Restaurant review:
Haunting George
The chariots are going nowhere but the flashbacks keep coming
An arrow of sunlight hits the honey coloured room like a flash of unresolved memory. The doors are firmly closed, two rows of them -- external with panelled glass, internal with a mirror lining. A large mirror at the opposite end of the small dining room keeps its gaze fixed on the door. Its mission, to turn the intermediate space into infinity. The seven tables morph into 14, 28, and keep going. We sit in leather padded chairs, amid leather padded walls. Our only companions are us, many of us, resting in replicable eternity, surrounded by coatless coat hangers, illuminated by upside- down wall-mounted lights pointing at European landscape from the time America was just a colony. The sun outside is unusually energised for a late winter day, but the room is sealed shut, bathed in artificial, peach-tinted light. And yet, the fluttering light keeps coming, at 20 second intervals, as if it has something to say. The green canopy outside the double entry doors is terse and refined, like a backhanded compliment -- George: since 1950.
Yorghos, to re-Hellenise the founder, owned and ran the restaurant-bar in downtown Ismailia for 43 years. He was born in Zaqaziq circa 1915 and died in Greece a few years ago. The waiter says the place is more or less the same way George left it a decade or so ago. The same long wooden bar with the gilded handrail and the padded stools; the dog and horse statues on the shelves, next to the old beer advertisements. Threadbare flags bearing the names of no-longer- available beverages dangle atop the partition between restaurant and bar, fading like the lipstick on a worn-out postcard.
The light flashes. A scientifically-inclined companion guesses it is related to the irregularity of the front wall fan. Either that or an apparition is flirting with us, a haunting wondering if we're worth the other-worldly excursion. The army of our multiples is fearless. After all, we have come a long way, seekers of the remnants of cuisine colonial, adventurers of old world gastronomy, travelling to the fault line of battle, flirting with the wreckage of dreams, ready to take on past and future spells. Madame, allow me to suggest the calamari with tartar sauce. For you, Monsieur, perhaps a ghost with your coffee?
The flowers are fresh on the beige and grey tablecloth. The blue glass ashtray is replaced every fourth or fifth flash of light. The appetisers come racing after the cold beers; tahina and babaghanoug, pickles and finely chopped green salad. The suburban princess in our expedition gets a shrimp cocktail that is pungent and loud, with a sunburned complexion. The grilled sole fish is barracks food on a Sunday, nutritious and bland. Then, the treats. The boiled calamari basted in garlic sauce is cut delicately and has a smoky and contemplative air, like the aftermath of a short- lived rebellion. The sea bass, cooked open ( singari style) and covered with a rich tomato and onion sauce is a vision of Mardi Gras. The shrimp kofta has the composition and no-nonsense views of falafel. We skip the desert, except for one crème caramel the princess handles gingerly, and looks pleased.
The area off Al-Thawra Street, where George is situated, is worth checking out. Gable-roofed, well-maintained colonial houses of brick and wood line the New Orleans-style streets. This is the same type of homes the imperialist quest planted all over the globe, from America to Cyprus, from India to New Zealand, in the first wave of what was not yet called globalisation. Before you leave town, check the Khedive chariots on pedestals off the main park, and brace yourself for this piece of wizardry borrowed from Washington DC: traffic signals digitally displaying the countdown to the next light change. The Khedive would have approved.
George, old world, cosy with efficient service, is open noon to midnight daily. 11 Al- Thawrah Street, Ismailia. Tel (064) 918327. Lunch with a few drinks, LE100 per head.
