Restaurant review: To impress an empress The palaces, the music, the touch of her hand How long does it take a country to change political coat? Since the end of WW II, this country has done it three times, at almost equal, 20-year intervals. From a monarchy with dysfunctional democracy, to a one- party system with dysfunctional socialism, to market economy with multiple sclerosis. Now our 20-year biological clock is ticking again. Change is on its way, everybody who's somebody seems to agree. Time is pressing, we need to come up with another style of life, another ogre to fight, another ghost to lay to rest. What will that be? I wonder. Dysfunctionality, the hallmark of our collective existence, is not something you summon from thin air. You have to work on it to perfect it. If you're not careful, you may straighten things up so much you'd turn into another Sweden. If there is one man in Cairo who can take us down this precarious road, it is the computer wiz we now have for prime minister. So, cross your fingers, buckle your dusty seatbelt, and look at the taxi metre. If it works, we're in for a bumpy ride to real reform. We may actually find ourselves in jobs that suit our skills and expected to do them right. Now, tell me, is this what you really want? The future was precarious over two centuries ago, when iron-packaged gunpowder fell on Cairo for the first time in known history, fired by men shouting "Allez, vite. L'autre cote, Francois." The shame of it all. If you're going to be occupied, at least have the invaders speak in solid syllables, not the accent of haute cuisine and romance. But the Albanians didn't care. Mohamed Ali's descendants, our lords for 150 years, loved their pasta quattro fromaggio, their French bordeaux, their Greek olives and hallumi. They spoke French at the dinner table, and at least one of them had a thing for middle-aged French women. It is the Brunette's birthday. The Intellectual and I have pawned out gold cufflinks to take her to a place with a pedigree. The piano bar of the Marriott Hotel is said to have been the billiards room of a palace Khedive Ismail built in the mid-19th century to house the woman of his dreams, 43-year-old Eugenie of France. Back then, the palace-turned-hotel, was at the northern tip of the island. The island extended when Ismail diverted the river at Giza in 1865, creating Doqqi on the west bank. Mud accumulated at northern part of the island and the environmentally-minded Ismail ordered all houses in the new zone to be of light structure or Zamalek (Turkish for huts), hence the modern name. We leave the bar to JW's, the adjacent restaurant, through a small side door. Our drinks follow us on a tray, as in the famous scene from Nicholson's As Good as it Gets. We settle in leather padded chairs among walls adorned with the pictures of Gable and Garbo, Grant and Bogart, and other Hollywood stars who would've loved it here. Hors d'oeuvres arrive. The smoked salmon with horse radish and caviar tastes better than the dantelle gloves Ismail kissed in the carriage taking him and the empress to the Pyramids (he had instructed builders to put bumps in the road so that he may squeeze closer to Eugenie). The grilled mushroom with spinach and hollandaise sauce is serene but outspoken, like the opening scenes of the opera Aida (commissioned for Eugenie's visit but finished two years later). You cannot get wrong with any of the steaks. The New York sirloin, lamb chops, and rib eye were all served in dishes sitting atop plate- rests with bull-headed metal ornaments. Ostentatious? The khedive would've had them done in gold. JW's steakhouse, Marriott Hotel, Zamalek, (02) 739 4661, is open noon to 4pm for lunch and 6pm till midnight for dinner. Haute cuisine with a colonial touch. A talented pianist performs at the adjacent bar. ATM machines are available upstairs, just in case. Dinner for three, LE900. By Nabil Shawkat
