Restaurant review: Balady meets Shamy The heat and the savoury tickle It's your pores that register the heat first. They contract in resistance, refusing to accept the climate. The high- noon sun beams down its death rays in a preview of the summer menace that awaits us all. Your lungs suck up the heavy air, a procession of sweat beads ornaments your furrowed brow, your skin fumes its disapproval, and stepping into the pasty décor and fried-food smog of Abo Riad only amplifies the oppression. It takes a ferocious hunger to work up an appetite under such conditions, but that's the one thing the Satirist and I don't lack this afternoon. He tells me of the eponymous Palestinian host who arrived here in '48 and passed away recently after elevating the status of what is essentially a fuul and falafel (plus grilled meats) hole-in- the-wall into a very popular and busy eatery, relying only on the strength of his charisma and personable storytelling skills. Tiles of red and beige span two floors of closely packed black-and-brown granite tables. The numerous flaws of décor and patrons alike are uncovered under the glare of overhead neon tubes, including the salt-and- pepper shakers purchased from the nearest toy store, and well-positioned television sets beam down a steady stream of Rotana movies. The food selection is balady meets shamy. Fuul, hummus, scotch eggs, eggplant, the almost-exotic qudsia and marayes, and sizeable portions of ' egga and shakshouka are all on display beside the cashier, but the bare shawerma spits currently dangle their 'out of order' signs. An assortment of mahshi awaits the gluttonous, and the rice pudding and umm ali are on call, flexing their muscles, ready to take on the most vicious sweet-tooth around. While covering a recent demonstration the Satirist barely managed to escape without a concussion as the clenched fists of those assigned to protect pounded his shaved pate for daring to respond to their insults in kind -- but it's simply too hot to focus on his story. It's cruel, but without concentration there can be no empathy. A nearby patron begs a waiter to activate the air- conditioning. I squeeze lemon juice into my water and soda, desperate to give my tongue a savory tickle to restore my appetite to its former glory. And though the waiters here execute their orders efficiently and with minimal fuss as they strut their been-there-ate-that stuff, the patron's request was soon forgotten for lack of sufficient nagging. Om Mamdouh, our behind-the-scenes chef with the busy hands and discerning taste buds, treats us to her specials, which are only prepared during select hours of lunchtime. Maqlouba, traditionally a "gulfy" recipe, arrives crowned with half a fried chicken and its bed of rice, cooked with eggplant and cauliflower, is delicious. The ouzi, rice with carrots and peas, also features a chunky meat topping, this time a small brick of veal. Tamiya is barred from entry here; the hummus -based falafel are denser and grainier than the fried patties the general public has grown accustomed to. The fuul with hummus, a mashed pulp that floats in your choice of corn or olive oil, looks wholly unappetising but the Satirist, downing vinegar like a shot of vodka to stun and revitalise his own tongue, assures me of its tastiness. As the meal ends, our stomachs settle, and the climate begins to behave itself we discuss the curious poster of the ominous Bedouin shouldering the burden of Al- Aqsa Mosque. The Satirist can no longer count on those fiery, and very high-brow, political discussions that used to carry him and Abo Riad late into the night, but any place that manages to abate your hunger with pungent food while shunning temperature control is worth returning to. We sit and smoke, stalling, keeping the prickly hair follicles and tiresome sweat beads at bay. 52 Harroun Al-Rashid St, Heliopolis. Opening hours: 9am-3am daily. Lunch for two: LE40-50. By Waleed Marzouk
