Restaurant review: The Begum's comestibles Gamal Nkrumah questions whether he was man enough for the Indian princess French author Jules Verne's The Begum's Millions, or The Begum's Fortune, is an intriguing thriller. The story is of a French soldier-of-fortune who married a fabulously wealthy Indian princess, or Begum. So, faced with an empty fridge and having just leafed through its pages, I promptly phoned a few friends and we headed for the Begum, Maadi. To my utter astonishment, the Begum was nowhere to be found. The Begum in this particular case is a Lebanese lady and happens to be in Lebanon at the moment. But her husband, the amiable PJ Bhattacharyya, owner of the Nawab Restaurant in Zamalek, was there in person. The cooking at Begum has a derivation traceable through generations of authentic sumptuous Indian cuisine of the palatial intemperance of the rulers of the princely states under the protection of the British Raj. Yet, there is nothing overwhelmingly ostentatious about this most peculiar Begum cosily recoiled like a chock-full cobra on the ground floor of a building next to the famous Fuddruckers. PJ Bhattacharyya and his Lebanese Begum were the brains behind the ambiance as well as the edibles where he cooks curried dishes with the confidence and constraint that only comes with years at the stoves, or shall we say the Bukhari wood-burning stove? Or better still, the tandoor, the cylindrical clay oven? The proprietor was most particular about the type of bread that was to accompany our meal. PJ Bhattacharyya's approach to the Indian Sub-Continent's cuisine is as exhilarating as the setting. We sipped our freshly squeezed fruit juices and lassi and the conversation flowed. As soon as the bread arrived -- chapati and roti, stone-ground whole-meal flour bread -- the competition to devour every crumb in the basket was almost unseemly. So good was the roti, it did as much for my heartburn as the anti-acid pills I had been prescribed. It was a perfect example of doing something very simple very well. Truth be told, this was part of the beauty of the Begum. The food is served simply, accompanied with nothing more spectacular than a small clump of garlic naan loaves. It was plain and unostentatious, just like the tasteful décor. So far, the food was pleasantly unpretentious. But my attention was focussed on the dish that was to follow, which had sounded so mouth-watering on the menu. Again, nothing extraordinary but magical enough to juice up the afternoon. The dish arrived and it was as described. The lamb was lean, without a trace of the ungainly gaminess one often encounters in Egyptian mutton. The meat was cooked in its own juices as it exuded a delectable flavour and a spicy aroma. The spices were restrained in flavour. Moistened by a technically perfect creamy yogurt sauce, the meat melted in one's mouth and even managed to convey an even greater sense of fun than a number of the authentic regional dishes of India. I quenched my thirst with cumin peppered lassi, without sugar or salt. Begum exudes relaxed chic. Fuddruckers pales in comparison with Begum. A burger is a burger after all. At the Begum one does not know what quite to expect. You don't want to be disappointed, and you won't be. The hype that has built up inside one's head around Fuddruckers is a figment of the popular imagination. A smashing time was had by all, except for the Begum who was in Beirut. Begum, Maadi
