Restaurant review: All the other addictions The Mamelukes would have shopped here, had they survived the Albanian One of the questions that often come to our local minds is "how far behind are we?" In the 13th century, Cairo was at the cutting edge of world economy, along with its two main trading partners, Venice and Florence. Then things slipped by a little. We missed out on the renaissance, wriggled out of the enlightenment, and stumbled all over the industrial revolution. Then Napoleon came along and shocked the Mamelukes (warrior king-slaves in power for six centuries) out of their wits, so much so that Mohamed Ali, an Albanian sergeant who came along for the ride, massacred them at a pre-dinner reception in the Saladin Castle (built by European slaves captured during the Crusades). Details of the banquet-that-never-was have been lost in the ensuing commotion, but we know one thing -- the dessert did not originate in Seattle. We are only 18 years behind, exactly, in at least one detail of man's pursuit for happiness: cinnamon rolls. The first Cinnabon outlet opened in Seattle in 1985; the first one in Cairo opened last summer. I and the Brunette are at Carrefour for a very specific reason: to shop aimlessly. We woke up, she at an under-populated Golf-course settlement close to Libya, me at the top floor of my tiny downtown loft, and discovered that we have one thing in common, or actually don't have it -- smoked salmon. The drive to Carrefour is a miniature military campaign, best conducted with a compass, maps, and a prayer. We find the place in our first attempt and are so pleased with this unusual accomplishment we consider celebrating by skating up and down the marbled alleys on our trolleys. But we're immediately distracted by the jewellery shops, the flower shops, the shoes and shirts, the sofas and hammocks, the endless options. Shall we get the frozen smoked salmon (store at minus 8 degrees) or the more user-friendly version (suitable for the refrigerator shelf)? The Brunette goes for the frozen version and so I will, next time. At breakfast the next day, I discover that the user-friendly salmon is a bit stale, disinterested, like ministers ahead of a cabinet reshuffle. We grab sandwiches from the food counter at the hyper-market. The Brunette gets chicken with a vegetable topping. I get a hotdog. But no chili sauce is available, not even mustard. We're a definite superpower at fuul, but even after decades of civilian and military aid, we are still far behind in the average staple of the American street. All those aid organisations can apparently think of is solid waste and gender. How about a couple of hotdog carts from America, at least for the special project on small industries everyone is talking about (it even got a mention at the recent G8 summit)? And then they tell you the Americans are colonialists? What kind of colonialism is this? What colonialism is so inept it cannot provide the middle class masses with a taste of its own delicious, dripping condiment? I drown my sorrows in the excellent coffee of Cinnabon. The chain is a successor of Starbucks in America and, hopefully, a predecessor of it in this country. I know I am starting to sound like Ahmed Chalabi of Iraq before the recent spat, but if there is one thing worth defending about neo-colonialism, it is good coffee. The cinnamon rolls come in two sizes (regular, mini) and three flavours (classical, chocolate, pecan). You'll smell them from miles away and they are just as good as they smell. (Cinnabon is the world-wide leader in the cinnamon roll bakery category. Founded in Seattle, Washington in 1985, Cinnabon opened its first bakery on 4 December, 1985 at Sea Tac Mall). Cinnabon is in Carrefour, somewhere off the ring-road east of Maadi. The cashier wouldn't serve people who try to jump the line and empty trolleys left outside tend to disappear. Two rolls and a latte, LE28 By Nabil Shawkat
