Finding My Groove | Eggplant, Salami + Gouda Sandwich

Having a baby and not wanting to cook came hand in hand. There were many things that I wanted to do in the little time I had when I wasn't carrying my child like, and I say this in all seriousness, showering. It took me a while to get back into it away from the cooking I had to get done for work every single day.  

We were faced with an issue at home. Do we really want to eat what I cooked for work? Do we just order in or do we find that little reserve of energy we had left to actually throw something together in less than a half hour? In the first year of our child's life, I don't think we really enjoyed any food. It was all for survival. We ate late, we ate crap but we ate.  

Things slowly started coming together. I started showering more often. I began looking less sallow. My cooking for work became routine and we started cooking things we wanted to eat; and it all began with soups, salads and sandwiches. Endless combinations, fulfilling flavors. Quick to eat and fun to make. Next time you find yourself in a rut, make a sandwich. This recipe was developed for Frico.    

Rustic Eggplant, Salami & Gouda Sandwich 

2 slices of gouda cheese
6 slices of eggplant 
3 cloves of garlic
4 slices of salami
4 large button mushrooms, sliced
4-6 fresh mint leaves 
1 cup of deseeded Kalamata olives
1/2 teaspoon of fresh thyme leaves
A handful of rocket leaves
1/2 tablespoon of lemon juice
2 thick slices of bread
1/4 cup of olive oil 
Black pepper, to taste
Salt, to taste

Blend the Kalamata olives with garlic, thyme, salt, pepper, lemon juice and 2 tablespoons of olive oil until smooth then set aside. 

Heat a frying pan then pour in the olive oil. Pan-fry the slices of eggplant after seasoning with salt and black pepper until golden on both sides. Remove from the oil then sauté the mushrooms in the same pan, seasoning with salt and black pepper. 

Toast the bread then coat with a thick layer of the prepared olive tapenade. Add the rocket leaves, slices of gouda, fried eggplant, salami and sautéed mushrooms. Top with mint leaves and freshly cracked black pepper. Serve. 

Note: this can also be assembled and toasted in a panini press. 

A Partner in the Kitchen & a Smoked Herring Salad

My kitchen was an empty place - one that was mine alone and while I enjoyed it for a long while, it was becoming lonely. M then stepped in with his booming voice and his adventurous palate, bringing back the excitement. I began to realize that maybe I needed to watch someone start from the beginning again - to test out flavors that worked or didn't, to read about ingredients with an eagerness that had fallen into a semi-slumber inside of me.  Maybe what I needed now was a partner in the kitchen; one who would challenge me, push me to try techniques I was being lazy about. So here's M's first recipe on Buttered-Up - a recipe that I genuinely love and can eat over and over and over again, especially when he's sitting right beside me with his mouth full; when we're grinning at each other and at all of those flavors popping in our mouths.

Smoked Herring Salad
You'll need:
250 grams of smoked herring fillet
1 large red onion, thinly sliced
3 scallions, thinly sliced
1/2-1 teaspoon of chili powder, depending on your tolerance
Zest of one lime
75 grams of fresh coriander, chopped
Juice of 1 lime
1/4 cup of olive oil
1/2 teaspoon of black pepper
salt to taste

Slice the smoked herring fillets into bite-sized pieces. In a bowl, mix together the red onions, scallions, lime zest, lime, chili powder, olive oil, black, pepper & salt. Add the sliced smoked herring and fresh coriander then toss together gently. Serve by first plating the fish mixture then pouring on the remainder of the dressing.  

Guest Post: Matters of the Belly

I enjoy connecting with other Egyptian food bloggers, maybe it's because there aren't many of us; maybe because I can't seem to find enough Egyptian ladies interested in the kitchen the way I am.  I recently found another kindred spirit and thought I'd share. Noha Serageldin is new on the scene. Starting in August, she's already got a bunch of posts for you to consume and her pleasant, friendly voice comes through -  genuine, honest with a constant urge to learn. Support her on her journey and connect with her directly on her blog Matters of the Belly, on Facebook, on Instagram, on Twitter & on Pinterest. Here's Noha below. Make sure to try out her recipe. 

I have a borderline obsessive love for eggplants. So much so, that I seriously contemplated calling my blog ‘The Anxious Aubergine’ before settling for ‘Matters of the Belly’. I kid you not. There is something quite magical, I find, about how its spongy and seemingly inedible interior in the raw state transforms into this incredibly creamy, sweet and earthy flesh once cooked correctly. As I mentioned before on my blog, I was one of those weird kids who always loved  vegetables... growing up, just the mention of Moussaka or Fattah for lunch always got me excited. 

Not much has changed since then… if anything, my love for vegetables has continued to grow as I have… and now, I am always on the lookout for new ways to enjoy them. Especially eggplants. Technically, the eggplant is a fruit from the berry family. I know, shocking right? However, I refuse to call anything a fruit if it cannot be part of a fruit salad (you heard me, tomatoes), so I shall proceed to refer to it as a vegetable. Go ahead, tell the veggie police… I like to live on the edge.

This recipe is inspired by a classic Turkish dish called ‘Imam Bayildi’, which translates to ‘the Priest fainted’. Legend has it that a Turkish Imam fainted when his new wife prepared him this dish; some say it was because of how delicious it was, others claim that what caused him to faint was the fact that the dish used up all the olive oil in his dowry. You see, traditionally, the eggplants are meant to be fried, and anyone who has ever cooked with eggplant before knows that it is a SPONGE for oil, and sucks up obscene amounts if you allow it. As tempting as that sounds, I choose not to fry them, for the sake of my expanding waistline. Also, the original recipe is vegetarian, whereas in my version I add minced beef to the stuffing, which is how we have always made it in our household.

As it always is with family recipes, this one has evolved and changed each time I make it, resulting in a version I can proudly call my own, yet still reminds me of the Imam Bayildis of my childhood. Our family cook of over 30 years, whose name is Iman, liked to joke that this dish was named after her, and called it Iman Bayildi. I still call it that, and it never fails to give me a warm, fuzzy tingle in my heart each time I do.

Iman Bayildi (stuffed Eggplant)

Prep time: 20 min          

Cook time: 25-30

Servings: 2-3

Ingredients:

2 medium/4 small eggplants

250g minced beef

3 tbsp olive oil plus extra for drizzling

1 medium onion, finely chopped 

3 cloves garlic, minced

2/3 tsp cinnamon

¼ tsp nutmeg

¼ tsp cardamom

½ tsp sumak

3 tbsp pomegranate molasses

¼ cup raisins or sultanas

Salt & pepper to taste

250ml tomato puree (I use store bought passata, but any tomato sauce will do)

2 tbsp pine nuts

½ tsp ghee (optional)

Fresh basil or mint leaves for serving

Instructions:

Preheat the oven to 180 degrees C.

Wash & dry the eggplants, then slice each lengthwise in half. Using a vegetable peeler, peel the skin, leaving a 2cm border along the edge (as shown in photo). If you are using smaller eggplants, you may leave the skin on if you like, but mine were on the larger side so the skin could be too tough and bitter. 

Using a spoon, scoop out about a third of the flesh of each eggplant half, then set aside. Chop up the scooped up flesh into small pieces (to be used in the filling).

In a large non-stick pan over medium heat, add the olive oil and onions. Cook until softened, about 5min. Add garlic, cook until fragrant, about 1min. Add the minced beef and cook until colour changes. 

Add the chopped up eggplant flesh and the spices, cook until the beef begins to brown. Add the pomegranate molasses & raisins, season to taste and remove from the heat.

Using a spoon, stuff the eggplant halves with the mixture. In a baking tray, pour in the tomato puree/sauce, and arrange the stuffed eggplants on top. Drizzle liberally with olive oil and bake in the oven for 25-30 minutes, until the eggplant is soft and slightly golden. 

If the stuffing is browning too fast, you may cover the dish loosely with some foil.

Meanwhile, in a small non-stick pan over low heat, melt the ghee if using and add the pine nuts. Cook, stirring continuously until golden. You may do the same without the ghee (dry toasting) if you wish, but the ghee just gives it the most amazing flavour. 

When the eggplant is ready, remove from the oven and sprinkle with the toasted pine nuts and basil/mint leaves. Serve immediately.

Mom's Cinnamon Rice

The recipe I'm sharing today is one of no fuss because Egypt really doesn't need to be any more difficult than it is right now. We need simple pleasures - ones that assure us that the sun will continue to shine despite the plumes of smoke in gradients of grey rising in our city's sky; pleasures that remain firmly fixed in our transient memories. 

My mom's cinnamon rice. Scents of family gatherings, leftovers ravaged after a late night out and Ramadan. Familiarity and inner peace. A safe place to be. 

Start your way to inner peace too, if only for a moment or two with a little bit of beef, an onion and some ghee. 

Cinnamon Rice
You'll need:
350 grams of ground beef
1 medium-sized onion, finely chopped
450 grams of short-grain rice, soaked for 30 minutes
3 tablespoons of ghee
2.5 teaspoons of ground cinnamon
Pan-fried almonds to garnish 
Water
Salt

In a large pot, melt 2 tablespoons of ghee on medium heat. Cook the onions until translucent then add the ground beef. Cook the ground beef until browned. Add the cinnamon in the last 5 minutes of cooking the beef. 

Add 3 cups of water to the beef and leave to simmer for a minute. Rinse the rice to remove extra starch and add the rice to the beef.

Stir then season with salt and add the last tablespoon of ghee. Bring to a rapid boil then turn down the heat to a flame. Cover the pot and allow to cook for 20 minutes or until the rice is cooked through. Once cooked, place in a serving dish and garnish with toasted almonds. 

The Story of Chicken Liver

As featured in The Egypt Monocle

I like chicken liver. It is a recent attraction. For the first 20 or so years of my life, liver had not been deemed welcome in my vicinity. At the times I encountered it, I could only smell rust and decided early on that it was not the kind of smell I’d like to have in my mouth.

Growing up in the Arab world, liver was a dish that was bound to come up, at a dinner, as a mezze, at a family gathering, on many a street cart; it was too everywhere for my liking. “What does it taste like?” I’d ask over and over, too displeased by the way it looked to try it. My mom looked over as she neatly dipped her bread into the drippings visibly bored with my question, “the only way to know is to taste it, Sarah.”

My narrow mind was scornful. I didn't want someone to tell me it was good or to just put the grey meat into my body. I wanted to know, in a very matter of fact way, what it would feel like on my tongue. Would it stick to the roof of my mouth? Is it chewy? Why are we eating the chicken’s filter that clears its small plump body of evil toxins?

Later, I would start to notice things about the liver experts in my life. If the liver was grey and clumpy, they would pick at it and its watery jus. If it was brown and buttery, they’d take it in, wiping the plate down with a french fry, warm bread, anything that would sop up that extra grease. Especially interesting to me were those drippings that pooled at the bottom of the pan, hot and waiting to be soaked up by my appetite and my arteries. So I devised a way to understand the flavor and took the jump — a simple step to only dunk into the surrounding grease without having to eat the actual liver. Liking it, I realized that it was a little ludicrous to keep mopping up the fat and not the iron it could be supplying me with, the mild anemic that I was.

Taking a deep breath and saying a little prayer that I would not be compelled to spit it out in the middle of company, I carefully chose my first ever piece of chicken liver. Crumbly and creamy in texture, seared to give uniform color — brown and glossy, it had no trace of the distinct metallic smell I abhorred and didn’t have me grinding my teeth involuntarily to the taste of metal like I felt it would.

Of course, my luck didn’t stay and I have had some terrible livers since (one from my own kitchen), but my mind remains focused on the first one and in this way I can approach it over and over again with confidence, especially after having countless surreal chicken liver experiences in Lebanon.

This recipe is aromatic, warm and sweet. If you’re puzzled about the milk, it’s there to dull the edge of the liver flavor. This way, some, children included, might be more accepting of this slice out of a large array of offal. If you’re a liver lover, this step might not be necessary. In either case, make sure your pan is hot or you’ll end up with a plate of grey.

Garlic & Pomegranate Chicken Livers

You’ll need:
500 grams of chicken liver
1 cup of milk (optional)
1 tablespoon of ghee (you can also use olive oil)
Juice of ½ a large lime
2 dried chili peppers, sliced (eliminate the seeds if you can’t handle the heat)
3 large cloves of garlic, finely minced
½ teaspoon of smoked paprika
1 teaspoon of ground coriander
¼ teaspoon of allspice
1½ teaspoons of coarsely ground black pepper
1½  tablespoons of pomegranate molasses
2 tablespoons of water
Salt to taste

Soak the chicken liver in a cup of milk for up to an hour. Before cooking, drain from the milk. Place a large heavy-based pan on high heat. Make sure your pan gets very hot before cooking the chicken livers. Pour in the olive oil once your pan is hot and carefully add the chicken livers. Cook on high heat until seared on all sides. Remove from the pan and set aside. In the same pan on medium heat, add the garlic, ground coriander and dried chili into the leftover olive oil and liver drippings. Cook until the garlic is soft then add the paprika, allspice and coarsely ground black pepper. Season with salt then pour in the pomegranate molasses and water. Leave to cook on for a minute then pop in your seared chicken livers. Toss to coat the livers and cook off for another minute or two.

Samosa, Sambusak

As featured in The Egypt Monocle

Thinking back, samosas may have been the first food to confuse me, a never-ending love affair that was tedious to understand. Never knowing what I should call them when chatting with people hailing from different places, never understanding just what were to go in them, I went on a mental hunt quite early on in life to find out just what a samosa was.

Stuffed with curried potatoes and peas then folded into tight triangles, these were the samosa I was first acquainted with. Popping them straight onto my tongue from the bubbling oil without a second thought would have me letting off the steam with my gaping mouth between grins and greasy stained fingers from the turmeric stirred into this magic mix. These were general fixtures in my Indian grandmother’s house served with a side of mint chutney and later, dominated Ramadan as a simple accompaniment to soup in my Egyptian mother’s home.

At many oriental iftar buffets and at homes of friends from the Levant, I’d spot these little lovelies, shiny skinned and crisp to the tooth, next to others — soft half moons and the doughy tetrahedrons, sported in many contrasting pastry crusts and fleshy fillings to suit the various cravings of those breaking their fast. If I had given in to my whims, I don’t think I would have eaten anything during Ramadan but fat stacks of these Indian-influenced vegetable samosas and Lebanese crescent-shaped sambusak, filled with ground beef and made lively with pine nuts. In fact, I enjoy these pastries, Asian and Middle Eastern alike, so much that I would probably eat them in secret and in defiance if the Middle East decided to adopt Somali group Al Shabaab’s fatwa banning samosas that, according to them, are too western and resemble the Christian Holy Trinity.

Believed to have originated in Central Asia before the 10th century, the Uzbeks still call it somsa, similar to its original name, samsa. The Iranians, as my friend in Malaysia introduced me, call them sambusa these days, but were once recorded in Persian history as “sanbosag”. Similar to the pasties that were eaten by tin miners in Cornwall for their easy handling, samosas were also thought to be injected into Indian culture by the Muslim traders and soldiers who carried them in saddlebags on long journeys after preparing them, many at a time, during their rest stops.

This is a simple recipe, given that you’re fine with the heat of frying. In essence, all you need to do is begin preparing early, make large quantities at a time and freeze them in between layers of baking paper to avoid them sticking to one another as they love to do. There are recipes for all kinds of dough and the filling may be used to stuff your own homemade dough. I chose the easy way out with these store-bought wrappers because I can use Ramadan as an excuse for a little laziness as most of us do.

Beef & Pine Nut Samosa
You’ll need:
30-35 samosa wrappers
500 grams of ground beef
1 large onion
2-3 cloves of garlic, depending on strength
¼ cup of beef stock
½ teaspoon of cinnamon
¼ teaspoon of cumin
¼ cup of pine nuts
Salt and freshly ground pepper
1 large egg + 1 teaspoon of flour, beaten to make a paste

Keep the samosa wrappers covered with a damp towel while preparing the beef to keep them soft. In a large pan on medium-high heat, add the onions and garlic until fragrant and translucent then the ground beef. Stir the beef into the onions and garlic until combined then cook, stirring every few minutes, until browned. Add the cinnamon, cumin, salt and pepper and mix then pour in the beef stock and stir in the pine nuts. Lower your heat and leave to cook until the stock has been absorbed. Turn off your heat and leave to cool.

At the bottom of each samosa pastry strip, brush the bottom of the side closest to you with egg wash then fold over the pastry from the opposite corner to create an open-sided triangle. Spoon some of the beef filling (1 full teaspoon to 1½ teaspoons) into the pocket you’ve created. Tuck the filling into the pocket and fold it over more than once until you reach the end of the wrapper. Before sealing, tuck in any protruding samosa paper then seal the edge by brushing with egg wash. Repeat with the rest of the wrappers. Freeze the ones you won’t fry for later at this stage. Deep fry in hot vegetable oil (not olive oil) for a minute then remove when golden and crispy. Do not crowd your oil with samosas to allow each one adequate space. Drain well from the oil before serving.

Finding Ramadan

As featured in The Egypt Monocle
My first Ramadan in Cairo after years away has rolled in and with it a slew of television shows crammed with farcical advertising that I don’t watch, extravagantly sweet desserts that I haven’t eaten and a generous spirit of camaraderie that has me puzzled as to where it annually disappears after the boisterous celebration of Eid.

Restaurants have asked their social media accounts to bombard those unfortunate enough to be following them with incessant updates on iftar and sohour menu rotation schedules along with everything in between: sugar, shisha and Ramadan tent reservations. In a month that is revered for the calm it brings, many instead go into overdrive, exhausting their bodies with food and fruity clouds of smoke.

Remembering the first Ramadan in Kuala Lumpur, I realize now that it was quite dismal. We missed our bustling city, our nosy people and the feeling of our energy plummeting after a heavy family meal. Being invited out for iftar or what they call “berbuka puasa” — literally “to open the fast” in Bahasa Melayu, an anxious wave undulated through me hinting that I was on foreign ground, that the Egyptian Ramadan traditions that had long been implanted in me were shaken.

This unfamiliarity eased as the years passed and we gradually fell into a not-so-Egyptian, not-so-Malaysian routine that suited our recent married-couple habits. We’d begin with a soup poured steaming into a mug then would sit in the humidity, looking out at Kuala Lumpur from our balcony on the 21st floor. A proper iftar was to follow two hours later, after the karkade and the tea with milk; and in this way, my body would not drag and would not crave a hazelnut-studded round of basboosa waiting in my dreams to be consumed in its entirety. My stomach had adapted and my traditions had been reset.

Coming back to experience the same Ramadan buzz, the hard sell that Cairo shoves at the fasting, I feel out of place. I now yearn for a smoking hot chicken tikka colored bright red for my eyes to eat too, a South Indian sambar for my taste buds to dance and to finish, a delicate roti gula, a sugary bread, similar in appearance and flavor to our local feteer.

In time, I will get reaccustomed to my original home. I will find my appetite for konafa and tiptoe to the fridge for secret spoonfuls of leftover rice but for now, I will accept iftar invitations with a smile and an inner desire to stay home until my mind wraps itself around the traditions that it has lost touch with. I will make rice that you might not be used to but it will, to me, signal the smells of a recently lost home. It’s good to be back Cairo, but in my home this Ramadan, I need to reinvent your flavors, taking ingredients in an Egyptian kitchen and giving them a little Indian twist to answer to my Asian cravings.

Tomato Almond Basmati
You’ll need:
1 cup of basmati rice, uncooked
2 tablespoons of ghee
4 cloves of garlic, minced
1 small onion, finely diced
½ cup of almonds, peeled and halved
Juice of half a lime
¼ cup + 2 tablespoons of tomato paste
1½ cup of water
1 teaspoon of sugar
½ teaspoon chilli powder
½ teaspoon of ground cumin
1 bird’s eye chilli, finely sliced
1 cinnamon stick, around 10 cm in length
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

Rinse the basmati rice in cold water until the water runs clear then drain. In a separate pan, toast the almonds until golden and set aside.

In a medium heavy-bottomed pot, melt the ghee on medium heat. Add the cumin, cinnamon and chili powder and stir to combine. Add the garlic and onions and cook until fragrant. They should not get any color on them. Add the tomato paste and stir the contents of the pot together then add the rice, water, lemon juice, sugar, salt and pepper. Bring to a rapid boil and leave to boil for a minute. Lower the heat and cover. Do not disturb the rice or lift the lid for around 12 minutes. Turn the heat off and leave to stand covered for another 5-10 minutes. Fluff with a fork before serving and top with toasted almonds.

A Way to Eat

If I were to map out my life through the memories of my stomach, I would pair my fondest moments with one particular element — my hands needing a good wash from the powdery leftover wheat bran of baladi bread, a staining turmeric-rich sauce or the fatty gloss of deep-fried chicken skin.

It is true that I might not appreciate the drippings of a wet burger slithering down my forearm, especially in public, but there is an increased feeling of well being, of being human, of connecting with where I came from by eating with no cutlery.

Growing up in an Egyptian-Indian household, I learned early on that there were dishes — curries, pizzas and tacos — that we could eat with our hands while other meals subjected me to the rigid rules of table settings, which fork goes with what coupled with stern looks from my mother.

I noticed that we would dip our fingers into plates far more often when we’d visit India. While in Egypt, we rarely used our hands as we grew older, to ghammes, to dip our bread into a sauce of some kind; although Om Khaled, our housekeeper, insisted that in her home, she had to make a side dish for her husband to dip his bread into if what she was making included no sauce. His meal would never be complete without it; such was tradition.

Several years ago, my mother observed at a family lunch that using a torn piece of bread, I scooped up my bamia, an Egyptian tomato-based okra stew, with my thumb, pointer and middle finger alone, in the same fashion as my father, whom I have not seen for many years. This habit starting generations before me, as a part of North Indian etiquette, was transferred to me without much of a thought on my part. And as I partake in eating with my hands, pigeon and fuul, among Egyptian friends, I realize that the way I ghammes is not so Egyptian after all.

Guests in Kuala Lumpur were always more laid-back than in Cairo, taking off their shoes as they enter your house, eating with no pretensions, gauging the temperature, the heat of the chili and the initial textures of my food with their hands. It was comfortable to have people over for dinner; none of the excessive pleasantries and politeness we enforce upon ourselves when invited into another Egyptian home.

What is apparent is that more nationalities than not eat with their hands, from a simple metal bowl or a banana leaf, in a thali or from a carefully constructed sushi platter. I am not advocating a complete switch but would like to see things eaten the way they should be, at least somewhat. It would also be nice to teach our children that eating with your hands is not something to look down upon and that there’s no better way to eat a paper dosa, a fermented rice and lentil crispy crêpe, than feeling the crunch with your fingers first.

As featured in The Egypt Monocle

Basic Breadsticks

You’ll need
1½ cups of all-purpose flour, sifted
½ teaspoon of salt
½ teaspoon of instant yeast
1½ tablespoon of honey
1 tablespoon of olive oil
½ cup of room temperature water
1 egg + 1 tablespoon of cold water, whisked together
Sea salt
Freshly ground pepper
Nigella seeds
Caraway seeds

Combine together the flour, salt, honey, yeast, olive oil and water and mix to form a ball. Dust some flour onto your counter and move the dough onto it. Knead the dough until everything is mixed together and you get a dough that is medium in firmness.

Transfer to a greased bowl and leave to rest for an hour and a half or until it doubles in size. Preheat oven to 175 degrees Celsius and line a baking sheet with baking paper before working for a second time with the dough.

When done rising, punch down the dough and transfer it back to the counter. Knead for 8 to 10 minutes until it gets pliable and stretchy. Divide it into equal pieces. Make sure to cover the pieces you’re not working with. One at a time, roll each piece out into a rectangle and brush it with egg wash. Sprinkle on adequate sea salt, pepper and both nigella and caraway seeds. Cut the dough with a pizza cutter into equal strips and twist each one. Place them on the baking sheet with equal widths between each. Bake for approximately 15 minutes. Allow to cool completely before serving.

Monday's Rough Recipe: Sticky Chicken

As featured in The Egypt Monocle

I can forgive a chef for a mediocre day in the kitchen. I may not have enjoyed the meal but if I’m comfortable in my space, haven’t gotten ill and am greeted with pleasant efficient service, I will readily come back to give the place another try and order something different on the menu.

Eating out at any of the new hip places littering Zamalek and Maadi doesn’t come cheap and so it would be assumed that service must be procedure and detail oriented. After several visits to those that call themselves gourmet and to those boastful of their interiors and branding but not their food, I was curious to know: are the wait staff receiving any training or are they told to dive, each with his own style, into the unknown? Why is a seamless dining experience elusive to many of our restaurateurs? Have they never had one themselves? These days in Cairo, I’d get better service at a fast food chain.

It doesn’t matter if you have a kids’ corner, library or an ingredient made or grown especially for you, people will eventually tire of bad restaurant service, the face of dining out, and move on to the next new and trendy restaurant.

As a customer, your waiter should be able to lay your table cutlery correctly without the need for you to shift your weight. Self-awareness of personal hygiene is crucial and so is an eye for detail. If the diner before me used the salt shaker on their sandwich eaten by hand, I don’t want to be the one to feel the grease on my fingertips later. If the flowers in the vase are dying, who knows what else is decomposing in the kitchen?

A good waiter will have been trained to be appropriately attentive. Staff that hover around the table incessantly are just as inexperienced and nerve grating as those who wait fifteen minutes to slip a menu into your hands in an empty restaurant while they stand around picking at a groove in their gum with a toothpick.

Instead of not tipping, complain first. Usually action is taken to improve service if only for that occasion. The more you reward bad service, the more likely you will be faced with it again. Remember that polite and courteous service is not a gift that waiters have to lavishly hand out as they please; these are your restaurant rights, use them.

Of course, you too as a customer must play your part — say please and thank you, act civilized, be nice and honor your reservations. Remember that these people are working a job that is not highly regarded by many in their country and they know it. To them, it is a way to make ends meet and few consider it a serious career choice. If you’re treating them like slave children, everybody loses. We might have a lot to learn but it won’t happen with the swish of a wand. If all else fails, stay home and make chicken.

Sticky Orange Mustard Chicken
You’ll need:
2 chickens, quartered
3 tablespoons of olive oil
2 tablespoons of whole grain mustard
2½ teaspoons of fresh thyme leaves
1 long sprig of fresh rosemary
2 tablespoon of honey
Zest of 1 orange
1 large orange, sliced
3 cloves of garlic
1/2 cup of unsweetened orange juice
4 teaspoons of Worcestershire sauce
1 tablespoon of hot sauce

Sea salt and freshly ground pepper

With the back of your knife crush the garlic cloves and toss them with the rosemary into a baking dish large enough to fit the chicken. Place the chicken into the baking dish. They should not overlap. You can use two separate dishes, which is what I did to prepare this but make sure to spread the marinade equally on both.

In a bowl, add the whole grain mustard, fresh thyme leaves, orange zest and honey then pour in the olive oil, orange juice, Worcestershire sauce and hot sauce. Whisk together then pour half of it onto the chicken reserving the other half for later.

Heat your oven to 200 degrees Celsius. Use your hands to massage the marinade into the chicken making sure not to tear the skin. Arrange the slices of orange above and below the chicken then season with freshly ground pepper and coarse sea salt. Pop the loaded baking dish into the heated oven and roast, basting with the reserved marinade and the hot chicken fat at the bottom of your pan every 15 minutes. The chicken will be done when the juices run clear if pierced with a knife. This should take around 45 minutes for each chicken.

Salmon and zucchini in the rush of the city

As featured in The Daily News Egypt

For years, my phone would not ring. It would rest beside me, disturbing nothing, a simple prop in the room. To Cairo, Kuala Lumpur was at the farthest corner of our Earth and needed no attention paid except for the dreamy package deal honeymoon of a once in a lifetime experience, “Malaysia, truly Asia.” The fact that I had moved there meant nothing to those Cairenes surrounding me other than that I had chosen to trade my tiring job for a fantasy four years away.

During my first few months back in Cairo, I spotted a new pattern that scattered the retelling of my day into tidbits of “before I spoke to” and “after I spoke to”; my phone learned to catch its breath briefly before making way for another long call. Finally finding time to sit with a saucy plate of moussaka, a Cairene would interrupt as with every meal, because there is never enough time to drop by in the flesh.

I have managed to maintain discussing matters with friends on the phone for months, never catching a glimpse of their shapes, their changed body language, the newly-formed rings around their fatigue-filled eyes; that is until Cairo forced me up and out of my shell, gently nudging me with business opportunities as a reminder to connect with other like-minded ones.

This week, I was invited to a small get-together of online acquaintances and in between bites of deep-colored beetroot, felt for the first time like an outsider, unable to grasp the number of new changes that have taken place in my Cairo, that have shifted in between the openings of new restaurants I had never been to. I couldn't recognize the new friendships that had already been formed, alliances I didn't know were there. I was officially thrust into Egypt's “food business” and was gradually gaining recognition, but will food take away my peace of mind? Will it also become the job that consumes me, that ravages my nerves?

Cairo has an ability to suck you into the giant machine it has become, turning you into one of its wheels, spinning to find a way to flaunt your individuality. Despite my loyalty to the city, I cannot help but compare it to the calm that surrounded me for so long, which I can now only remember as the light-handed tinkering of chopsticks and quiet families sinking into their white bowls of rice, not the buzz of Cairo, of boisterous conversation that encircles a table lined with forgotten crispy pigeon and cunningly arranged fruit desserts.

Our palates are changing and our restaurant scene is at last growing positively, Cairo; this pleases me and allows me to agree with destiny that I could not have chosen a better time to come back and get involved. So for now, I shall follow through with my current deadline but shall find some calm in my kitchen, away from the restaurants, away from the job that food has become and make salmon.

An exceedingly popular fish in upper crust Cairo, this trembling pink meat has steadily gained in popularity throughout history. It pleases the palates of those that enjoy their food untouched by heat while equally exciting the mouths of those that require their food to meet a scorching flame and a temperature to guarantee thorough cooking. It needs no fuss and this is why I chose it for a much needed quiet night with my companion for life, my husband.

Pan-seared salmon with sumac-tossed zucchini and chilli tomatoes
You'll need:2 salmon fillets
1 tablespoon of Worcestershire sauce
2 slices of lemon
25 grams of butter
The zest of half a lemon
Salt and pepper to season

For the chilli tomatoes:1 large tomato
1 tablespoon of olive oil
¼ teaspoon of chilli powder
¼ teaspoon of cumin
Salt and pepper to taste

For the summac-tossed zucchini:4 small zucchini, halved lengthwise
¼ teaspoon of ground black pepper
1½ teaspoons of summac
1½ tablespoon of olive oil
Salt to taste

With each salmon fillet, score the skin about one half inch deep. Score down the entire length of the fillet. In each score, sprinkle a little salt. In a small bowl, mix together the lemon zest, Worcestershire sauce, lemon zest and pepper. Place the salmon on a plate and glaze it with the mixture on both sides; top each fillet with lemon slices and leave to rest in the fridge for 20 minutes.

Place a pan over medium heat and melt the butter until it gets frothy. Allow the pan to get hot before adding the salmon fillets skin-side down. Don't fiddle with it and don't turn it over for approximately 7-8 minutes. The skin will crisp up and the flesh will have cooked through except for the top. Turn the fish over carefully and baste it with the pan juices as it continues to cook for 1 minute. Turn the heat off but leave the salmon in the pan to remain warm as you plate.

For the tomato: Cut the tomato into thick even slices. Sprinkle the tomato slices with spices and seasonings on both sides. In a large pan, heat 1 tablespoon of olive oil on medium heat. Once the oil is hot, arrange the tomatoes in the pan and leave them for a minute and a half before flipping them over to the other side. Cook for another minute or two until the tomatoes are tender to the touch and have started to color. Take them off the heat and reserve for plating.

For the zucchini: Coat the halved zucchini in olive oil then dust with sumac and black pepper. Finish off with salt and place in a hot pan on medium-high heat. Cook for 3-5 minutes and toss frequently. Remove from the heat when fork-tender. Reserve for plating.

A slow-roasted duck pasta for the sensible

As featured in The Daily News Egypt

I pressed a thin veil of tissue against my wounded knuckle, watching it absorb the red seeping out. “Stupid grater,” I mumbled as my husband laughed, reasoning with me that it was in reality a simple gadget, incapable of stupidity and that I was what my squash coach once called me — butter fingers.

Despite my limited skill and short-lived efforts at squash and grating, I was determined to prove that I was anything but the clumsy Ms. Butterfingers my close ones made me out to be. Yes, I occasionally trip over raised sidewalk tiles and I'll admit that my unsuspecting knee has had troublesome encounters with protruding table corners, but surely those repeated incidents could not justify calling me such ludicrous names.

Unlike my waned interest in thumping a ball to have it come back at me, I learned to grate correctly and to keep my knuckles away; but most importantly, I threw out my bizarre purchase of a grater that was comprised of an oval-shaped plastic refrigerator box, with interchangeable metal grater covers, that would not stand upright and might with the right lighting excite eager horror movie goers to enter my world of slashed knuckles. In its place, a pleasant box grater arrived with a comfortable white handle and tubed rubber at the base to limit sliding. Soon it was evident that it was sensibility that I might have been lacking and not skill.

New mothers will buy baby food makers, hoping to join the next line of supermoms who make their own gourmet baby food; but could they not use a regular food processor or blender in its place? I am not one to judge for many of us have fallen victim to these gadgets that are piled onto the clutter already accumulating in our kitchens.

You'll find people excited about their new buys: specialized banana slicers that come in sunshine yellow, blue rubber tubes dedicated to easy garlic-peeling, uni-tasking asparagus peelers and even skinny ovens pushed as pizza makers. Do we need any of this?

After a good year of buying products I felt would make my life easier, I bravely faced up to my messy drawers packed with impulse buys and admitted to only needing some strong tools, an organized mind and a focused eye on time.

Getting rid of my miserable garlic press that had only been used once, I understood why Anthony Bourdain, chef and author, called it an “abomination” and connected with his suspicion of the viscid juice that resulted to present us garlic-press owners with something he insists “ain't garlic”.

It would benefit us all to instantly cease the silly spending and concentrate on technique — how to use a knife properly, what knives to buy and how to sharpen them. If we insist on churning out better pizzas at home, it's best to use unglazed quarry tile as a stone to extract moisture and crisp your crust. The kitchen has nothing to do with talent and equipment; there's only practice and an honest desire to gain in skill.

This recipe asks for no fancy gadgets. It commands nothing but time and a sharp knife. Rewarding you with the warmth of steaming pasta, the peppery flavor of rocket and the richness of duck meat, it requires nothing more than a casual night at home as you contemplate the inevitable spring cleaning soon to come.

Pasta with slow-roasted duck and wilted rocket

For the duck, you'll need:

3 duck legs, shredded
Extra salt
½ cup of melted ghee
Salt and pepper to taste

For the pasta:
200 grams of pasta, cooked al dente
2 handfuls of rocket
1-2 tablespoons of duck fat (from the duck legs)
1 tablespoon of butter
4 clove of garlic, finely minced
Salt and pepper to taste

½ cup of walnuts, roughly chopped

Dry the raw duck with a hairdryer. Prick the duck skin with a needle at an angle to avoid piercing the flesh. This allows the duck fat to seep out and crisps the skin. Salt the duck all over using more salt than usual and let it rest for an hour. In a small baking dish small enough to hold them snugly, pour the ghee then place the duck legs skin side up. Pop in the oven and turn the temperature to 140 degrees Celsius. Cook the duck gently for 2 hours. After 1½ hours, the duck should be submerged in melted fat and the skin should begin to crisp. When this happens, turn up your heat to 190 degrees Celsius and leave to crisp until a golden brown. This should take 15 minutes. Remove from the oven and let it rest for 10 minutes before eating whole or shredding for pasta.

In a large pan, melt the duck fat and butter then add the garlic. Cook on medium heat for a minute until garlic is fragrant then add the walnuts and stir. Add the rocket and cook for 2-3 minutes until wilted. Add the shredded duck, season with pepper liberally and salt minimally. Cook for 2 more minutes then add the cooked pasta and toss. Let the flavors meld for 2-3 minutes and serve up individually.

Breaded fish tikka for the picky eater

As featured in The Daily News Egypt

I've been on a bad food binge. Throughout years of conscientious Asian-influenced eating in Kuala Lumpur, I missed the grease that many Egyptian dishes brought to the many mouths I've shared meals with. “Bring it on, Cairo!” I squealed as my big feet clumsily trampled onto the Egyptian soil that they so sorely missed, warm with coatings of blessed sunlight.

I had dreamed of a rice-stuffed peppered pigeon slipping through my fingers as I grip it with my teeth; thick flakes of green pistachios dotting old-fashioned stretchy mastic ice cream clinging to my dessert spoon. Four years of cravings abroad had resurfaced to thoughtlessly wreak havoc in my stomach. After a short three months, I've learned my lesson well.

What I am yet to comprehend is how we are not giving ourselves the chance to miss this nagging urge for some extra fat, how we are replacing our native dietary habits with fat-laden imported ideas. The only conclusion I can provide lies somewhere in the realm of distressed emotions that heavily influence our eating habits, today more than ever. With an overwhelming job or an overpowering family, Egyptians are sticking to comfort food like Velcro, letting out an aching screech when pulled away.

Maybe we continue to treat ourselves as repressed children who cannot become anything but picky eaters because that is the only escape, the sole personality trait we've got left to call our own.

Unmarried adults obligated to live in their parents' homes despite their age turn to eating out more often, openly chomping on snacks that their parents once said and still say they should not consume. Younger newlyweds, with various new pressures placed upon them, shun their homely eating habits to incorporate many hefty recipes that rely heavily on the packaged food industry, filling their lives with a heightened risk of illness and future heartache. And many of our children, especially children of the educated, are the biggest victims of their parents' lost values – frozen breaded chicken and French fries have become their ultimate companions at meal time.

Meeting many Egyptian honeymooners in Malaysia, you would think that those couples were filled with an adventurous spirit but adventure in Egyptians appears in many activities, seldom in their eating. Traveling far from home, many of us stay and sup in reminders of our beloved country, steering clear of anything remotely Eastern that is not “ours”.

After a while, I could predict more often than not that the majority of Egyptian honeymooners would end up at a place like Planet Hollywood. I've even known honeymooners to eat a double whammy of Pizza Hut and Kentucky Fried Chicken for the length of their stay while tangy sauces, succulent seafood and soft and sweet Chinese bread buns were around the corner.

Why are we making way for flab? Why are we allowing it to become an extension of our emotions? Why can't we break free? I understand that it is not an easy habit to break but a seemingly minute change can make all the difference — all I ask is to stop or even limit your buying of frozen breaded chicken, frozen burgers, frozen kofta and frozen crepes. All it takes is one night of the week to prepare these and freeze them yourselves.

Let go of your old hang-ups. If you're still living in your parents' house, learn to cook already. You might teach them a thing or two. If you're not, search for your adult palate and give new flavors a chance to pop in your mouth. For the time being, marinate fish fillets in a revised way, ethnicize them with the ancient aromas of India, cover with breadcrumbs and pan-fry in sizzling butter. It's not a hard thing to do.

Besides, let's do what we're good at — let's batter those delicate flavors of life until we can learn to openly (and politely) express our honest feelings, tame our invisible flames of wrath and eat like grown ups should.

Breaded Fish Tikka

You'll need:
2 fillets of white fish
125 grams of yogurt
1 tablespoon of lemon juice (½ a large lemon)
1 teaspoon of chili powder
1 scant teaspoon of ground turmeric
½ teaspoon of ground ginger
½ teaspoon of ground cinnamon
¼ teaspoon of allspice
¼ teaspoon of ground coriander
5-7 drops of hot sauce, optional
A pinch of black pepper
coarse salt, to taste
2 tablespoons of vegetable oil
4 tablespoons of butter

Empty the yogurt into a bowl. Add the chili powder, turmeric, ginger, cinnamon, allspice, ground coriander, pepper, salt and lemon juice. Stir until completely incorporated – no lumps or uneven tones.

Arrange your fish on a tray and pat dry with a paper towel. Place the fillets carefully, laying flat and side by side, in a large food storage bag. Pour the previously prepared marinade into the bag. Stick one hand in and lightly rub the marinade into the fish on both sides. When you're done, seal the bag and place it on a plate to avoid breaking the fillet. Chill it in the refrigerator until ready to cook. I prefer to leave it to soak in the flavors for a few hours.

When you're ready to cook, pour the breadcrumbs onto a plate. Cut the storage bag open with a pair of scissors and remove one fish fillet at a time dipping it first on one side into the breadcrumbs and then slowly turning it over to coat the other side and set aside on a clean plate. Repeat with the rest.

Heat the oil and the butter in a frying pan on medium heat. Once the butter begins to foam, lay your fish down and let it fry for 4-5 minutes on each side. Be careful when you're flipping over the fish. Salt and serve immediately. This can also be baked.