Restaurant review:

Roll, roll, roll your dough

Innocence too, it turns out, has gone the way of the dodo

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I start watching from the corner of my eye. I can't help it -- the two very young girls on the table next to mine are giggling silly as they exchange whispers. "He's here! I saw him," the duller one squeals in jittering anticipation of her friend's elation. The friend, though, just freezes, her eyes wide with the panic of her evidently drumming heart. She was breathing the same air as him, the appartition could reveal itself at any unannounced moment, the ghost of her love. I wanted so much to speak words of comfort, and wisdom, to this young girl, help her pick up the pieces -- but my Cinnabon was more important.

Before you pass any judgement about my heart turned to stone, please be advised that it was a Chocobon, with extra chocolate. First there would be the smell to resist -- and how can one withstand the temptation of the dark side? And I saw that Chocobon being prepared. Initially, the Cinnabon guy spreads the dough on the marble counter as if he was stretching a pizza base and throws a lump of butter onto it. Then, lo and behold, he unsheathes an immense spatula and the melting begins -- not of the butter, but of my heart.

Before him are scales on which sits about half a kilo (to my naked eye) of powdered chocolate, the purpose of which I had been naive enough to imagine was decorative. But no -- he picked it up, dumped the contents confidently on the butter, and the spatula was back in full swing. Oh my goodness, I muse to myself, these people must have been trained in female psychology to exhibit such an endorphin-releasing sight.

Now that the powder evenly covers the square of dough, he produces more instruments: a huge pin-roller and a butter sheet. The sheet is gracefully positioned in place and the roller's pressure ensures that butter and chocolate blend together in perfect unison. The creation is almost complete now, and I have lost all hope of redemption. A confirmed chocoholic knows no shame.

Perched on my high stool, gazing at the crowds as I wondered how they manage to pass us by without beckoning the call of their nostrils as cinnamon wafts in the air, I see the ghost appear and the poor girl's eyes well with tears. I wanted to turn him over on my knee, and give him a good corrective spanking, but security presence in the vicinity rendered my wish unrealistic. Yet no number of uniformed personel could have gotten between my Chocobon and I -- strange as it may seem, chocolust is legal.

A new addition to the magic-makers' shop is White Chocolate Mocca, which one may elegantly sip accompanied by Cinnabites if one wishes to retain public dignity -- an exercise I see no necessity for. The claustrophobia increases as the City Stars branch sucks in more and more shoppers. Some order sandwiches (sandwiches? sandwiches??), which get toasted while I sink deeper in the chocoabyss.

On my way out, radiating a smile of satisfaction and leaving a spotless plate on my table, I could not help but wink at the sweetheart. His loss my little darling, his loss.

Cinnabon
City Stars Mall
Nasr City

By Injy El-Kashef