Restaurant review: Moored in As the gangs deployed on the shore, we anchored quietly across the river There is an invisible hand that makes the rich richer, the poor poorer, and everyone disappear to Sharm at the same time. In the dark of a summer night, that hand extended its nimble fingers to the edge of time and pulled as if at a pizza dough. Its action is called "daylight saving", a formula devised to extend the day when it's already long and shorten it when it's already short. For the next few months, the nation will huddle at home till 10pm, then hit the streets in a frenzy, burning all the electricity we're supposed to save. And yet you hear them, environmentalists and the lot, complain that we're indifferent to nature. Well, here is a clear example of man helping nature along, making its hottest days hotter, sweating hard in the process. The summertime notice is pinned near the elevator that takes us to the 10th floor. A well-mannered waiter in a Humphrey Bogart jacket leads us to a river-view table with armchairs done in bright red leather, fit for upscale gangland dinning. Except the gangs are not here. The gangs are scattered on the coast for the long weekend. The ceilings in the newly renovated are high, but not excessively so, and the lighting is just right. For a change, I can read the menu. The place is restful, Sinatra is crooning from somewhere, and we have pretty faces. My companion and I have been experimenting with facial treatment. She made a mask of yeast (a cupful of yeast, two spoons of warm milk, spread the paste on your face and leave it till it cracks). Her face glows. I smell it across the yellow-clothed table, across the pink birds of paradise in the glass vase. For once, we have faces fresher than the bread we're eating. She cuts a piece of butter and pauses. For a moment, I think she's going to spread it on her face. The restaurant's theme is Moorish, almost. An Arabesque bar area dissolves imperceptibly into the dining zone. The décor is purposeful, and succeeds where it fails. Instead of creating hip, it emulates home. You know when mother goes out and gets what she thinks is the right upholstery, then discovers it doesn't match the carpets and clashes slightly with the drapes. And everyone is shocked for a while, then gets used to it. The clashing hues of yellow and green, with red thrown in between, remind me of home. The tapas, little snippets of food, are said to have been made mandatory in Spanish pubs by a king (Alfonso X, the Wise) who found them good for his health. Ours feature half a dozen of edibles. The mushrooms are excellent, soft but not squishy. The meatballs and savoury pastries are convincing. But the octopus feet are hard, as if the creature had to walk too long on a rough surface without shoes. And the fish croquettes are middle-aged and having a crisis. Our main course, the paellas, can only be ordered for a minimum of two people. We get the version cooked with chicken and rabbit meat. The risotto, made of authentic Arborio, high- starch Italian rice, sautéed then cooked slowly in broth with a dash of saffron, is perfect. The rabbit meat is alert and lively, so lively not enough of it makes it into our serving. The chicken slices are dehydrated and desperate for some of the broth the rabbit drank before it ran away. Paellas are the subject of a tug-of-war between us, the Moors, and them, the Franks. The latter claim the appellation comes from the Latin word for a small frying pan, patella. We like to think that the name originated from al- baqia, leftover in Arabic, for the dish is associated with the remains of the banquets held by the Arab princes of Andalusia, a wine-drinking strain that gave us a rare taste of the forbidden fruit of colonialism, before the foot went into the other shoe. , on the 10th floor of Hotel Flamenco, Zamalek, (02) 7350815, is open 7pm to 1am. River view, Moorish-meets-gangland interior, classy seating and service. Dinner per person, LE120. By Nabil Shawkat
