Welcome back to Half Empty. As I mention below, I’ll be travelling for two weeks beginning next week so I will be taking a break from writing this newsletter. If I feel compelled to I reserve the right to post, however. And a reminder that all posts continue to be available for free.
A taste of home
I’ll be traveling next week, on the hunt for new horizons in the Old World. I’m looking forward to the trip, and I’m also looking back, reflecting on trips past, on the unexpected but special moments that present themselves to us while travelling. One such moment, a story that I tell often, was on a trip to my family’s homeland of Egypt in 2016. A core memory, if you will.
By 2016, I hadn’t visited Egypt since childhood. I had few memories of the place then, snippets mostly that I wasn’t sure were true recollections, but rather fabricated images derived from photos or home videos. I remember my brother and I being bathed at my grandma’s apartment, in a plastic tub on the ground with cold water dumped onto our bodies. I remember street-side purveyors peddling their wares, of which inexplicably included chicks dyed in a variety of bright, unnatural colors. I even vaguely remember taking issue with the flavor of the milk in the country.
I arrived in Egypt the summer of that year eager to visit. As the child of immigrants, I felt deeply connected to the place but I also wasn’t sure what it would feel like to be there. I was deeply familiar with my culture and I understood that there was a deep crevasse between where I grew up and the land of my forefathers. I knew that things operated differently there.
Yet certain things still took me aback. For example as soon as we touched down in Cairo and I made my way out of the airplane, I found my dad’s cousin waiting patiently for us, immediately outside of the plane doors on the jet bridge. That’s a bit strange, I thought. How did you get in here? Aren’t there security rules and regulations against this sort of thing? Oh, you were a dentist in the military so you know a guy. Ok, that makes sense.
We handed our passports over to said cousin, and he handed them to someone else. Suddenly, we had a full entourage. Two fellows in suits escorted us, told us to wait a moment, took our passports through clamoring masses at customs and went directly to an officer seated above the fray. I tried to keep track of our precious documents in the hands of this stranger, but it was a fool’s errand. I let go, I let god. And we made it out. These instances set the tone for the remainder of the trip. Small reminders that things run differently. A knowing wink,a cash handoff, and we’re through a back door. A quick “do you know who I am?” from a relative, and we were ushered to the front of a line.
One of the highlights of our itinerary was a weekend in Alexandria. We’d be driven from Cairo—about a two and a half hour drive—and make an important pitstop along the way. Each and every time this excursion was brought up, there was talk of a restaurant about halfway between the cities, a place where we could gorge ourselves on some of the finest fteer meshaltet to be found anywhere in the country.
Fteer meshaltet is a flaky, laminated pastry made with thin layers of dough and samna balady (ghee made with buffalo milk). It’s a beloved and classic Egyptian food—it’s origins allegedly trace back to Ancient Egypt—and it’s one of those items that is pretty difficult to make at home. It requires space for stretching dough out to phyllo-like thinness and a whole lot of ghee. Fteer is also one of those foods that an entire meal, an entire experience really, can be centered around. Eating it feels like an occasion in and of itself. I’d had it many times growing up, made either by intrepid aunties in the immigrant community or brought over from Egypt by family and friends, frozen and wrapped up tightly many times over to prevent ghee seepage. It can be eaten either sweet or savory, but the traditional accoutrements include honey, molasses, a briny and funky buffalo’s milk white cheese, and maybe some eggs. It is one of my all time favorite foods.
It had been settled, maybe before we even arrived in Egypt, that we’d be indulging during the road trip portion of our voyage on fteer at a special place recommended by our cousins. And we were amped. Throughout our adventures in Cairo, the fteer was brought up again and again. It began to take on greater meaning. A waypoint on our journey downstream along the Nile, and a symbol for all that’s left behind by emigration. All the foods, the feelings, that the diaspora try to recreate in foreign lands, but are somehow still missing the taste of home. Eating this pastry seemed to be about getting a little bit of that back.
The day of the trip finally arrived, and we readied ourselves to set off. Of course, we had doughy goodness on the brain. We even held back at breakfast so that we could feast unencumbered. We hit the road in a passenger van-type vehicle with a driver named Mohammed. We drove through countryside and desert until, maybe an hour and half in, Mohammed pulled into a dirt parking lot just off the side of the highway. The first bit of confusion set in when I saw that the lot belonged to a building that looked more circus than a restaurant. While writing this piece I couldn’t remember what exactly made me feel this way but then, through some googling and the harassment of various relatives who came along for the journey, I was able to find an address for and image of this place (see below). It all came rushing back. Regardless, by this point in our trip I felt mostly indifferent to appearances. You learn quickly in Egypt that good things can come in strange packages.
This establishment proved itself more than just a little strange, though. We entered, and I recall being met by a deep, animal odor. And this wasn’t a pleasantly pastoral barnyard-y smell. The air was rank and zoo-like. I took in the place: there were a large number of outdoor tables (all empty), a few clay ovens and women stretching dough (a good sign), a man standing in a small fenced pen hosing off about 20 exotic-looking dogs barking loudly (a bad sign), a large “happy birthday” sign with not a birthday celebrant in sight. We were beckoned to one of about 25 empty tables by a somewhat surprised looking individual as we continued to visually inspect our surroundings.
There was indeed fteer meshaltet being made there. Two women sat on the floor across from each other at a table. With deftness and speed, one woman tossed an edge of dough across the table and created a thin layer, then the other baker reached her cupped hand into a bucket of liquid ghee and showered the layer with fat. The process repeated back and forth until they had the requisite amount of layers, then they would create a sort of circular, Domino’s pizza-sized disc of laminated dough that they’d throw into the clay oven for baking until golden brown and delicious. Wonderful.
But it was a bit difficult to focus on the meal to come as there were the sounds of a variety of animals emanating from behind us. It turns out the dogs were just the tip of this fucked up iceberg. To my disbelief, there were a lot of exotic animals there, a veritable menagerie. A short walk around the property revealed a panther, an ostrich, monkeys, a colorful array of birds; and all the creatures were in cages much smaller than they ought to be. It was a fever dream version of the Rainforest Café come to life, an event space-cum-zoo-cum-bakery-cum-PETA member’s absolute hellscape.
My parent’s began to sense my soft Californian sensibilities turning on this bizarre establishment, and they did their best to turn my attention back to the food. We’d fasted in preparation for eating there, so we were hungry. I tried to focus on the mesmerizing action of the bakers’ arms: a toss of dough, a shower of ghee, a toss of dough, a shower of ghee.
The baking was happening about 30 feet from the animal enclosures, and as you might imagine, there were a lot of flies buzzing about. It all happened so fast. A toss of dough, a shower of ghee. Then a fly hovered above and landed on the newest layer. Another toss of dough, another shower of ghee, and the fly was instantly trapped tightly between the paper thin layers of fat-soaked pastry. A fly is fast, but these women were faster. I bore witness to the fly’s demise, but it seemed like no one else in my family saw it happen. One of the bakers did notice my gaze, though. She looked down at where the fly landed seconds ago, her arms never ceasing in their movement, and then she looked up at me. A warm smile, a nod, and the stretching and layering continued.
I started to lose my cool. That was our fteer. I’m far from the most squeamish eater, but I didn’t want to knowingly eat a fly. I didn’t have much time to consider it before we received a large pot of steaming hot, very hard-boiled eggs, straight from the stove sans serving vessel. This was followed in quick succession by the pièce de résistance: a massive fteer meshaltet hit the table. It looked, and smelled, glorious. The various accoutrements were brought in, and everyone dove right in. I held my tongue about the fly, I guess I figured ignorance is bliss. I thought about holding back, but I couldn’t help myself and decided to chow down. How many flies do we unknowingly eat in our lifetimes anyway? I chose a slice—carefully examined it for any fly remains—drizzled on some honey, and tucked in. And in spite of it all (the animal cruelty, the frightful food safety, etc.) it was one of the best versions of the dish I’ve ever had.
We packed back into the van, digesting our meal and (my feelings), and onwards we went towards the sea. While I was still a little shell shocked from the scene I had just witnessed, I chose to let it go. We made one more stop before arriving at our accommodations for the evening: Pompey’s Pillar. A 90-foot tall Ancient Roman column that stands on a plot of land just outside of Alexandria. I walked around the pillar and looked up as it stretched towards the sky. Looking back I can’t help but feel there’s a connection to be made between the column and the fteer. An ancient column, an ancient food. Both remnants of a lost time.
If you’d like to try your hand at making this pastry (I’ve never felt brave enough myself) try this recipe. Amira’s Pantry is a website I’ve been frequenting for years when looking for Egyptian recipes (after asking my mom of course). Let me know how it goes — the comments are open!
Other nice things:
I was tickled when I learned that there’s a Beck song that mentions Zankou Chicken. Thank you to my friend Garrett for educating me. Zankou is one of my favorite SoCal chains, and if you haven’t been it’s high time you go and get a chicken tarna or a beef shawerma plate.
Saw some animal crackers for sale at a coffee shop. I forgot they existed.
Thank you for reading. All posts will be free for all until further notice.
Garrett with the shout out !!!!
That story was just what I needed. Learned something new while having a really good laugh. Felt like scenes in a movie. I think you need to write a book.