Restaurant review: Quatrain cornices They wished us peace, in the wrong language I am the keeper of many gates, all with faulty locks. The Economist and Singer are in India on vacation and I am in charge of their rickety dwelling on the river, a houseboat that squeaks and rocks at the passage of every passing steamer. I feel like Inspector Poirot, watching the river for possible floaters, expecting to solve a murder or two before my four-week sojourn is over. Across the river from the houseboat is the singularly-ugly Um Kalthoum Hotel, built at the very spot where the diva once lived, the diva that sang Omar Khayam's quatrains with melodious sonority that would have pleased the 11th century Persian poet-musician, philosopher-theologian, astronomer-mathematician. Khayam would have even understood the translated lyrics, for he spoke Arabic, albeit with a Tajik accent. Keeper of the gates, and the invaders are everywhere, quick, stealthy, and hungry. The day the couple leaves, the first wave attacks, and immediately proliferates. Two cats, alien and dishevelled and nameless, give birth, one under the balcony fridge, the other between the bench seat in the balcony and the throw rug that goes over it. The rest of the feline species inside is already in turmoil. The owner's two resident cats lurk at doors and stage their own fights inside, disturbing the ashtrays, the lamps, the smelly carpets, and everything that I place next to me on the floor. The owners, veteran bohemians who amazingly have jobs, keep cats but not chairs inside the house. So I am lying down, with cat hair on my blanket and blanket hair in my mouth, thinking of the Arab-Israeli peace, and planning further territorial concessions. In the end, I cede the balcony's southern stretches, leave cat biscuits outside at teatime, and mew at midnight. Life here is but one long moment spent in meticulous observation of cat biscuits and a river that keeps bringing plastic objects instead of worthy corpses. And this is perhaps as close as I will ever get to Khayam's legacy. The man spent five years of his life doing solar calculations to update the Persian Calendar, seeking solace in good wine and the scraps of parchment which he hid under his mattress, away from the mistress and her Persian felines. I cannot make solar calculations, but I know where to find solace. I even know where to find Khayam's best shrine in town. I follow the narrow alley of leather bags, and the merchants see the Brunette and greet her in what they hope is her local tongue. "Shalom". She protests. But she approves of the oriental room to which I take her and the Intellectual. When the first Haty restaurant opened in the 1950s (off Al-Alfi Street, with high ceiling and imperial chandeliers), its fame was such that people would refer to kebabs simply as haty. This branch is huddled inside an apartment building, in a corridor linking Adli and 26 July streets. The oriental hall (renovated 1992) is a Persian concoction with detailed décor that mimics Pharaonic obsession with the afterlife and my own with river floaters. Walls and ceilings are painted with peacocks, hunting scenes, and Islamic motifs. Around the cornices, in gilded calligraphy, are Qur'anic verses and lines of the quatrains of Khayam. The salads are all credible. I totally recommend the pickles, which come topped with tomatoes spiced with garlic and pepper. The besara (mashed beans, onions, mint) is dark in complexion and exceptionally vigorous. A measure of creativity goes into the interpretation of oriental cuisine. The fetta (rice and broth-soaked bread, spiced with vinegar and garlic) that we order with our meat plates (served in generous quantities) involves cinnamon, which the Brunette notes with astonishment, before cleaning off her plate. Haty Khomeis, (02) 390 8205, 8 A-B 26 July Street (entrance hidden between clothes shops), open mid-day to midnight daily, offers reliable grills and oriental cuisine. Quiet place, poetic ambiance, friendly service, alcohol available. Dinner for three, LE250. By Nabil Shawkat
