Restaurant review: Iftar with the Cherokees I took her finger to my lips, and bit it off The sun was red in the face, having taken one last, hi- octane breath of city air. It then ran into the Western Desert, sat on its favourite rock and mumbled the eternal words: why me, why me? The river was full of red pennies the sun dropped from its pocket as it hurtled away. The bottom of the river must be lined with strange objects -- fake celestial pennies, shreds of forensic evidence, plastic wrappings that may disintegrate any millennium now. The riverside steakhouse in Zamalek is no longer the same. It used to be Andrea, an endless ceramic-tiled affair with disposable chairs and waiters. Now it is Sequoia, an upmarket venue with wood-panelled flooring and rustling canopies, waiters and seats dressed in matching linen outfits. It has the restful ambiance of a sailing club in a distant colony. At any moment, you'd expect a string quartet to start playing Mozart, although in this one occasion we got Channel II showing Bakkar. At any moment, you'd expect women in ruffled gowns and dentelle-rimmed hats to walk in holding ostrich-feathered fans. Instead, we get the East-meets-West-and-lives-to-regret-it mix of high- heels and trousers, with and without hijab. I am here with seven people; of those, only one objects to the décor. The Californian dislikes the extreme makeover, for the place now reminds her too much of home. I can't see her point, being a non-Californian. How can you go wrong with wood and linen? At least the designers didn't go for a terra cotta colour scheme. I am not speaking too soon, I hope, for another restaurant is yet to open in the front part of the establishment. The Iftar is going to be an open buffet, I was told on the phone. My knees buckle each time I hear the word "buffet". What with all the marching back and forth to the serving table, the anxiety of choice? Open buffets are like cocktail parties. The dishes are like guests dressed in similar outfits, with unhelpful name tags at best. There is no chance you will, or want to, engage all in meaningful conversation. And invariably, the one person you decide to ignore is the big TV executive you have been e-mailing desperately all last year. I walk twice along the serving table, trying to decide which stainless, heartless, receptacle of steel I want to trust with my immediate future. Which, which? I come back to the table with three items on my plate: tabbulah, pickles, and stuffed vegetables. Better minimalist than sorry, play it safe. The tabbulah is truly impressive for a non-Lebanese restaurant. The pickles are their usual self, supportive and self-effacing, good for a party but not for the next promotion. The stuffed vegetables are going somewhere, and have mostly gone by my next trip to the buffet. I come back with some mumbar (animal intestines filled with rice and spices) and baked bashamelled-macaroni, upon recommendations from my trusted companions. The females among my trusted companions are discussing their impending incarnation as protagonists of Sex in the City on Halloween Day. For the past 10 minutes, they have been giggling, calling themselves Sexpats, and making inappropriate references to Mr Big of the book-turned-film. I try to ignore them with all the dignity a man stuffing his face with Zeinab's Fingers (elongated puffed pastry) can muster. Sequoia, the redwood tree that gave its name to this establishment, is reportedly the world's largest plant. It can reach a height of 100 metres and one would have been enough to build and decorate this entire place. The tree itself borrowed its name from George Guess Sequoia, a Cherokee scholar who invented a method for transliterating the Cherokee language. Sequoia died in 1843. Sequoia, 02 735 0014, northern tip of Zamalek Island, open 11am to 2am, offers reliable oriental cuisine in an upmarket riverside ambiance. Dinner for eight, LE600. By Nabil Shawkat
