Restaurant review: Without the famous Hanan Radwan enjoys a memorable meal with a celebrated Indian singer.The only hitch: the diva is not present at the dining table Indian singer Asha Bhosle writes her story: "My early childhood was spent moving from one town to another with my father's travelling theatre company comprising [sic] 200 employees," the menu recalls. "[After each performance], the Company had food together, with my father presiding at the head of the table. I enjoyed watching the joy on the diners' faces as they savoured tasty delights. I suppose this was my inculcation into the fine art of cooking." Thus was born Asha's, the singer's international chain of namesake Indian restaurants, of which the two-floor classy venue that shares dining space, service and menus with another Asian restaurant, is aptly located beside the Nile at Giza. Asha's is roomy yet cosy, divided into corners framed with red chiffon curtains. As if to warn visitors of the upcoming inescapable encounter with red chilies and tomatoes, the colour red winks subtly from wall niches, as do paintings of Indian houses, bead curtains and decorative plates designed like the music records that housed the singer's numerous sound tracks. Indeed, Asha's presence is eerily felt throughout her restaurant. Her handsome smile beckons from photos sprinkled in the menu. Her pretty voice chirps merrily from the wall. Most appealing to me, however, are snippets of her personal experiences with the recipes on offer, printed underneath the title of the respective dish. Arriving with a group of rambunctious girls, I resolved to divide my time between their comments on Egyptian politics and Asha's culinary stories. Our order of appetisers succeeded in turning the conversation from desperate whining about post-revolutionary state of affairs to a cheerful symphony of "oohs", "aahs" and "this is good." The Paneer Ka Soola platter, heaped with chunks of tandoori vegetables and pineapple and creamy cottage cheese, all marinated in a sweet mustard mix with just a hint of spice, was heart-warming and palate pleasing. Plump fresh mushrooms stuffed with cheese and bell peppers and nestled cosily in canoe-shaped fried batter cups were polished off before any of us could properly announce Mushroom Kurkure, the appetiser's name. Tearing off a piece of naan bread glistening with butter, I learned that the silky black lentils cooked overnight with tomatoes, cream and clarified butter (Dal Makhani) are the brainchild of Saleem, one of the many composers and friends who happily shared the recipes with Asha. Unable to get a word in to make a contribution to the girls' fiery debates, I turned to read Asha's recollections of her childhood days in Indore, her father's friendship with that province's Maharaja, and a sightseeing trip in Oman, all of which yielded recipes proudly listed on the menu. Soon, red blotches shone randomly from our table from small bronze tagins holding Murgh Makhani, buttery cubes of chicken tikka smothered in a deliciously sweet tomato and cream gravy and ordered by the majority of our group. Adding more red, I held up a forkful of tandoori chicken marinated and coated in spicy ginger-garlic yoghurt paste in an effort to gain permission to butt into the conversation. Again, I failed. I turned to Asha for consolation. "My mother Mai," she writes, "was a pure vegetarian and refused to taste non-vegetarian food that she cooked for my father and her family. So I became her chief taster and young apprentice." Crunching a piece of Mai's prawn curry that a friend had ordered, and reveling in the aromatic taste of the coconut-turmeric gravy, I inwardly commended Asha on the fruits of her apprenticeship skills. Asha's Nile Street, Giza
