Restaurant review:

Spilling Beans

Not a word, he said, looking sideways at the man with the assault rifle

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My friend is expert in everything Cairene, because he is from Morocco, and Belgium, and the United States, and somewhere else I can't remember. Move those kids about when they are young, motivate them with a cultural shock or two, impart them with an identity crisis or three, and you'll be amazed at how easily they'll misfit, almost anywhere. This particular friend can guide you through computerised technology, advise you on shisha haunts, and tell you where to eat when in Bombay, or even Mumbai.

When I phoned, he was preparing pasta primavera at home. The pasta was left to face the night alone. Within minutes, his T-shirted, crew-cut, leather-slippered, Gucci-spectacled, lanky self appeared under the leafy canopy of one of Garden City's labyrinthine streets. He had introduced me to this eatery a few months ago, and since then I have taken broadcasters from London, consultants from DC, and a couple of displaced suburban vagrants to this hub of urban serenity.

The scene at Mahrous is as good as the edibles. My green plastic chair is backed up against a truck. Ahead towers the stately outline of a deceased pasha's villa, complete with broken window panes, dark and ominous, borderline fictional. On the fence of the villa are reed boxes of the type used to transport yet-to-be-deceased chicken. Under the boxes is a hand- written sign for a licensed marriage notary, a mazoun. This is a street where romance grows on trees, along with coloured light bulbs.

One of my companions once discovered that a regular at this very establishment was in love with her. He was a successful fuul (broad beans) entrepreneur, hopeful poet, overweight, and desperate to get this message across: "Would she go with me for a walk on the 6 October bridge?" The six-foot Californian with the riotous blonde curls declined, opting for another mismatched, ethnically-flavoured romantic pursuit. For days, the fuul was mixed with the salt of forlornness.

The polyglot guru adjusts his glasses and offers seasoned wisdom. "Take the sandwich of fuul with ghee and eggs." Moments later, two quarters of baladi bread arrive, heaving with salad, dripping with tahini sauce, crowded with boiled eggs and beans, writhing, sweating, open-lipped. I devour both and look at the guru for more enlightenment. "In the morning, these same guys run the business from carts right there on the corner. They have another outlet in Sayyeda Zeinab somewhere." The guru carves off a morsel of baladi bread and expertly scoops the egg and cheese salad, another of the night's new introductions.

I sense an exotic flavour. "Does it have mustard in it?" The guru pauses, measuring his words. "Did you notice how your sandwich tastes? It has this hint, almost like burritos. They season it with curry. It is their secret. They wouldn't want you telling anyone." So, here you go. Not a word, please.

There are five or six folding tables in the place, lined along the sidewalk. At end of business, they are lifted to the top of the shop, beside the small room in which the big waiters sleep. Clients are a blend of students and security guards, professionals and BMW owners of no known vocation. The street is calm like an oasis, secure as the gates of heaven. Near the opposite garage, full of 4-wheel drives with green licence plates, stands a man in black uniform with an AK-47 assault rifle (sighting range: 800m, killing range: 1500m, excellent firepower for a backside street only 17 Egyptians are known to have found in their first attempt, counting the dead pasha). In an hour or two, the man will cross over and order a fuul dinner. It will come with chopped green onions, potato crisps, pickles, and a discount.

Mahrous, 4 Al-Haras Street, Garden City, is open 4pm to 4am. Coming from Tahrir Square, head down the right side of Qasr Al-Aini, go right immediately after the Taawun petrol station, then left twice. The dinner will be LE9 per head, regardless of how much you eat and how

By Nabil Shawkat