Goodbye Dubai!

Goodbye Dubai

It’s been grand. Really it has.

When I left Berlin, post babies, in the middle of  winter (which I hear is still going on despite it being Spring now) and bout after bout of sickness – I was feeling low. I blamed it on motherhood. I blamed it on hormones. I blamed it on the weather. I blamed it on Berlin. I blamed it on whoever was in my line of vision at the time of blame attribution.Lunch at our favorite LebaneseTwo months of sun, help with the babies and friendly locals have done wonders. This morning I was speaking to someone about opening a shop with adorable baby clothing handmade in Burma.  A  little while later I sent an email off to a friend about travel plans. Anything seems possible, again.

I don’t know who those guys are by the way.  They simply walked up to us and asked to be photographed with the twins.

This is what the Middle East does so well.  Friendliness.  Hospitality.  Fun.  Irreverence.  Lots of silliness. The Lime Tree CafeIt’s why they can have places like Scoozi, a restaurant that serves Italian and Sushi.  Neither are particularly good-by the way but sometimes food is just food.  I eat the avocado maki and complain that the tempura is all uncooked carrots and onions until my husband tells me to pipe down because I am giving him indigestion.  He’s right sometimes it’s about having a good time, somewhere close to home, where the twins can sqwuak and flap like baby birds and liter the floor with breadsticks.Arabic breakfast at The Lime Tree Cafe Read more of this post

Peshwa, Maharastrian food, Karama – Dubai

Peshwa“Yemeni, Maharastrian or Malwani for lunch?” Arva asks me.
All of it! I want to say. Despite my palette being unable to conjure impressions of what any of that food will taste like. 1 hour of googling later and I still have no idea.
“I’ll leave it to you.” I answer.
She choses Maharastrian, a South Indian kitchen with an emphasis on vegetables and fish.

Kothimbir WadiWe are here specifically to try the Bombay duck, which is actually a fish that also goes by the name bummalo- you wouldn’t want to meet this fish walking home at night.  They don’t have it that day, Arva discoveres after chatting with the waiter in Urdu.  She orders the Kingfish instead, which comes in thin steaks, battered and fried with a coating of notascrunchyasitshouldbe semolina batter.  A small ceramic tub of tamarind sauce accompanies it.  And we can help ourselves to the tins of sliced onions, cheeks of the miniature lemons they eat here and a chutney.  I take a spoonful of the chutney and shove the whole thing in my mouth. And visibly recoil from the pungent pickle.

“Ah – you are just supposed to dip into it.” Arva explains.

I deploy a more cautious approach for the remainder of the dishes.

Pithla, bharli wangi, jack fruit 'salad'

The neatly lined up squares of gram flour fritters or Kothimbir Wadi are crunchy and hard to stop eating.

My favourite dish is Pithla; bright yellow, coloured by turmeric and chickpea flour and cooked to the consistency of smooth porridge. It’s riddled with mustard seeds – an indication, Arva tells me, that we are moving further South in Indian cooking. As it sits on the table and cools, a skin begins to form. I’m a big lover of skins be they on Romanian ciulama, cornflour thickened Spanish hot chocolate, custard and now Pithla.  I eat and eat – sigh (from pleasure and exertion) and eat some more.

“This is a kind of comfort food.” Avra smiles.

It certainly makes me feel better. Read more of this post

Frying Pan Adventures, Food Tour, Dubai

Avra serving Egyptian falafelI hesitate before booking Arva’s North African Food Safari because it’s in the evening and I can’t justify disrupting 3 children’s night-time routine just so I can eat for curiosity’s sake. Luckily for me, my husband has no such qualms and books the tour for me. (That’s one of the reasons I picked him- he may not be a house husband and he’s probably only changed 30 diapers in the 4 years and three children we’ve had together but he has a knack of recognizing that critical point where I need to be given a nudge or more likely a shove).

Delivery from Al AmoorI meet the group in the bachelor section of Deira. An odd collection of restaurants with garish signs which are interspersed at regular intervals by bustling barber shops. I feel like the only woman on earth, circling the restaurant waiting for the group to appear.

Arva counting down the top 10 spices in Moroccan foodThen I see the blur of movement that are Arva’s arms as she excitedly explains something to the two women in sensible walking shoes flanking her, oblivious to their surroundings as she draws them in with countless anecdotes.

We settle down to our first tasting. Crunchy brik stuffed with tuna and an egg, its yolk oozing out brightly as we cut into it. While we eat, she hands out her iPad so we can watch a video of a woman making warka pastry.

IMG_1729The tour is 350 AED (€73) for 4 hours.  I was expecting an informal evening, where Arva would show us her places and we would chat.  Instead it’s an extremely well-organized tour.  We are given a branded Frying Pan Adventures bottle cooler, wet wipes and a pamphlet of illustrated vocabulary words that we encounter during our eating adventure.  It doesn’t stop there, Arva peppers all her explanations of food with relevant historical facts.

At the Egyptian restaurant Al Amoor over a plate of fava falafel and koshari one of the women in the tour turns around and asks me if I am ok because I am very quiet.  I get even quieter.  Normally you can’t shut me up, I interrupt frequently and rarely realize in time to apologise but around Arva there is so much to learn that I even – wait for it – take out a pen and paper to jot down some notes.

IMG_1719At Tajeen Alfassi she asks to smell the Ras El Hanout and the men that work there start smiling. “They will always smile when you say Ras El Hanout because it used to contain Spanish Fly.” There is a murmur of laughter from the group. I open up my notebook and jot down Spanish Fly?.  (It’s an aphrodisiac)

IMG_1738We try Omani Halwa which is a rose scented sweet not unlike the gunge that sticks to your teeth after eating Jelly Beans.  At first I think, “No.” but it’s surprisingly moreish.  ”They eat it for weddings and funerals.” Arva tells us.  I eat it for dessert the next day with yogurt and the contrast of sweet room temperature stickiness with the cold sour yogurt – heaven – two better bedfellows never existed. Read more of this post

Aqua Park at the Atlantis, Dubai

My orange toes at AtlantisI got married in 2006, at the Dead Sea in Jordan. For the occasion, I bought a bikini that fit. One with proper breast support that prompted my husband’s friend (a self proclaimed expert) to declare them as fake all the girls in the Middle East get them, he expanded helpfully.  (Retrsopectively flattered but it’s been all downhill since those perky days.)

7 years and three kids later, I’ve got the same bathing suit. Layla on the other hand, I bought her a one piece from Mothercare just last week. Yesterday, when I announced I was going to take her to Atlantis Water Park she couldn’t find it. The taxi was waiting for us downstairs, the day passes were purchased so I figured I would buy one there and it would be on the expensive side. Turns out, as expensive as the one I bought in 2006.Layla's lunchShe stroked my leg affectionately while my credit card transaction went through.
“You have hairy legs mommy.”
“Hairy legs good in the Philippines” the eager sales woman smiled., ecstatic that she had shifted an overpriced bathing suit for a 4 year old.
(Now I know where to move to to finally be appreciated.) Layla wore her suit out but I made sure to take the cloth bag that was offered.  And the plastic zip lock envelope for her wet bathing suit.  I tried to take the shells that littered the counter in a bid to get my moneys worth but those were glued on…
The bathing suitInitially I was daunted by the idea of donning said bikini and exposing ‘the belly’ to the world. But that’s such a female affliction, the dual sword of being insecure about your body and the delusion that someone is actually taking the time to check you out and give you a score from 1 to 10 when they can just skip over you and look directly at the tens walking around. Read more of this post

More thoughts on Dubai and Bice (Italian) at the Hilton

Bice I was in Waitrose yesterday where you can buy everything and anything. Like black-skinned tomatoes from Holland, baby carrots from the USA (Food air miles are a moot point here). There is a special room for pork, a bit like the room for adult entertainment in American DVD shops.Fried CalamariIt’s the opposite of Berlin where I face day after day of local kohlrabi, cabbage and oh potatoes, miles of waxy potatoes even when they claim to be floury.Pain Quotidien

Margins are similarly different. Dubai Marina, where I am staying, is clogged with Pauls and Pain Quotidiens and the prices are astonishing. A cappuccino is 18 DHR or €3.60. The chains open up so fast that the food bears little resemblance to a Pain Quotidien in London, say. This mushrooming can only be explained by returns. The reason there was a gold rush in 1848 was because one could pick up nuggets of gold from the ground, I think food outlets in Dubai promise similar riches.
IMG_1456But it doesn’t make for good food, or exciting food. My experience so far has been disappointing. Sure I can order Singapore noodles from the Noodle House and they get delivered hot but they are just ok. Much better than the food from Yo Sushi which is barely edible.

I suspect there is a lot of good food to be found, if you are willing (able) to go break free of the chains. My father has a local friend who works for the King (not sure which King exactly). His job seems to be similar to that of a courtier. The other day he woke my father up at 5am to go eat somewhere special. Somewhere special turned out to be a cheap standing only joint for the local Indian taxi drivers. They ate flat bread filled with onions. My mouth watered at the sound of it as I ate my sterile chicken wrap from Zaatar and Zeit with exactly 100g (keeping those margins healthy) of soft chicken breast (they play if fast and loose with the meat tenderizers here). Read more of this post

The Walk, Dubai


The Walk, Dubai

I’m in Dubai.

The winter made me do it. Not that I mind winters, in fact I used to like them. The lazy dark days, over-eating, watch some TV, take in some shows. It was good. But it isn’t anymore. Not with 3 kids, two of which are babies that have to be dressed up like Michelin men to brave the weather then stripped down completely to cope with the central heating.  And not with the hypochondria I’ve developed on their behalf, every time I dropped Layla off at kindergarten I would look at the other kids, coughing, wheezing, like a geriatric ward on uppers.  Emirati mall

So Dubai. 24ºC and sunny.

You would think it was a no brainer decision but I had my doubts.  I always thought of Dubai as coarse.  A male centric blemish on the earth (you can see The Palm from space.)

But who can argue with 24ºC and sunny?IMG_1417

We land in Abu Dhabi because there is no direct flight to Dubai from Berlin (No surprise there then).  Passport control is staffed entirely with women, wrapped in black, their pinned up hair making their  shrouded heads look conical and alien.

Avocado tartine at Le Pain QuotidienThen there are the feet and the big man toes.  In Europe if you’ve seen a man’s toes, it goes without saying you’ve seen a lot more of him besides. Not in Abu Dhabi and Dubai. Dishdashas swish this way and that, backless sandals scrape against the pavement (Arabs are famous for the shuffle walk) exposing toes the size of limes, tufts of hair sprouting generously beneath the nail beds.  Their magpie nature means that the sandals are adorned with all manner of shiny accessories. Read more of this post

Honey & Co, Food From The Middle East, London

IMG_3559I’ve mentioned that my father is Jordanian, I probably haven’t said that half his family is originally Palestinian. My best friend in High School was an Israeli girl named Jo.  He used to joke that he sent me to an International School and from all the many nationalities – I found an Israeli. To be fair to both of our parents, they never interfered in our friendship or tried to get political with us. Jo and I bonded over our love of illicit bacon, chewing gum anxiously after we had consumed the contraband meat – convinced that somehow our fathers would know.

After visiting Honey & Co (opened by an Israeli couple who both worked in the Ottolenghi group) I took Layla to the playground in Primrose Hill where there was a Hasidic jewish father with 5 children sporting curled payot.  When they left, there was a couple sitting on a bench speaking in Hebrew.  I dialled her number.

“Jo Joseph!” I exclaimed. “I’m surrounded by your country men and women here.”
“Suzan!” she laughed. Jo always laughs, it’s one of the reasons I love her so much. “How are you?”
“Oh my god. How could you let me get pregnant again? I blame you.”
More laughter.
“Don’t worry, it get’s better….in three years.” Another of Jo’s characteristics. She gives it to you straight, no garbage about the first 100 days. One thousand and twenty-eight days to go then…IMG_3556

Paulina told me about Honey & Co.  Paulina has mastered professional baking and aspires to all things molecular (last time I had lunch with her she was telling me that she had contacted Simon Rogan to get some advice on how to use a contraption that captures the essence of ingredients) it’s rare for her to get excited about things she can do blind folded and laying down.  But she gushed about this place and she worked with both chefs. So on her recommendation, I went.

Layla was being fractious, in 28 minutes I had a rainbow beetroot salad, stuffed vine leaves, orange blossom ice tea and a chocolate brioche.  Running out of time, I ordered the cheese cake to go.  Later, while freezing on a bench in Primrose Hill, I rewound the meal I had gobbled up in record time and played it back slowly.   Read more of this post

Dabbous, Modern European, London

IMG_3525In his review of Dabbous, Jay Rayner writes: “Oliver Dabbous is being hailed as the next big thing. There’s only one problem: you’ll never taste his cooking.”

Well I did. Because on the 16th of May, when I was seven and a half months pregnant with the twins, I wrote them (Dabbous not the twins, although it would have been nice to have some email correspondence to agree on acceptable sleeping times) an email and said I would like to come for lunch any day in September. I knew that by September I would be feeling a lot like Pandora and Dabbous was meant to be my hope in the chest of challenges I had opened up.

(My husband went one further booking a non-refundable, 6 day car rally in the south of France. “Networking”. He says. I say. Aha. I play Fabienne to his Butch – can you believe how young Bruce Willis looks in that clip?  My husband did say that I could / should come with him.  Which is a bit like Marie Antoinette declaring “Qu’ils mangent de la brioche” when the poor people complained that they had no bread. This is what our trip looked like last June.)IMG_3532

Here is the thing about Dabbous; their lunch menu is £26! It can cost you that much to have lunch at Giraffe if you get enticed into ordering a silly sounding smoothie.

Dabbous serves beautiful food without the pomp.  My starter of peas features a mousse, a granita and tender tendrils. It’s so sweet, it tastes like they must be growing peas on the roof and picking them for every order.  For my fish course I had ling.  It was a pale looking dish, punctuated with 3 petal pink discs, which turned out to be slivers of pickled garlic.IMG_3531 Read more of this post

The Food Hall, Selfridges, London

Nothing opens the appetite like exhaustion.  A combination of physical and emotional fatigue seem to work best.  Today I ate a bagel with cream cheese and salmon, 2 hours after I had eaten breakfast and my stomach felt like all I had done was chew a couple of sticks of gum.  If anything it had made me hungrier. I moved on to the free cookie I had received when I had collected 10 loyalty stamps from the ice cream shop.  Nothing.  I polished off a packet of nuts and raisins. And it went on.

I have a lot of guilt every time I eat.  Not because of my weight (producing milk for two babies means you can eat anything and not gain so much as a gram of fat) but because of my teeth.

I went to see my dentist, whom I love.  He sat me down on his green chair, put the paper bib on, took a deep breath and asked me to give it to him straight.

“What have you been eating?” There’s an edge to his voice.

“I’ve been snacking.” I confess, sharp intake of breath but he remains calm.

“Go on.”

“I’ve been eating sweets.” I continue.

Haribo?” He almost whispers it.  My dentist equates eating Haribo to crack cocaine.

“God no!” I exclaim.  “No, shortbread biscuits, cakes things like that.”

He relaxes and has a look.  He tells me it’s not that bad but that he is prescribing me Duraphat 5000 ppm as a prophylactic.  It’s got 5x the amount of fluoride of regular toothpaste and should tide me through this turbulent period.

My obstetrician is similarly concerned about prophylactics.  What am I using for ‘protection’ he asks without a hint of irony at my 6-week check up before giving me a prescription for the pill.  Which let’s face it, is like giving a Bedouin a life boat in case the desert floods. Read more of this post

La Fromagerie, Cheese Shop and Deli, Marylebone

If money were no object what would you spend it on?I would eat lunch and do a lot of my shopping at La Fromagerie. (And have round the clock hired help for the twins and buy the Saarinen oval table in white marble – since I’m making a list and all…).

Of the robust deli brigade in London, La Fromagerie is easily my favourite.  They don’t pile it high nor do they have the colour range of somewhere like Ottolenghi (Oh! Do you know Ottolenghi’s new book, Jerusalem is out?).  What they do is put out a selection, say 3 salads and a tart out at midday, which they only leave out for a few hours.  This ensures that you aren’t served up  a green bean puckered with age or a wedge of beetroot that has lost the glossy veneer of dressing. There are warm mains, things like a melanzane or tomato soup.What they serve is always at its best.  The San Danielle ham I had was balanced at just the right pitch of saltiness.  The ribbons of white fat were starting to be just that little bit translucent around the edges from being at room temperature – it melted on my tongue.  The figs were soft and ripe, which is the only way they are edible, an immature fig is just gritty and thin in the mouth.  That was one dish of many like that.  The charcuterie plates with stocky cornichons vinegary enough to cut through the rich homemade rillettes.  The cheese plates with a small stack of crackers and a few wedges of apple, composed with the austerity of a Baugin still life.  Chocolate cake with a spoonful of cream. Read more of this post

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