Restaurant review: Shubra shrimps The tram no longer clanks but the scene is familiar "The Germans are going to bomb you," my aunt walks into our flat with a look of terror on her face. We're in late 1942. Rommel is within deafening earshot from Alexandria, and some of his men are trying to outflank the British troops from the south, all the way to Siwa. Others, literally dressed to kill, are in flying machines heading towards Cairo. They'll bomb Heliopolis tomorrow, the aunt tells my parents. Too scared for their life and that of their first born two- year daughter, they ask her what to do. My aunt, a 20- something art teacher at the time, does not waste time. She arranges for donkeys and gets the discarded crates from the vegetable shop downstairs. At dawn, a small flotilla of donkey-drawn carts, bearing many pieces of mirror-plated art nouveau furniture, pulls up at Shubra, just a bloc away from the fish restaurant we're dining at tonight. I miss the hullabaloo, being still in extra-terrestrial custody over a little nothing committed in my previous reincarnation. I miss the entire war, not being born yet, and will always feel bitter about it -- although less so now that the world has rediscovered the madness we thought had disappeared along with the funny moustaches. Years later, I inspect the furniture. Some of the mirrors cracked on the way from Heliopolis to Shubra. The rest, I'll just bump into. We're looking through the glass window at the familiar street. It has no tram tracks anymore. In the early 1950s, the mornings were punctuated with the trams springing into their 10 mile/hour days with a clank and a squeak. Cairo was two decades away from the Rommel-like assault of loudspeakers. At dawn, you'd hear the call to prayers wafting from a big mosque a mile away, followed by the tram's metallic, philosophical squeal. Then the drop will be made. The newspaper, tied with a little ribbon, would hit the wooden shutters with a bang, before landing in the balcony. Sometimes we got the neighbour's paper, when the delivery boy missed the balcony upstairs. Sometimes we got none. On average, he scored nine hits out of 10. I'd kill to have his job when I grow up, I used to tell myself, lying in bed. I still do, lying in bed. But where do you go in this life without the contacts? The fish salesman remembers me once I tackle the Incognito, who's ordering too much food. Where is the anonymity when fish salesmen can remember you each time you tackle live people or dead fish? The Incognito slips in two more fishes. A dish of fried hot peppers appears with the appetisers, delicious and hotter than hell. I make a mental note. Eat this before kissing the next person you want to wean out of the habit. The Brunette is not in eating mood and keeps looking at the eel in horror. "It's just a snake that swims," I reassure her. The jumbo shrimps, at 90gms each, are nearly the size and taste of small lobsters. The photographer (from upstairs) devours two and points at the eel in feigned squeamishness. I clean her a piece (using hands, rip out the spine and grin) and she enjoys it. My personal favourite is the moloukhiya (Jews mallow) with prawns, but you need to extract prawn whiskers from time to time. The British film-maker (temporarily from upstairs) is ecstatic about the eel, but I stop him. Eel meat is like butter (even though this one is grilled), soft and hard to digest. The meal ends with a fish cooked the singari way, opened and topped with interesting stuff and baked. Ours is a bit dry, but we're already full. Asmak Al-Dawaran, aka King of Shrimps, (02) 202 5798, Dawaran Shubra, open 8am to 4am, offers simple but scenic ambiance and decades of seafood experience. Alcohol available on advance request, or bring your own. Dinner for five, LE600. By Nabil Shawkat
