Restaurant review: Age-old comfort Crisp on the outside, tender within; some things never change As I leave the office with yet another feat of stellar underachievement to my name, I am confronted by the incubus, the grey cloud. Rain, dust, and smog have decided to form a coalition against me and, surprise being the most effective feature of any attack, the assault has proven triumphant. I assume this is the distant cousin of our darker friend who visits every Halloween and, like the boogeyman, crashes the slumber party. A few minutes later, trapped in the slow-drip torture of gridlock, I look to faces in cars for some reaction -- bewilderment, demoralisation, possibly rage, anything to articulate my aggravation, but I'm met with a universal complacency. Still Regalteo, my companion, insists I adopt a stoic stance, so only one course of action remains -- feteer. We arrive at Fatatry Al-Tahrir, Tahrir Street, Tahrir Square. The place opened shortly after Hatshebsut was born and has enjoyed a sterling reputation ever since. Many were the nights out when a quick take-out feteer was cast in stone on our itinerary. A hefty bite to hold us up before we elbowed our way to applaud mediocre bands and ingest as many toxins as possible before our blood screeched out its protests, cursing the day conception seemed like a good idea to the indolent minds of our ancestors. But today we sit inside, hoping for a piece of that former edible glory. "They say this place is still good," Regalteo contributes, the innocent. We're ensconced in white tile. The pallid lighting is in harmony with the whirring drone of the fans overhead. The shop opens out onto one of the busiest streets in the history of mankind, so the privacy of our conversation is assured. I feel compelled to inquire: How can you trust any piece of information in the age of spin, let alone some long forgotten word of mouth? Science is at the mercy of charlatans. Stockbrokers refer exclusively to the compasses of their greed. Advisers to presidents have twisted multiple personalities, or worse, are born under the sign of Gemini. But I detect he's feeling contrary, so I spare him my cynical rant. Eventually we're joined by Big T, and as the conversation segues smoothly into the forms cartoons take under communist regimes, we take an unnecessarily long time to order. We mix and match veggies, eggs, cheeses and meats, limited to basterma and ground sausage, until we arrive at the optimal assortment of fatayer and so-called pizza (a variation in which the filling goes on top of the feteer instead of inside it). Big T explains that the weather is just another of the manifold expressions of global warming gone awry. Haven't we noticed how the khamasin winds no longer meet their late March deadline, choosing to disperse their abrasive presence across the year's first two seasons instead? I worry about Regalteo believing him. The quietly diligent staff lay out the spread and we pig out. The ingredients are fresh and the dough is crisp on the outside, tender inside. This never pretended to be health food; by its own definition, on its own terms, it's wholesome. And it hits the right spot. We collectively groan our approval, but as our stomachs fill and we approach a final assessment we fear our hunger may have clouded our judgement. An awkward silence ensues, but I stick to my first-impression guns. Outside the cloud still hovers in the troposphere. Having crashed the slumber party the incubus idly slipped into his PJs while we were eating. But the hot food proves a worthy adversary, empowering us with faces of unbridled disdain as he seeps into our lungs. As Lennon so astutely put it, nothing's gonna change our worlds. And it won't be long till we're indoors. "After Eight", anyone? 165 Tahrir St, Bab Al-Louq. Tel: +2 795 3596. Dinner for two, LE25. By Waleed Marzouk
