I must now relay my account of the last fuul sandwich I had, I wish it was a filet Châteaubriand -- easier, not only to digest, but also to explain. We had left in the middle of the night -- 4AM to be precise -- having packed our bags by candlelight (a task on which I managed to focus in defiance of the desert mouse leaping around the tent like a miniature kangaroo), sneaking quietly out of the camp (closer to the border with Sudan than I had ever been in my life). Hopping into the car and getting snug in the back seat, hopes were pinned on the driver, who was to whiz on the highway as fast as he could to arrive in time for the nine o'clock flight to Cairo from Hurghada. We took the coastline from Marsa Alam to Hurghada, the landscape rolling by at 160kms per hour as speedy Gonzalez gave us heart attacks every half hour or so, negotiating curves that seemed to give way to somnolence -- rudely interrupted as the tyres screeched before a tiny shop on the beachfront. Under the circumstances, could anything other than battling against the ticking clock be contemplated? What could be of any importance at all, other than making it to that ticket office in due time? It turned out, as one of my traveling companions was kind enough to eventually explain, that the Said Allam fuul outlet was a national pilgrimage spot, not to be missed at the peril of incurring enough bad luck to last you the whole year; and, as we had just greeted 2006, our superstitious team would never take such a risk. "You just can't drive by Said Allam and not stop for sandwiches. It's unthinkable, undoable," I was firmly told. Having just awakened, and not being entirely sure where I was. I asked for one sandwich just to play along, eschewing the party pooper role, especially after being told that no falafel was to be obtained here, just the famed whole beans. "I am not crazy about fuul, one sandwich will be plenty," remained my unwavering reply despite repeated attempts at bringing me to my senses. "You're sure, sure, sure, triple sure?" And sure I was; it was just fuul, for heaven's sake. But this turned out to be no mere fuul sandwich; this was the very essence of what every fuul sandwich should be; should ever have been. This was fuul as Plato would have known it; it was the essence, the alpha and the omega, the quintessential blueprint of which every other fuul sandwich in town is but a pale, tasteless imitation. Our friend stepped in the car, in his hand a plastic bag filled with something green and washed, the droplets of water streaming down its interior. He offers it around, and by now we have all understood that these guys know what they are doing -- three hands attack the bag and snatch as much gargeer (rocket) as they can grab. In his other hand is another plastic bag: the house's very own torshi (pickles) -- with not a pinch of salt more, or less, than the accompaniment to the fuul sandwich of the century will allow itself to have. No need to mention that before I had finished, I was already begging for more, along with a chorus of voices which all unanimously voted for another quick round. The miracle lies in the fact that there is not a trace of any visible ingredient supporting the flavour other than gargeer, and perhaps tehina, which leaves one completely clueless as to the process that could produce such a taste for the beans. The proverb says, "A divine secret may be bestowed on the most humble among us." I am fully convinced as I write these words, that the secret for fuul lies in Al-Qusseir, right on the beachfront, in a little blue hole in the wall belonging to Said Allam. Said Allam, Al-Qusseir promenade By Injy El-Kashef
