I Love This Country

I lived my dream last night.

“Do you have pizza tonight?” asks Simon.

“No, not tonight,” says the man.
“There is never pizza here. It’s always bukra inshallah (tomorrow, god willing),” utters Simon.
“I’ll go in there and make a pizza and then I’ll show you how good it is,” I offer.
“Ok, go ahead,” returns the man.
Whoa. The guy just said that I could go into the kitchen and make a pizza or two. Did I hear that right?

I must say that I was unconvinced at first that they would actually let me into the kitchen. But that feeling soon subsided once the guy took my arm and led me into the fray. Two thoughts entered my mind simultaneously: 1. This is the coolest thing ever, and 2. I’m nervous as hell.

The kitchen was quaint, but disorganized. There was a brick grilling station, a gas oven, a range, a small metal chopping table, and the sink was in the middle of it all. There were two guys working in there, but that number increased to as many as six.

The owner of the place was extremely helpful. He found me dough, asked me what ingredients I wanted, and even swore like a sailor when I suggested that pineapple might act as a decent topping.

“What the $%#& do you want pineapple for? Pineapple does not $%#&-ing go on pizza.”

Awesome. The dough was cold (it had been in the freezer for a bit), but I was able to roll it out without much trouble. For pans, the guy produced two small, “medium dish” ones. I requested a stone, but they seem to be hard to come by in this country.

All the while, Simon was next to me chopping onions, green pepper, and olives. He was schooled in that art by the chef, who had just shown us how fast one could chop an onion while keeping the slices precisely uniform. It was impressive, and I imagine Simon will set about practicing the art for next time.

We topped the pizzas with the ingredients we had—then it was time for the oven. The chef had set it to 250 F. I did my best to explain that we needed 500 F, but it did take a while. So we waited for 10 minutes while the gas oven fired up. To our left, the chef was preparing the French onion soup we had ordered. And while he used chicken stock instead of beef stock, the soup was of the finest Egyptian creations.

After the pizzas had gone into the oven, the owner tried to get me to sit down. I was vehemently opposed to the idea of not seeing my pizza to the end, so I refused. It took a second, but Simon and I were able to convince him that we should stay.

Fifteen minutes went by while the pizzas bubbled away in the oven. We watched the chef at work and marveled at the various indeterminate food items laying around everywhere. Finally, I hauled the pizza out of the oven and cut it up. Both the chef and the owner tried a piece…both liked it, I think. Or maybe they were just being nice.

“You can come back any time,” said the owner as we brought the pizza to the table.
“Awesome. I’m definitely going to be back,” I replied.
“If you want, you can come and cook your national cuisine,” he suggested.

If only Canada had a national cuisine….