From where I stood, the small, upstairs room visible through the windows appeared crowded. The ground-floor entry area was brightly lit and open to the street. To the left, behind a small counter, one man stood ladling food from a row of large bowls and opposite him, another man stood next to a small table with a register. A third, energetic, younger man wove a pattern between them and the second floor, as he hefted large trays covered in plates up the stairs, then descended again bearing empty bowls. The constant flow of people – couples, families, young and old and, importantly for me as a solo, female diner in busy Cairo – groups of young women – was all the encouragement I needed. I stepped into the doorway and stood at the foot of the stairs. Everyone smiled and the man next to the table said, “Welcome.”
I held up one finger.
“Small or large?” Since I didn’t really know what I was in for, “Small,” I answered.
“To drink, Coca Cola?” I looked at the refrigerator case.
“Orange soda.” The man motioned his chin to tell me to go up the stairs. No menu, no prices. I only knew that I was about to have kochary, the favorite food of the man who had been seated next to me on the airplane earlier in the day.
In the early aughts before social media streams told us where and what to eat while traveling, I employed the usual tactic of asking people I met what their favorite restaurant is in [any city]. One day, for no real reason, instead I asked,
“What is your favorite food?” – As one would ask a friend or acquaintance. I discovered that the answers to this question lead down a different path than restaurant recommendations, which of course, I also want. I love to hear the stories behind people’s favorite foods and how that dish is their connection to a meaningful experience, family or place. It’s also a lot of fun to pursue a single dish, collecting variations, opinions and recipes along the way.
It’s my first foray outside of the hotel since arrival from the airport, walking the busy streets of the main shopping area of Cairo at dinnertime. I had no idea what “kochary” was except “lentils” – the immediate response to my question, from a man returning home to Egypt for his father’s funeral. I didn’t even know how it would be written. Arabic is written without any vowels, so phonetically translated into English, has many possibilities. I’d heard Ko-shah-REE, or maybe Cocherie, or Kocherry? I happened to see a neon sign as I considered how to cross the busy intersection and saw it: “Aha!" Kochary! I made a bee-line with the other pedestrians, not stopping, to cross Cairo traffic and entered into the bustling, crowded shop.
Upstairs, the long, low-lit, narrow room held around twenty tables and was very warm. Especially warm since I was trying to blend in with conservative Muslim style and wore a long-sleeved, baggy, blouse over my T-shirt and ankle-length dress. All the other women were well-covered from head to toe, so they must feel warm too.
I chose a table not far from the window that overlooked the busy street, near a group of chattering young girls. A moment later, a flat, white, pasta-style bowl with a pyramid of steaming food was put in front of me, along with another small bowl containing about one cup of a red sauce. I examined the contents closely.
The pyramid turned out to be short macaroni tubes, chopped vermicelli, garlic, white rice, brown lentils, chickpeas, and fried onion, unmixed and dished out in layers. On the side of the bowl sat a couple of wedges of the small, round daq lemons – similar to Meyer lemons – commonly found in Egypt, and as I would later find out, garnishing the side of every plate served.
I tasted the bowl of sauce – it was a tasty tomato sauce, a little tangy and a little spicy. Then I tasted the contents of the two condiment bottles on the table – hot chili sauce and garlic-infused vinegar. I looked at the tables nearby for clues from the other diners as to what to do next.
Some made a small well, poured in the sauce and mixed. Others mixed just a bit with a spoonful of sauce, one mouthful at a time. I chose to emulate the big man at the table next to me who mixed up the whole bowl, shook a little hot pepper into the tomato sauce, poured the entire bowl of sauce into the big bowl, squeezed on a little lemon and mixed again. He impressively hoovered down the entire large-sized bowl in about eight minutes and left.
But I ate slowly, savoring the flavors – almost like a bowl of spaghetti - but more toothsome with a mix of shapes and textures; dense lentils and chickpeas, crunchy fried onions, chewy rice and macaroni, the tartness of the tomato sauce and the hint of garlic and spice. Nothing shocking nor particularly foreign to my taste buds, just satisfying and very, very filling. I’d be ready to go out and walk the entire city after this carbohydrate feast! I walked downstairs and stopped to pay at the register.
“Five pounds,” said the man behind the register. I took out my Egyptian money and paid with a ten-pound note. I understood the many reasons why kochary is so popular, a comfort food that is delicious, fast, and no-fuss. The warm, filling meal, including a can of orange soda, cost the equivalent of ninety cents, a good deal even by local standards.
The inevitable question followed as I received my change,
"Is this your first time in Egypt?” (No, my fourth.) Emboldened by my enhanced status as a paying customer, I walked over to the counter where the bowls of ingredients were being dished up – a spoonful of each into a deep bowl then turned over into the flat bowl it was served in and garnished with the fried onions. I pointed to each and asked what it was, to make sure I hadn’t missed something from the recipe.
I stepped back out onto the street satisfied, fortified and feeling a sense of accomplishment for my new discovery, I thought of the guy sitting next to me on the airplane, coming home to family and kochary.
Now on every subsequent trip I’ve made to Egypt, I ask people about their favorite kochary place.
“Kochary? You know kochary? Let’s go!”
Comments