Restaurant review: Curb-side encounters Don't mix business with pleasure, not on my sidewalk! The Muse usually takes 15 minutes to get on my case, pointing out a host of character flaws I should be doing something about instead of looking so pleased with myself. This time, it takes her seconds. "Why are you taking us to this restaurant? The food is not even good." The restaurant we're going to is a collection of eateries that in Ramadan put their tables out in a downtown square at Iftar (sunset meal). The food is hit-and-miss, but the atmosphere is divine. I wait for the entire year to go there, to be among waiters who seat customers, shout at each other, feed an army, wish everyone a good evening, gather the plastic chairs, fold the folding tables, have the grounds swept and washed, all within 33 minutes flat. I timed it. Waiters in blue and white jackets advance to shake hands with me, a look of recognition on their faces. Even the Muse is impressed. One day, when I've made my fortune producing Speed III, a film taking place on 6 October Bridge in the moments running up to Iftar, I will spend all my money eating here. Hell, I will bring starving people, the likes of Penelope Cruz, here for a moza (meat on bone joint) and a vegetable tajin. Last time I phoned Pennie, she seemed a bit anxious. I promised her a role in an Egyptian soap opera, but first she'd have to do something about her weight, I said firmly. No more gym, no more low-fat cuisine. Look at yourself, woman! I am filling the spoon halfway with rice, delicately submerging it in the soup, savouring the baby-food flavour. Suddenly, I hear a half-woman, half-animal cry. The Muse is in a state. Four beautiful, well-fed cats are eying her, approaching dangerously as if they want to climb up her lap. She's not a cat person. The only pet she had was the stuffed giraffe she snatched from a much bigger boy many years ago. They became good friends afterwards and she still writes the occasional postcard to Tora Bora. I mumble something vaguely feline to the cats, then do my best to choke on a morsel of meat. The Californian and the Economist are sitting at our table, minding their business, chitchatting inaudibly. A little girl appears. She has sold me a packet of tissues a while earlier. She asks in a sweet voice if she may have the leftover moza if I am done with it. I inquire if she wants bread and pickles on the side. The Muse is furious. "Why ask? Just give her." The little girl walks to her mother, who's sitting on a fence a few steps away with a doggy bag in her hand. The mother approaches, a grown-up minute or two later, when the meal is over, and asks for more leftovers. The transaction is conducted efficiently, both of us glancing furtively towards the waiters who frown, on purely professional basis, on customer-beggar contact. The Muse suggests that next time we should invite the beggars for a meal. Now, how do you respond to that? I patiently explain that professional beggars can get barred from the Ambulatory Charity Recipient Syndicate (ACRS) for doing just so. According to my much-thumped edition of the International Guidebook for Curb-side Workers (Gremlin and Backers: 1996), "ACRs are prohibited from patronising restaurants they engage professionally. ACRs may patronise restaurants they are not engaging professionally, so long as they dress in appropriate fashion and make the necessary reservations." The proviso was introduced somewhere in the mid-1970s, when a confused Bolivian waiter, seeing a beggar who was used to mix business with pleasure approaching, said, "Madam, shall I get your usual table, or would you be begging today?" Al-Saidi Grill House, (02) 577 9902, 3 Midan Orabi, open 1pm to 3am in Ramadan, offers Egyptian cuisine and grills in a lively, sidewalk ambiance. Iftar for four, LE80. By Nabil Shawkat
