Kushuri
Kushuri is one of the most important dishes in Egypt and this is a scene from my book where I taste it for the first time.
“Maa ‘indee fuluuuus.”— I don’t have any money.
Muhammad laughed and my heart sank. My mind scrambled to figure out what I had done wrong. I knew all of those words from Arabic class and I knew they were in the correct order. Then it dawned on me that he was laughing because I barely had two feet inside the building when I announced my poverty. At least I finally got a reaction out of him.
He mumbled some words and reached into his drawer and pulled out a small metal box. Inside the small metal box was lots of Egyptian money. I had no idea what the exchange rate was so I gave Muhammad 100 American dollars and he gave me a wad of Egyptian money. I divvied the money up between my pants and my shirt to deceive potential robbers who, I guessed, wouldn’t be smart enough to check all of my pockets. On my walk home, I decided that the easiest place to eat would be a shop that served food in a plastic tub with three different sizes
“Kishireeee…Kashareee…Kushureee…”
I saw one man walk up and nod towards the large tub, smack a coin down on the counter, and stand there while the guy dished a bunch of food in the tub. That looked like exactly what I needed: a lot of food with minimal conversation. I hovered outside long enough to see a few people go through the same process but not so long that I drew attention to myself.
I screwed up my courage and walked through the door.
“Salaam alaykum.”—Hello.
The man greeted me first and I mumbled back,
“Salaam alaykum.”
He spoke more words to me and I waited until I thought he was finished with the pleasantries and asking me what I wanted. I had to pay attention to his hand motions and where he was looking to make sure I pointed to the big tub at the right time. I pulled the fold of money out of my pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bill. He took it and gave me a handful of change.
I wanted to scream and shout and jump up and down. I wanted to raise my arms above my head and beat my chest. Maybe reading Cairo at the Cairo airport wasn’t a big deal, but this was actually a big deal: I wasn’t going to starve to death.
It was delicious. It was layers of two different kinds of pasta layered between some sort of pasta sauce, lentil beans, and fried onions. There were two small glass bottles at the table: one with a green sauce and one with a red sauce. I tasted both and they were delicious. The red sauce was a homemade spicy sauce and the green sauce was really garlicky. I dumped both of them on top and slurped down my meal forkful after plastic forkful. As I sat there scooping the last bit of lentils and red-green sauce into my mouth, I looked up half embarrassed that someone might be watching me eat like a savage.
It was all starting to come together somehow. The more I was able to function, the more I started to feel like I could figure out Egypt. I was re-energized again. I started squinting at squiggles on street signs, passing cars, and other shops on the street. I began to psych myself up to actually speak some real Arabic. I didn’t know it then, but kushuri is an Egyptian national dish and there are shops making and selling it on almost every street corner in Cairo. I was participating in an Egyptian ritual of shoveling down pasta and beans like millions of people do every day.