The Egyptian Food Principle

Nile cruising is a major tourist business in Egypt, and to this effect, there’s a virtual army of cruise ships, ranging in amenities from thrifty to super luxury. At ports of call, it’s not unusual to see thirty or forty ships, moored in rows, along the quays. 

We near the dock and I encounter the ever present stairs. These, with uneven cobbled steps and lacking a handrail, prove a bit trickier than most, but not totally unmanageable. With my volunteer bodyguard in front, I gingerly descend the stairs to the quay and follow Yasmin as she leads the way to the metal gangway that separates us from the ship. Luckily, it’s just wide enough to accommodate my crutches so that I don’t have to do the crab-walk, a lumbering sideways sashay. 

I step onto the gangway and am happy to discover that it’s relatively solid and doesn’t sway from side to side, as I had feared it might. Sadly, my relief is short lived; the steadiness of the plank only extends to the portion laying flat on the dock. The minute I step on the section spanning the water, with no more support beneath it, the thing starts to sadistically bounce up and down with every crutching step. The spring action becomes more vigorous as more people walk onto it at the same time. 

Contrary to popular belief, three legs are not better than two. I’m more wobbly on my three legs—the human one with the two metal sticks—than I would be on two normally functioning limbs.

Memories of wave amplification models, from high school physics, pop into my head. A lot of good that does me! The gangway has become a quasi-trampoline, and wave amplification models are useless in teaching survival techniques for tripods on trampolines. I invent a mantra to keep myself calm, and keep repeating it as I slink-crutch along, trying not to get jettisoned into the Nile with every bounce. Don’t fall, don’t fall, for the love of Pete, don’t fall.

It works. I reach the boat safe, sound, and dry. The only problem is that this is not our boat. Our ship is actually the third one. We enter this first ship starboard side, pass through a dead metal detector—its electrons, on strike, refuse to react to my metallic presence—continue across the ship to the port side, exit, and step directly onto the second ship. They’re parked side by side, so close to one another that they actually touch. We repeat the starboard-to-port trek through the second boat, finally reaching boat number three: our floating home for the next seven days. Once the group is assembled, we’re directed to the bar lounge for cabin assignments. 

As in all the hotels and airports, every cruise ship has a metal detector, most of which do work. I usually circumvent them, but the odd time, for a thrill, I casually walk through them to set them off. Sometimes, they go off as I approach, before I even go through. Other times, as my tour mates pass through, I surreptitiously stick the end of my crutch in from behind and make it beep, startling my poor victim. They catch on to me quickly though, and I end up being put first in the queue, away from possible mischief. The security guys, the same ones throughout the entire cruise, appear to get a kick out of my infantile behaviour and smirk when they see me coming.

The bar lounge is located on the fourth deck, and of course, there’s no elevator. Had there even been one, it’s a sure thing that Fate would have somehow made it inoperable for the duration of the cruise, or better yet, snapped the elevator cable with me in it. I hate this boat. 

My cabin, a luxury suite with a large bedroom and a separate sitting area, is situated at the front of the ship, right behind the bridge, on the same level as the bar lounge. The Bulb of Enlightenment abruptly switches on. Fourth deck = cabin = bar lounge = gin and tonic. I love this boat. 

Quickly enough, the Bulb burns out. I’ve been in the country for a week and have yet to enjoy my first gin and tonic. Because of the surgery, I’m required to ingest antibiotics, lest the big bad microbes take over my foot, so alcohol has been off the menu since then. It seems that appreciation of the G and T, this most British of cocktails, will have to be deferred to an ulterior date. I’m patient; I’ll wait. 

The dining room is on the first deck. Three flights of stairs separate my ultra comfy suite from the exquisite food served on board, creating somewhat of a dilemma. You know me by now, I can handle stairs. But there’s still a limit. 

Three flights, at twenty-one steps per flight—I did count them, for entertainment—for three meals per day, that’s 189 steps going up and 189 steps going down. For seven days, that’s a total of 2646 steps. And that’s not counting general roaming around the ship, between meals. To deal with the stair challenge, three options offer themselves to me:

1.       Stay in my cabin. Sleep, relax, enjoy the view, and starve.

2.       Eat and enjoy all the meals, but live in a corner of the galley with the pots and pans.

3.       Develop leg muscles like a frog’s, arms like Arnold’s Terminator, and enjoy the best of both worlds.

Option #3 it is. 

Not long after boarding the ship, we’re notified that lunch is served. I crutch down to the dining room and join my companions at our assigned tables. On the ship, every meal is served as a buffet. This could prove to be a problem for the average buffet enthusiast on crutches, however, the staff is ever so gracious in trying to accommodate my needs, and over the first few days of the cruise, several methods of food selection and delivery are explored and tested. 

At first, the waiters come to the table and describe, in mouth-watering detail, every dish set out on the buffet. I make my selection and the food is promptly and expertly delivered to the table. This works quite well, except for the fact that none of the dining room staff seem to grasp the meaning of “a little bit of”. The more I ask for smaller servings, the bigger the portions get. Nor does the staff understand that “chicken only please” does not mean chicken and beef and fish and a triple serving of pasta. To avoid wasting food or developing a midriff like the Michelin man’s which would clash with my one frog leg and Arnie arms, I need to change tactics.

Next, I try meandering through the buffet, crab-walking where necessary, while a charming waiter follows me with a plate. The plan is for me to select the food, indicating the amount desired, and for the waiter to load the plate accordingly. Almost instantly, the waiters get wise to my plot and change their strategy. If I select one piece of chicken, the waiter of the day obliges, then, behind my back, adds two more pieces of chicken to the plate. He even goes so far as packing the empty places on the plate with extra food of his choosing. 

My third attempt at thwarting the staff’s ongoing efforts to force-feed my ankle back to health, is to have the waiter hold the plate as I take command of the serving utensils with one hand, the crutch dangling from my elbow by its arm loop, and add items to my plate in non-gargantuan portions. Then, shunning the dessert table, I follow the waiter back to my seat, keeping him in sight at all times to prevent any illegal additions to my plate. As we near the table, victory seems assured. I should have known better. Waiting for me at the table is a full plate of desserts, compliments of the pastry chef, standing in the corner and smiling at me. Well, if you can’t fight them, eat.

On the subject of food, Egyptian cuisine is extremely tasty, especially all the different kinds of hummus and breads, falafels, and grilled meats. They do lack one thing though: peanut butter. I’m quite partial to this creamy food for breakfast, especially on toast with bananas. But all is not lost. Although there’s a peanut butter drought, bananas, on the other hand, are abundant. Throughout the trip, my companions, knowing of my penchant for the long yellow fruit, will often scavenge and hunt for them during breakfast buffets, then stealthily drop them by my plate on the way to their table. On board the ship, our friendly waiters supply me with as many bananas as I ask for, times three. 

Based on detailed analysis of the waiters’ buffet antics, I have now come to understand the Egyptian Food Principle. In Egypt, the number one is not a number. You cannot have one of something. Even two is iffy sometimes. Food starts being visible when you have three or more pieces of that food on your plate. Any less and you have an empty plate. If you’re dealing with food that doesn’t come in substantial pieces, like rice, mashed potatoes, or hummus, then this food becomes visible when the size of the serving matches the size of your head. It makes one wonder why there are still so many thin Egyptians.

In keeping with the food theme, I should make mention of the hospital food which I experienced in Cairo. After the surgery, my first meal consisted of a slab of soft salty cheese and a bowl of fuul (pronounced “fool”), a traditional dish of simmered fava beans mixed with herbs and lemon juice. In all fairness, this was probably quite good, but since I wasn’t really in the mood for salty cheese and beans for breakfast—or anything else for that matter—I left most of it on the plate and in the bowl. 

This was likely interpreted as a sign that I wasn’t up for Egyptian food, and therefore, for lunch, I received Americanized breaded chicken pieces with pasta, rice, and veggies. Although not of the ilk of our hotel and restaurant meals, this was far from the notoriously unpalatable hospital fare of our Canadian healthcare facilities. 

Strangely enough, the Egyptian Food Principle was not in effect in the hospital. I bet it couldn’t penetrate the Twilight Zone force field.