By Injy El-Kashef is Platonically involved with a chicken I don't know whether our nucleus of friends expanded with such speed to incorporate three times the original number of people heading toward Bukhara due to the restaurant's reputation, or simply to a general attack of good mood and a need to huddle over a shared meal. Whatever the reasons, on that Saturday afternoon, a caravan of cars was heading in the same direction, with enough goodwill and sense of humour in the air to guarantee a delightful time. We had heard from the grapevine that Bukhara had been renovated, with a new chef and all, and the curiosity of finding out how a restaurant that had hardly ever let anyone down could be improved needed to be satiated. Neither of us could notice any change as we walked in, however, which kind of brought a sense of relief: the décor was the same, the smell in the air was the same, the not terribly-happy-to-serve-you waiters were the same, even the Flintstone's menu, with the items painted in big white letters on the dark, lacquered piece of wood, was the same. We ordered an obscene amount of food, the options being simply irresistible. As the Greeks knew it back then, and the Egyptians know it now more than ever, bread is more than just cooked dough. Bread is a philosophy, it is sustenance in its purest, most basic and reliable form. And Indian bread, with garlic, with cheese, with spices, is the sophistication of purity. A debate between myself and the person to my left concerning lamb lasted a good 15 minutes, at the end of which he wisely judged that it was better not to bring lamb anywhere within a 20-km radius from me. The dishes were landing on the table, our mouths were watering, and no malicious gossip or X-rated topics of conversations were going to stop us now. Tandoori chicken, chicken in tomato and butter sauce, beef in spicy tomato sauce, spinach with cottage cheese, fried vegetables, black lentils with butter, chicken with garlic and yoghurt...there was not one plate on that table that was not hoovered down. The chicken dishes I found to be far tastier than the beef, although the latter, mostly, was simply melt- in-the mouth with a delicious, strong seasoning. But the chicken was executed with art, with love, with passion. At Bukhara, chicken no longer belongs to the category of animal protein; you can't imagine it in its original form, with feathers and a beak, running around pecking grains off the ground. At Bukhara, chicken seems to have been created out of nothing, except, perhaps, the touch of a magic wand, resulting in a texture, a flavour, an aroma and a consistency that surpasses other possibilities in chicken land. The desserts at Bukhara are unique; not only in taste, but also in effect. The cardamom ice cream is a delight to the palate, a flavour so rich in its subtlety, so satisfying, that it justifies a trip to the restaurant in its own right. As for the fried milk balls with syrup, they are among the dishes that I relish with a total loss of public dignity; the look in my eyes, the sounds I emit expressing almost relief at having found the material expression to a rare mental image of joy. A succulent, entirely fulfilling, immensely pleasurable meal, costing LE100 a head. Nile Bukhara, 43 Misr Helwan Agricultural Road, Maadi Tel 380 5999
