Restaurant review: Peerless pressure I rescued some and said a prayer for the rest One of the frustrating facts of life is that the masses don't do what they are supposed to, and even assume they know what's best for them. Forty years ago, Hassan Fathi told the masses what type of architecture they need -- airy, rustic, easy to build, impossible to clean. The man's fame swept all over Latin America and trickled back here. Today, just take a look at the Egyptian countryside, not an adobe house in sight. The masses didn't even criticise his work, they ignored it. I am standing where the masses want to be, in front of a mammoth suburban shopping mall. The mall's façade reminds me of burlesque, of a housewife's first night as a professional belly dancer, of auntie's collection of glass knickknacks. And a beggar approaches me, touches my arm, reduces me to what she wills me to be, to what I secretly wish to be, to a bundle of smelly money in human form, to a bank account with grey hair and a floral shirt. She's not allowed on the sidewalk in front of the shopping plaza, the security guards make sure beggars don't step onto the sidewalk. The Designer is late and I am pacing in circles. The beggar is still eyeing me. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps it's not all about money. Perhaps it's the sight of a fellow human with another life to waste. Let's create a bond here, I imagine her saying. Don't do to me what the government is doing to the opposition, listen for a change, I don't need your smelly money, all I need is the giving act! All I am asking for is some acknowledgement after all those hours of waiting! I keep pacing. The Designer arrives and we go to where he suggests, to where the masses should go, to a graceful place where a plate of pasta starts at LE5. We're sitting in a small, retro to modern establishment, with six or seven tables, all covered with sensible white and red chequered cloth. My Greek salad is heaped over with feta cheese, lithe and fresh. The Designer is consuming his mushroom salad with delight, enthusing all the time about various engraving techniques and their use in print. The all-glass doors offer us a full sight of an unsightly street. The doors should've been done in wood panels, but I guess the nearby shopping mall influences its entire vicinity. Peer pressure is hard to resist, especially when your peer is 700 times bigger than you. My créme of mushroom soup looks like melted ice cream, completely white. I was expecting something more tanned, something that bounced for a while on a pan with angry fried things, not something that looks and tastes like all blondes, no, actually it tastes like an albino. The Designer is having a créme of tomato soup. I want to taste it but hold back. We're two men unaccompanied by our usual crowd of dysfunctional women, and we're both wearing floral shirts, and I don't want to establish too much intimacy right now. Call me homophobic, but sharing a soup is not like sharing a pizza. Sharing a pizza is like sharing a taxi, each has his own solid part of the vehicle. Sharing a soup is like sharing a Jacuzzi, if you know what I mean. The Designer loves his margarita pizza, although he actually ordered the Napolitana. My penne pesto comes overflowing with basil sauce. The penne bits are rolling up their pants and pleading for help, like victims of an unexpected hurricane. I rescue a few from the top and say a short prayer for the rest. The fillet poivre is like a male friend you can trust -- interesting and calm, no inner doubts, no recurring crises. Pasta House, (02) 263 0705, 19 Al-Batrawi Street, Nasr City, offers well-priced pizzas and pastas in a faux rustic ambiance. No alcohol. dinner for two, LE90. By Nabil Shawkat
