Memories of Cairo, 1964 (or Four Proposals & A Wedding)

Eating Well Is The Best Revenge

by Diana Farr Louis

ATHENS, Greece—(Weekly Hubris)—2/28/11—“I have to go to Cairo for the weekend, would you like to come?” How’s that for an opening gambit? I had only met the talldarkhandsome stranger once on a Greek beach more than a year before. And here he was standing in my Paris doorway with this seductive proposal. Before we’d even had dinner.

His first remark when I answered the door had been, “I never would have recognized you with clothes on.” Teasing with a twinkle, of course, since all of us had been wearing bathing suits that day.

To my surprise, I said, “Yes, I’ll come.” To which Alexi replied, “I’ll ask you again after dinner.” (For more on that evening, see “The Way To My Heart,” 2/8/10.)

When Alexi dropped me back at my Quartier Latin flat, he popped the question again, this time with a qualifier. “Of course, I’d like to go to bed with you.”

“Oh,” said I, quite disingenuously, “I don’t do that sort of thing.”

“You don’t? Oh well, never mind. You can come anyway.”

And so it was that we flew to Cairo in October, 1964. I confess to being brazenly opportunistic in my thirst to see the Nile. Did I think I would not have to give something in return? Alexi, being older and wiser (in the ways of women, at least), appeared willing to bide his time.

We checked into the Nile Hilton, separate rooms as requested. And then took a taxi to the Pyramids and Mena House, a bar/restaurant where everyone had congregated during the War. On the way, Alexi had been spinning tales about Cairo then, making me yearn for the romance, the friendships with famous writers like Paddy Leigh Fermor and Larry Durrell, the intensity of relationships that might end in fighting in the Western Desert.

But when we arrived, the place had not only been renovated, it was empty. I could see he was sorry he’d come. But as if to conjure back the past, Alexi continued his stories about meetings with other Greeks in exile, dalliances with gorgeous women, frivolity, pathos, danger.

Gorging on his words, I have no recollection of what we might have eaten. But afterwards, we stepped outside into the shadow of the Pyramids. Not a soul was in sight. We looked at each other and without a word started to climb the nearest one. It was not easy. No steps for mortals had been cut into the great stone tiers, but we managed to haul ourselves up like toddlers negotiating stairs. For a few moments Giza was ours—the craggy-faced Sphinx, the mysterious triangles pointing to the Milky Way, the rough surface still warm to the touch.

Until the lone guard spotted us. Shouting furiously and waving his rifle, he hustled us down and into a taxi. Shame upon us, he scolded in Arabic and pidgin. But we were gleeful and giggled all the way to the hotel.

The next morning I joined Alexi on his balcony for breakfast overlooking the Nile. A bowl of tropical fruit fit for Farouk awaited us, the old Egyptian fellucas sailed gently down the brown river, ancient buckets on long ropes swung in and out of even more ancient wells, while the spiky fronds of hundreds of palm trees spangled the banks.

The fruit looked too beautiful to eat. One—was it a custard apple or a bullock’s heart?—resembled a trompe l’oeil artichoke, with leaves that seemed painted on and were definitely not detachable. Alexi peeled it, exposing the shiny orange flesh, and cut a sliver. “Try this,” he said, sliding the fruit between my lips.

We cut and peeled, samplng the exotic delicacies, passing judgment as we tasted. The papaya was stringy and full of black pips; the others were mealy, mushy, or too sweet. As we nibbled on the mango, juice dripped down our chins and up our arms. “They say you should only eat mangos in the bath tub,” said Alexi, “but we don’t have time.”

“Well, take a dry, sticky date,” I said, “It’s ironic, isn’t it? I always wondered what these fruits tasted like. But now that I know, I think cherries and apples are more my style.”

Soon Alexi went off to work and I stepped out of the Hilton, intending to visit the Archaeological Museum. Easier said than done. Would-be guides swarmed at the entrance, ready to pounce on any foreigner. They didn’t just want to escort me to the sights of Cairo. They proposed marriage. It wasn’t my blonde hair and blue eyes; they just wanted a passport out of Egypt.

I turned down two suitors and in my haste to avoid a third escaped into the basement of the museum. Only to wander among scores of dusty sarcophagi for eons before I found my way to the real treasures.

That night Alexi and I had unmemorable business dinner and, the next morning, after a satisfyingly ordinary breakfast of coffee and toast, I tried again to outwit the guides.

This time, I happened upon a young man who did not declare his adoration in the first sentence. Calmly, politely, he offered to take me back to the Pyramids, no strings attached. His English was good and he was fun to talk to. Mokhtar was his name, and I have a photo of him in front of the Sphinx, dressed in a suit and tie and looking very much like a young Western businessman.

After helping me aboard my first camel—no mean trick in a tight skirt—Mokhtar suggested we visit his sister who lived nearby. His niece, a slip of a girl not more than nine or ten, answered the door. She led us into the dimly lit living room, where large white sheets covered the sofa and armchairs, and offered us a glass of water. Mokhtar, being family, was not worth stripping the sheets for.

Then he told his niece to put on the radio and dance for us. Together they chose the station and, without the slightest hesitation, the girl started to move with the music. Slowly and unselfconsciously, she lifted her arms in the air, twirled her hands, and let the movement undulate through her whole body, from her shoulders to her nonexistent breasts, flat belly, and angular hips. For perhaps 20 minutes she performed the sensual belly dance as purely and naturally as a daffodil brushed by a breeze.

Then her mother came in and broke the spell. A mountain of a woman, she shrugged off her black tent to reveal that at least part of her bulk was in fact a baby. She greeted me politely, launched into an animated discussion with Mokhtar, and pulled out a breast to feed her son.

Mokhtar whisked me back to Cairo, lunch with his friends in a blue-tiled, for-Egyptians-only joint, and a nargileh that would send me to sleep for the rest of the afternoon. He did not try to take advantage of my stupor, even as I lay on his bed. And he did not propose marriage until he dropped me off at the Hilton.

That evening, Alexi took me to a fancy nightclub. It reminded me of the Persian Room at New York’s Plaza Hotel. The head waiter, resplendent in black and gold brocade, led us to red plush seats around a gleaming brass table with a good view of the stage. His underlings, dressed like Sinbad, paraded in and out of the kitchen with skewers of flaming shish kebab, borne as if they were triumphal torches. The diners about to receive them spilled out of their chairs, meeting the approved Egyptian standard of plumpness, the women especially.

Not at all hungry, I was toying with a lamb chop when new music signaled the start of the floor show. Whiny, sinuous strings zinged above the insistent beat of hands slapping taut drums. A voluptuous dark-haired woman erupted onto the stage, her bare midriff heaving up, down, and sideways, bracelets jingling as she pranced on the balls of her feet, folds of fat rippling under diaphanous silk pantaloons. The audience cheered and whistled its appreciation as she worked up to the climax. Shaking her breasts along with her belly, she sent the tassels attached to her bodice whirling in opposite directions, like propellers on an old airplane or the Bostonian legend, Tilly the Tassel Tosser.

I thought of the dance I’d seen that afternoon. “Why don’t we go back to the hotel? I think I’ve had enough of this for one night. She’s so obvious, she’s not even sexy.”

I told Alexi about Mokhtar and his niece.

“Perhaps you could show me the difference?”

“I don’t do that sort of thing,” I grinned. “But perhaps just this once.”

The Cairo weekend was almost over. But before we left, a business friend of Alexi’s showed me round the bazaar. Ephat knew all the salespeople, who smiled and rubbed their hands as they unlocked their most prized treasures. A photographer snapped me admiring an unusual oil lamp. It wound up as a full-page ad in an Egyptian magazine. In her note, Ephat translated the text alongside the picture: “Famous Hollywood star visits such and such shop at the Cairo bazaar . . .” An unreal footnote to a surreal three days.

Alexi proposed a few months later.

I was thinking of these romantic tales when glued to the events in Tahrir Square. I will always remember the city as a place where anything can happen.

Recipe

I suppose it’s not surprising that I remember virtually nothing about the food of Cairo. It was a feast for all the senses. But surely I must have eaten falafel, the fried chick pea patties which are a staple there. Here is a Greek version from my Feasting and Fasting in Crete.

250 grams (1/2 lb) chick peas (garbanzos), soaked overnight

3 onions, finely chopped

1 handful finely chopped mint leaves

2 big tablespoons finely chopped parsley

salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste

1 tablespoon cumin (optional)

2 big pinches oregano

2 1/2-3 heaping tablespoons flour

For the garnish

red, green and yellow peppers (1 each), sliced in thin rounds

2 cloves garlic, crushed (optional)

½ teaspoon (or more) hot pepper flakes (optional)

4 tomatoes, cubed

olive oil for frying

Grind the chick peas in a meat grinder or food processor. Place them in a bowl with the chopped onion, mint, parsley, salt, pepper, cumin, and oregano. Slowly add the flour, kneading the mixture with your hands until you can form balls with it.

Make the mixture into flat patties, about 1 1/2 cm (1/2 inch) thick and 8 cm (3 inches) in diameter. You can either fry the patties right away or let them rest for several hours for the flavors to blend.

Have ready two large frying pans, one for the garbanzo patties, the other for the vegetable sauce. First fry the patties in a few tablespoons of hot olive oil, browning them on both sides. Drain them on paper towels and set aside.

Heat a few tablespoons of olive oil in the other pan and sauté the peppers for 5 minutes, then add the tomatoes, crushed garlic, and pepper flakes (if using) together with 1/4 cup of water and cook quickly —they should not disintegrate. While there is still a little liquid in the pan, add the garbanzo patties and cook a further 2 minutes on each side. Arrange them on a platter with the colorful vegetables and serve. Makes about 30 patties.