By Injy El-Kashef discreetly watches the door After Eight is one of those places I would never dream of going to without the right crowd -- one that would enable me to contextualise it in time. I do not need to have the history retold, or the names mentioned to me, or the anecdotes relayed. I only need to watch that crowd gaze about the place and be allowed to see the look in their eyes. The day for After Eight finally came, months after the intention to review it had been formed. My waiting was not in vain, for not only was I with the right crowd, but among our party was also a person I knew would make my evening terribly special. No sooner had I mentioned the dinner venue than the inevitable question arose: "You mean the After Eight? My God... It's been ages! Do they still ask you who you are from behind the door before letting you in?" Walking through the narrow passage that leads to the restaurant I could sense a curious nostalgia for evenings I had unfortunately never seen. Once inside it all faded a little, as After Eight is reminiscent of a few other venues I had been to recently, somewhat sharing the decor, or at least the generally laid back, comfortably elegant, ambiance. While Omar Khayam was being poured in our glasses and the menu perused at length, I scanned the interior with those sharp eyes of mine, taking it all in: the red brick walls, the soft yellow lighting, the paintings scattered here and there -- stopping at the door to spot the arrival I was eagerly expecting -- the wooden dance floor I knew I would grace with my steps a few wine glasses later, the earth-coloured upholstery, the clientele feeling right at home. The maitre d' elegantly placed the appetisers on the table, fretting a little with tight sealed lips that betrayed a nervousness we could not comprehend. I had to contain myself from grabbing his hand firmly and whispering to him "It's alright", but delicious fried shrimps were more of a priority at that moment. Delicious everything, in fact: chicken livers in garlic sauce; thin, compact, lemony vine leaves; smooth and powerful bessara that made you proud of being Egyptian; cheese sambousek with crunchy edges and a soft centre; all that with the wine made up for the disappointment of the main courses. My fish kebabs were stringy and hard -- but I had already feasted on the mezze and was too excited to eat anyway. So I observed. The mixed grill was hoovered so fast that I needed not even taste to judge. The fish and shrimps with white sauce were probably the best (my choice, though not for me): rich, creamy, subtle, just right. As for the grilled fish with green rice, well, it did not make anybody moan or fall off their chairs. If granny were there she would approve the mezze and probably raise one eye- brow at the main courses. But we were happy, and granny had no business there anyway. Poor cell phone coverage helped a lot. In a way, you are trapped inside, unable to communicate with the outside world except by leaving -- something the comfort renders difficult, but the lack of dancing music eventually forced us to do, as the night was young and so were we, eager for more despite our LE400 bill for four. After Eight, off Qasr Al-Nil St, (look for sign at the entrance to the passage)
