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Al-Ahram Weekly 6 - 12 April 2000 Issue No. 476 
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Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Al-Ahram Weekly 6 - 12 April 2000 Issue No. 476
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| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Egypt Region International Economy Opinion Culture Summit Features Focus Travel Living Sports Profile People Time Out Chronicles Cartoons Letters Caviar for a king
By Fayza Hassan
"Only at a gambling table can one really know one's neighbour," my husband used to say. Not a gambler myself, I was never fully illuminated by this particular bit of wisdom, but on a different level, I can match my husband's belief with an equally incisive verity: "Only at the wheel of a car can true character be revealed." Few besmirching adjectives describing drivers' behaviour can be considered a novelty today, none in any case that I have not already used at one time or another and in various languages. Now, however, I find myself in the position of discovering an entirely uninvestigated field of car owners' wickedness, which behooves serious psychological exploration. I am referring to people's new parking habits and the aggressive tendencies that are growing by the day, in equal proportion to the diminution of available space. My late husband always claimed that he had been born to be a millionaire. The fact that he was from a middle class family only proved, according to him, that the system, as he had suspected all along, was far from perfect. He had no wish to make millions, however; he only wanted to have them, because if one spent one's life working at making money, how was one to find time to enjoy it? This is what he always pointed out when I encouraged him to start his fortune with a first few pounds. Work, he contended, was a vulgar activity, to be avoided whenever possible. It is not that he was lazy, far from it. Actually he worked very hard at creating surroundings akin to those in which he wished to have been born.
His clothes, his food, his entertainment, the places he went to, had to be always of the highest standard. Living in Alexandria during the city's heyday, for a long time it was rather easy to enjoy a way of life more gracious than that of the very rich.
Every morning, he woke up early, lest he miss out on some of the pleasures he had planned for the day. The first cup of tea called for a full-fledged ceremony, involving the best brand of the brew, a perfectly warmed tea-pot and a delicate porcelain cup. Turkish coffee, his own special blend, followed after a prolonged shower. A couple of hours at the office took care of the day's unpleasantness and by 11.00am my husband could be seen at his table in a coffee shop on Nebi Daniel Street, sipping strong espresso with a drop of milk added, before adjourning to the Cap d'Or where an icy cold beer and delicious tidbits would materialise on the bar before he had time to ask for them. There he met his friends, as dedicated as he was to the good life. The choice of a restaurant was a serious endeavour and it was not unusual to see one or the other of the men in the group on the telephone, ordering the menu beforehand and heatedly discussing its composition. My husband ate and drank very little as a rule. He was a gourmet, not a gourmand. Quality, not quantity, motivated his choices. Meals were a serious affair: the portions had to be small, the food light, excellent and extremely well presented, the service unobtrusive and impeccable and the conversation pleasant. Problems were never brought to the table.
The meal was followed by a gentlemanly game of golf crowned by high tea, the English way, at the club. A quick stop at home for a shower and change of clothes and my husband was ready for the evening, drinks and a game of snooker at the Syrian club, a good movie, a short stop at a nightclub maybe and finally supper in one of the cafés serving light meals to the night revellers.
Summers brought the delights of long months in Agami with only infrequent forays to Alexandria and the office and long hours spent at food markets to acquire the right condiments and fresh vegetables to go with the fish that he would later amorously barbecue for dinner.
That the revolution dealt him a hard blow is an understatement. He watched in dismay as his city and his lifestyle changed drastically overnight. He put his life on hold altogether. He immersed himself in history books, his favourite subject. He gave up wine and cigars, because with the nationalisation of his firm, he could no longer afford the superior brands, which had disappeared from the market anyway. Eventually, we moved to Cairo and he fell into depression.
Only once, before we finally emigrated to Australia, did I have the chance to see my husband as I had known him in the earlier years of my marriage. My mother had returned from England and brought with her a small tin of French pâté de foie gras and another of Russian caviar. At once, my husband's forlorn expression was transformed at the sight of the regal present. They may have been of a lesser brand, but at this very instant they promised him a taste of heaven. We were in the middle of the 1967 War, but he did not care. He planned a whole meal around the unexpected delicacies. He went shopping for the best toast and butter he could find. He spent hours in the kitchen, peeling vegetables and preparing dressings. He crushed ice and went looking for a bottle of wine left over from the good old days. Finally everything was ready. As he proudly carried the pâté to the table on one of our most precious Limoges platters, the sirens sounded the alarm. Our baby was asleep. My husband motioned to leave her be and uncorked the wine. People in the street were shouting to put the lights out. Before complying, he slowly lit two candles and placed them on the table. He then sat down, unfolding his napkin carefully, and spread a dab of caviar on his buttered toast. At that moment, he told me later, he experienced a moment of perfect bliss.
