Table for Four?

First published March 3, 2009

A delicious dish...can't remember the name

Once again, Tarek gave another recommendation. He drove by slowly and nodded toward a little restaurant with white trim and many Egyptians clamoring to get in. 

"Mahtom kwyees," he says. (This restaurant is good.)

On the days that the girls do not have Arabic studies we try to do something outside the flat to reinforce all that we're learning during language classes. This includes dining. We thought that we should follow up on Tarek's advice and try the local eatery. We walked into the first door and looked at the wall full of food pictures. I recognized a can of Pepsi, French fries and a pineapple. The rest of the colorful items looked delicious, but nothing that I could put a name to...

A man was sitting near the door with a small register. We think he takes your order and your money in exchange for a white ticket.

Behind him we saw a counter surrounded by men waving white tickets in their hands. The white tickets were being passed to two men behind the counter who were working as fast as they could to fill the orders. No numbering system needed here. You simply push your way to the front and hope your arm is longer than your neighbor's.

I looked at John and we were debating if we were going to throw ourselves into the fray. Stepping back we reviewed our options. To our right we noticed another door to the same restaurant. This door had a few tables and not nearly the hubbub. We took Door #2. We looked at the waiter and he motioned for us to sit at any table. We did.

He smiled broadly and handed us four menus...all in Arabic. He smiled and asked, "Arabi?" We told him we knew a little bit of Arabic, but asked if he happened to have an English menu. He shook his head sadly and said, "La." (No.)

We passed the menus around and told him that these would be fine. Afterall, there were pictures available. Emileigh began immediately sounding out the words. She found the page in the menu that had all the fuul selections. Okay, now we're getting somewhere. We can read numbers, so we could tell the price of things. They seemed incredibly cheap, so we weren't sure if we were reading them right.

I pointed to a bowl of something that looked good and asked John if he would like to share it. He laughed and said, "Might as well." The girls chose their main entrees and the waiter returned with pad and pencil in hand.

We ordered our food and then asked a few questions. 

"Is that a salad?" "Do you order that separately or does it come with the meal?" "What is that yellowish looking stuff with an olive on top?" He responded graciously, but unintelligibly. He waited for us to finalize our dinner. There was a long pause because we had no idea what he had said. I looked around the restaurant again and saw something that resembled a salad bar.

I pointed to it and said, "Anna aiza ensalata." (I want salad.) Or so I thought. He nodded yes and walked away. Aria looked at me and said, "You are using some Spanish words again."

No wonder he looked at me with that glazed look.

I got up to walk toward the salad bar, but slowly because I still wasn't sure that's what it was there for. The waiter saw me and motioned for me to come to it. A young guy behind the encased salads pulled out a plate and waited for me to tell him what I wanted. I pointed to 3 items and then a fourth. I started to ask for a fifth item when I noticed that he was pulling out little triangles of pita bread and making little separators between each item. He had completed his artwork when he saw that I wanted one more thing. I think he was a little perturbed that I was asking him to ruin his masterpiece. He took the small scoop of cucumbers and plopped them on top with very little flair. 

I thought that I shouldn't push my luck any more and thanked him. I sat down at the table with my plate and saw three pairs of eyes zero in on it. I pushed the plate in the middle and let the rest of the family vultures dive in. You see, in Egypt even fast food is not fast. You will wait and wait and wait. So rather than risk the wrath of protein-deprived loved ones, it's better to share the bit of nutrition that comes early to your table.

A basket of hot pita bread arrived and we were happy campers. Emileigh and Aria's fuul orders arrived and we gave them the go-ahead to eat. We've also discovered that the people at your table do not get their food all at the same time. It might be 5 minutes in between or even 30 minutes depending on the cook. So you'd better eat while the eatin's good.

John and I did get our dish that we ordered and it was really good. John especially liked it because it had a smoky meat flavor. Since I couldn't read what we ordered, I decided that "ignorance is bliss" and I would just assume that it was nice little pieces of beef in there. I didn't really want to know if it were something else.

We finished our meal and began the game of "Can you catch the eye of the waiter to ask for your check?" I want to alert the restaurant help when we arrive and say, "We are Americans. We do not take leisurely meals. We order. We eat. We get out. We do not linger over our food. Bring me the check before I order so that I can pay as soon as I take the last bite." But I don't and we wait and wait and wait.

John's much more culturally inclined than I am in moments like these. He will actually wait until the waiter happens by. I am trying to rub two toothpicks together, use a sugar packet as kindling to start a small fire and attract some attention.

Finally, the waiter arrives, clears our table and asks if everything was good. John (Mr. Nice Guy) talks to him in Arabic and assures him that the meal was delicious and that we'll be back. I want to say, "Yes, it was great, but I'm growing old here. If we stay any longer we're going to have to order supper." But I don't. John ends his nice dialog with a request for our check and the waiter hands it to him.

The total bill 37LE. That's around $7. Not too bad for a family of four. I soften a bit and realize that I am here to learn not only the language, but the culture and the pace of life. Deep breath, Pam.

We exited the restaurant. The girls headed to the Metro station to go shopping at the big market and John and I began our walk home. We rounded the corner and spotted a Cinnabon store. John looked at me and says, "Of course." That's what 21 years of marriage will do for you. He practiced one language at lunch and seamlessly switched to the language of love effortlessly. 

Oh, the menus were in English and you had to pay before you got your cinnamon roll. Ahhhhh, sweet, rude American enterprise.