Mood Swings The calamari syndrome By Nabil Shawkat I love calamari, and prefer it grilled. Halved lengthwise, the heads -- or is it tails? -- severed and served to the side of the platter. It is a lovely appetiser, if handled by the right cook. For it takes just a few minutes to prepare, or otherwise acquires the consistency of hiking boots. Calamari (the word cannot be pluralised further, for most fishmongers will look at you askance if you want to buy only one, or at least my dictionary says so) remind me of relations. More specifically, of relations in trouble, the ones that want to jump from the frying pan onto the inaccessible crack beside the kitchen cabinet. The ones threatening to turn into artefacts of sloppy handling in the midst of our fitted, compartmentalised lives. Calamari are so appetising, so transparent, yet so deceptive. They are packed with cholesterol, the better to narrow your vessels and perhaps do something to your heart. Delicious, perhaps, but you have to keep an eye on the subtle changes, the never-ending metamorphosis. They would take only a few minutes to fry, but in a pot, they would take up to 40 minutes to cook. Why? I am not sure. What I know is that a similar thing happens with human relations. There is always a moment to turn off the fire. There can be another moment, but you may have changed kitchens, restaurants, even towns, by then. For humans, the calamari syndrome is played out on a grand scale. The other day I was with two friends who I know care a lot about each other and -- on good days -- are in love. The mood was perfect, for we had just bought a marvellous birthday gift for a friend of ours. And we were heading somewhere nice for lunch on an unusually crisp October day. Suddenly, a dark cloud descended upon us. Not the one blamed on farmers burning rice stems in the distant muddiness of Delta, but a more immediate, purposeful one. The sun kept shining, the suburban breeze remained inexplicably fresh (the mischievous hay having mucked up its smoky act of revenge that particular day). Yet the two friends have managed -- with a secret language of ill temper that only come to people who practice -- to get mad at each other. Presently, she was stomping off to her car. He was standing in the middle of the street, lost for words. I ran to stop her and was told off, firmly. I ran back to him and practically forced him to follow her, and SAY SOMETHING NOW to end the squabble. He paused at the main street for an ominous moment, seriously considering taking a taxi home. For my own sake he didn't. We managed to get into the car with her, and in a few moments the crisis went away. Nothing clever was said. No elaborate explanations were given. But we were there, and this was a statement enough. We were at the shore, anchor in hand, ready to disembark, and it was difficult to turn us back to the uncertain sea behind. Here is the key to the calamari syndrome: the Ten Seconds Rule. If a friend is mad, and if you really care, you have to do something to make it good, right away. Otherwise, you get into the prolonged period of anger and mistrust, when the calamari, forgotten on the fire, turn into durable rubber soles. So, what do you do with rubbery calamari, the ones you can't chew but aren't yet ready to give up upon? The Spaniards, or Andalusians to be exact, used to take all the leftovers from yesterday's banquet -- rice and fish and prawns and vegetables -- and throw them together in a pot. They called it, unimaginatively, bakiya (the Arabic for leftovers, the K optional), or paella (the silent Spanish double L pronounced with a chewy sound, payeyyjya, like a linguistic alarm bell for ill-timed cooking). Paella works, but it is a risky business. I was sitting last week at a fairly reliable, somewhat upscale riverside restaurant (they let us in, but wouldn't send someone for cigarettes) debating the question of dinner. I am not very good at reading menus (and wish more time is spent training chefs to prepare one or two good meals than concocting a multi-page document of dubious literary and culinary value). So, I asked the waiter to recommend. This is usually a good trick, for there are two types of waiters. The ones who know, and they will pronounce the syllables with relish, as if rocking a baby while the mother is watching, and the ones who would suggest entries as if reading from a telephone directory. This one was of the first variety, and he suggested the paella. And it was a good choice. So, here is what you do with the leftovers, the pride that lingers in a chewy limbo, unable to disappear on its own, the unsavoury disappointment that is about to happen, but needn't. You GROVEL. Keep the pot on a low fire of humility, and wait. It is not calamari, and it will take longer, days, perhaps weeks, to cook. If it takes months, forget what I said. Turn vegetarian.
