Restaurant: Meya, Meya
Location: Edgware Road
By Boeing: 7396 miles
By Boris Bike: 1.9 miles
Egypt is a beguiling destination for any traveller, whether it be the awe-inspiring majesty of the Giza Pyramids, a thousand minarets piercing through the heat haze of a Cairo sunset, the crisp, cream linen lines of gentlemen on elegant Nile cruises or the boats inflated, shark infested waters of Sharm El Sheikh. When a country came to prominence in antiquity it has little choice but to be judged on its heritage and history. Such was the grandeur and greatness of the Pharonic era that modern Egypt is like too lands: one revered and admired across the world, a gateway to a mystical, magical past; and the other a much maligned, misunderstood Arab nation fighting for relevance now not reverence then.
Seen through English eyes this new Egypt squats rather uncomfortably on the old. Imagine the uproar amongst Rover drivers if Stone Henge was bathed in an arch shaped shadow of an adjoining McDonalds. It would be an outcry the likes of which hasn’t been seen since Berjerac was denied another series. And yet those returning from the Pyramids all join in the unison of a chorus of disapproval. “Ruined”, they lament. “ Wanton desecration”, those from Tunbridge Wells write to the Daily Telegraph.
There is a feeling, though never, i’m sure, expressed in such blunt terms, that Egypt is a once great civilisation gone to seed. The fact that one of the most infamous and notorious modern Egyptians, Mohammed Al Fayed, turned the best shop in the world into a tacky gift emporium and had the affrontery, not my word, but one I imagine has been used by the Daily Mail, to allow his son to court a Royal Princess has only confirmed this prejudice. And then there was that unseemly business in the Suez when Eden lost his desert garden.
But Meya Meya is the other side of Hyde Park from the gauche Grocery and Gimmicky Grotto that Harrods has become and is refreshingly authentic. There are no superimposed Pyramids on the window panes, no camels bearing Tutankhamun though the Valley of the Kings. This is the Egypt few English people know about, the bustling Arab metropolis of bazaars and baccarat. In fact so disconcerted was I by this new image of Egypt that on walking through the entrance I thought i must have the wrong address. It looked like a shabby pizza takeaway, and in a sense it was, for Meya Meya is the only place in London that sells Fateer, the local variant of pizza. Explaining that i had booked a table I was led through a door and down a staircase to a secret, smart restaurant.
I have lost count of the number of countries on this journey in which I've eaten to the accompanying chatter of babbling foreign adverts on huge plasma screens. But elsewhere the walls were adorned with old, framed photos of Cairo. They serve as a reminder that in the early 20th century, thanks to French colonial rule and the wealth brought to the city by the Suez Canal, Cairo was grand and glamorous. The central square and civic buildings have something of Paris in their decadence and design.
On an adjoining table a meeting was being convened of Egyptian rap artists. Every five minutes or so a few more would arrive and tuck into appetisers such as hummous and beans. The seemingly self-appointed chair, who I imagined played the synthesiser, was chastising the others for paying £5000 to rent a venue and then not selling any tickets. While this soap opera unfolded we ordered starters. My friend tried some wonderful Falafel, which must rank as the most successful of Egypt’s culinary exports. I wanted to sample a few authentic appetisers so enjoyed Mulukhiya, a thin green soup made from jute leaves, and Foul Medames, a thick puree of mashed fava beans with garlic and coriander. I looked over enviously at the crispy brown outside and fluffy green centre of my friends Falafel. The flavours had heavy hints of Lebanon and the Gulf, unsurprising given the strong political and cultural ties, but were distinctive enough to class as Egyptian rather than Mezze.
Having almost ordered a large Fateer i found that I could only manage half the diameter of my small portion. Though shaped like a pizza it is in fact made from folded pastry. The pastry both provides the base and enfolds the toppings, making it almost like a shallow pie. Anatolian sausage, thick cheese and multiple folds of pastry make for a heavy meal. Though tasty I don’t think the Italians have anything to fear, though fans of tarts and tartines will enjoy the texture.
In Cairo we would have enjoyed coffee and shisha for dessert but this being London only the former was permissible. Foolishly full I made the mistake or ordering the rich milky pudding Umm Ali which is baked with currents and ladles of sugar. Generally Mezze meals are quite light but in swapping pulses for pizza I could barely stand after paying the bill.
Leaving the restaurant I felt like Carter pulling back the stone and descending into Tutankhamun’s tomb. We had both seen for the first time a culture waiting to be found. He unleashed a curse, while I made do with a guttural groan of glutton.
