Injy El-Kashef is under the colourless sky The thing about grey skies is that they do not impose themselves on you. Blue skies, dark skies, by virtue of the intensity of their hues, tend to provoke one into particular mental dispositions, at least on an unconscious level. Grey skies, on the other hand, will allow the mind's momentary true colours to flow freely and reveal themselves. And so I have found myself, under a grey sky, at times in jubilant euphoria, and at others contemplating the different means by which I may terminate this wretched existence -- wrist slashing not being one of them; too messy. The day I had dinner at Aida, the Italian restaurant at Al-Salam Concorde (yes, no more Swissôtel), the sky had struggled out of a baby blue colour and into a rat grey over several hours, during which I found myself on an emotional trapeze. There was something soothing about being in Aida. Perhaps the colours, the understated, subtle decor, the quiet customers, the professional waiters (able to draw the fine line between friendly and imposing); perhaps the fact that I was in the presence of a dear friend, whose company I always enjoy and miss; perhaps the dishes on the menu that made it patently obvious I was going to find some solace in a good meal. Uncorking a bottle of wine was the first good decision we made, only to be followed by more -- good decisions, that is, as well as wine. Although neither of us was terribly hungry, our appetisers worked on us exactly as they should: my friend's mozzarella with tomatoes and olive oil, which came cleverly constructed in a red-and-white layered tower, was so fresh, so basically, well, appetising, that he found it difficult waiting for the main course. My antipasto was no less effective. Between the crispy lettuce hearts, the raw mushroom slices, the perfect croutons, the grated Parmesan and a sharp little vinaigrette, I was perfectly content to forget all about skies and rat poison. Now, Chris is a good eater, and it is therefore pleasurable to share a meal with him. When his Ravioli Aragosta landed before him, he tried to figure it out first, smelled it, came closer, took a first forkful, and with his customary excited delight, exclaimed, turning to me "This is really, really good!", proceeding to deconstruct the pasta in lobster sauce as though it were a poem by Eliot. More wine was washing down this wonderful meal. Spirits were high now. Resisting a bout of hysterical laughter as I saw a very serious Chris stuff the wine cork up his nostril, I tried to focus on my succulent Tagliatelli Ai Funghi. They bathed in a rich, creamy, simply perfect sauce, full of meaty mushroom chunks to accompany the al dente pasta. As we attacked the desserts buffet for the fifth time, Chris's girlfriend had arrived. She looked at him from every possible angle, smiling a little, frowning a little (as he repeated the cork-in-the-nostril demonstration) and finally asked me: "What have you done to him? He was normal when I last saw him!" I could hold it no longer. I burst out laughing first, then proceeded to finish off the last remaining baklava fingers stuffed with ground pistachios on my plate as she calmly held his hand, asking "Honey, are you OK?". God bless them both. Our meal came to LE352. Aida, Al-Salam Concorde Hotel, Abdel- Hamid Badawi St, Heliopolis Tel 297 4000
