|
Egyptian author Ahdaf Soueif whips up an old Cairo favourite
My aunt Toufiis always with me when I cook or clean or launder or sew. Eight years after her death, she still makes me dice my onions by hand, rather than in a blender; never – if I can help it – use frozen vegetables; hang out socks to dry in pairs facing in the same direction; and make sure that bed linen is folded without a single crease.
I don’t think of myself as having home-making habits. Or rather, whenever I do something domestic I tend to transform into either my aunt, my mother or my nanny. My habits, whether in cooking or housekeeping, directly reference these three women.
My nanny, who brought me up, is now in her mid-80s. She can hardly see and can hardly stand but she’s still the world’s best cook, and she won’t retire because she says if she sits down she will die and she wants to die standing. So she stands at the cooker, and the rice she magics in 20 minutes is so good that we fork it into our mouths straight from the saucepan. All I see her put in the saucepan is rice and water and butter and salt. Every time I ask how she does it, she says cooking is all nafas – which is both “breath” and “spirit”.
My mother, on the other hand, was content to tell nanny what to cook and stay at her desk, working furiously, always behind deadline. Sometimes she would come into the kitchen to make one of her few specialities: bechamel sauce was one, and so was mayonnaise. She died in October 2008. The month before was the last Eid we had together, and we were cooking for 30. From her desk, where she was finishing her Arabic adaptation of the Cambridge History of English Literature, she gave me a newspaper clipping with the recipe for chicken circassian – chicken in a very rich nut sauce on a bed of rice. I shall always thank God that I cooked it without protest; it was the last thing she asked me to do.
When my kids were growing up in London I fed them the standard international fare that I used to find waiting for me on the kitchen table when I came back from school in Cairo: grills, pastas, salads, sauteed vegetables, chips, cheeses, fruit. At Christmas time I’d go all out with what my (late) husband once called my “parody” of an English Christmas menu. I’d pull out all the stops: turkey and goose, three types of stuffing, sprouts and chestnuts, flambé Christmas pudding and brandy butter – like in a Dickens novel. And when we were in Egypt I left it to my mother, nanny, aunts and the country itself to feed us Egyptian food.
I still live in both Cairo and London. In Cairo, about every fifth shop is a food shop. People will stop and eat standing, or will take away. And the shops are specialised: beans and falafel, milk puddings, ice creams, Arab and European pastries, fish and prawns, sandwiches, liver and brains – and koshari. Needless to say, my mother, my aunt and my nanny did not approve of street food.
So when one day my son asked for koshari, nanny surprised us all by cooking it. And now I’ve adopted it as my favourite fall-back recipe.
You will always find the ingredients for koshari in any well-stocked larder. It’s not expensive, it can be expanded to feed as many sudden guests as needed and it’s healthy and filling. It’s also versatile because each person can combine the ingredients in the quantities that suit them and either spoon on the hot, garlicky sauce or ignore it; and it’s vegetarian without making a point of it, so you won’t be offending or excluding anybody.
SERVES FOUR HUNGRY PEOPLE
2 cups pasta (macaroni and broken-up spaghetti) | 1 cup Egyptian rice, washed | 1 handful vermicelli, crushed | 1 cup brown lentils, washed | 2 medium onions | 2 tomatoes, juiced | Tomato concentrate | 4 cloves garlic | 3 limes (or small lemons) | Corn (or sunflower) oil | Salt | Pepper | Cumin | Chilli (optional) | Chicken stock cube (optional)
- Boil the pasta in salted water till cooked (10 minutes).
- Bring the lentils to the boil in water then simmer (20 minutes), taking care not to over-cook.
- Fry the rice and vermicelli briefly in a tablespoon of corn oil then add one cup of water. Bring to the boil and season with a little salt. When the water recedes so that it is just a film on the surface, put on the lowest possible heat and cook undisturbed for 20 minutes.
For the sauce
- Put the juiced tomatoes into a saucepan.
- Heat some corn oil in a frying pan. Dice one onion finely and fry till golden.
- Pour the mixture into the juiced tomatoes. (You could now add the chicken stock cube to the mixture if desired.)
- Add one teaspoon of pepper and one teaspoon of salt. (If you like your food hot, this is the moment to add chilli to taste.)
- When the sauce has reduced nicely, add half a small carton of tomato concentrate and one and a half cups of water, and simmer.
For the tangy sauce
- Peel and crush four cloves of garlic.
- Mix with the juice of the limes (or lemons).
- Season with salt and one heaped teaspoon of cumin.
- Add spoonfuls from the red sauce into the mixture. Start tasting after 12 spoonfuls. When you like the taste, stop. Add a drop of oil to give it a shine.
For the garnish
- Slice one onion into fine crescents and fry it dry in a frying pan for about five minutes (this is to get rid of the water in the onion).
- Add three tablespoons of corn oil and fry till dark brown. (You may, of course, heat the oil in another frying pan and add the dried onion to it but it’s not necessary.)
- Drain the onion of any excess oil and spread on some kitchen paper.
To serve
- Serve on a flat plate or in bowls. Put down one layer of pasta, followed by a layer of rice, followed by a layer of lentils. Each layer is slightly smaller than the one below so you have a domed effect. Spoon over the tomato sauce, then add some takhdi’ah in the middle. Add the fried onions.
- Serve with a green salad (preferably dark green, like rocket, spinach, or watercress) and fresh (non-acidic) juice or water. Follow with a glass of fresh mint tea.
|
 |
