an awakening of interest in what those of the ancient world ate and drank. I use the same cooking tools and the same methods of preparation that my ancestors used two thousand years ago.”
“The same ingredients too?” I asked.
“As far as possible—though that can be more difficult. The herbs and spices, for example, used in earlier days are not easy to find.”
I was unable to look anywhere but deep into those gorgeous eyes and I realized that her words were uncannily intuitive. It was as if she were reading my mind.
A voice called from nearby, petulant, demanding, but it was in a language I didn’t understand. I presumed it was addressing her but she ignored it.
“I see from your face that you know something of spices. Come inside. I will show you Phoenicia.”
She moved as gracefully as a ballet dancer but with a catlike deliberation. I was relieved to escape from her spell but I couldn’t wait to be enveloped in it again.
The kitchen where we went first was a remarkably faithful-appearing replica of the real thing. Copper caldrons stood alongside wicker baskets of fruit and vegetables. A stone mortar and pestle were near a wood-burning stove. Ayesha pointed to a stack of thick green leaves. “Those are our plates.”
In a wooden tray was cutlery—two-pronged forks and bone-handled knives. Earthenware pots and bowls could easily have been a thousand years old. Flat stones were scratched and worn. “Those are our chopping blocks,” she said musically. The walls of the adjoining restaurant area looked like the interior of a tent and the floor was at different levels, each carpeted differently in bright colors.
“We are featuring lamb today,” this exotic creature told me as she pointed a slim elegant hand with purple nails and several jeweled rings. She gave a tinkling laugh. “You are thinking this is not a costume for cooking or serving. You are right but America is show business, is it not? Hype and razzle-dazzle.”
“I’m sure the food is as good as the presentation,” I said.
The lamb was in large pieces and turned slowly over a spit in an alcove like a fireplace. Other pieces hung on chains.
“We burn only olive wood—it does not smoke,” she told me, then she indicated a heap of flat cakes of bread, thin enough to be sheets. “We call this petlah bread. It is unleavened, and it is thin so it serves also as a table napkin—you can wipe your mouth with it and then eat it. The poor people buy these on the streets from vendors and fill them with vegetables.”
“It’s fascinating,” I said. “You’ve done a remarkable job of reproducing the ancient styles of cooking and eating.”
“Thank you, kind sir.” She gave me a curtsy. Her eyes mocked her action but her smile was full.
“You mentioned spices. What spices do you use?”
Her expression changed, became serious.
“Yes, you are very interested in spices—no, more than that, involved even. Is it not so?”
I was debating an answer, not sure how much to tell her.
“Who are you?” she asked softly.
I handed her a card. She took it in long slender fingers and her wonderful eyes turned to me.
“You are one who tasted the Ko Feng,” she said, and her voice was as reverent as if she had referred to an audience with the Dalai Lama.
I nodded.
“Let us go over here and talk.” She led the way to a table. The restaurant was still empty. It was early for people to be eating, though the streams of visitors passing by were thickening.
We sat then she rose abruptly. “Let me get something.”
She was back with porcelain cups and a steaming brass vessel shaped like a samovar. She poured from it and set down a tray of delicious-looking cookies. “Rose-hip tea and those are almond paste—we call them sanbuniya. Now tell me about the Ko Feng.”
Her imperious tone didn’t offer me any alternative but it didn’t matter because I would have seized any opportunity to have this glorious creature hanging on my every word.
“The same ingredients too?” I asked.
“As far as possible—though that can be more difficult. The herbs and spices, for example, used in earlier days are not easy to find.”
I was unable to look anywhere but deep into those gorgeous eyes and I realized that her words were uncannily intuitive. It was as if she were reading my mind.
A voice called from nearby, petulant, demanding, but it was in a language I didn’t understand. I presumed it was addressing her but she ignored it.
“I see from your face that you know something of spices. Come inside. I will show you Phoenicia.”
She moved as gracefully as a ballet dancer but with a catlike deliberation. I was relieved to escape from her spell but I couldn’t wait to be enveloped in it again.
The kitchen where we went first was a remarkably faithful-appearing replica of the real thing. Copper caldrons stood alongside wicker baskets of fruit and vegetables. A stone mortar and pestle were near a wood-burning stove. Ayesha pointed to a stack of thick green leaves. “Those are our plates.”
In a wooden tray was cutlery—two-pronged forks and bone-handled knives. Earthenware pots and bowls could easily have been a thousand years old. Flat stones were scratched and worn. “Those are our chopping blocks,” she said musically. The walls of the adjoining restaurant area looked like the interior of a tent and the floor was at different levels, each carpeted differently in bright colors.
“We are featuring lamb today,” this exotic creature told me as she pointed a slim elegant hand with purple nails and several jeweled rings. She gave a tinkling laugh. “You are thinking this is not a costume for cooking or serving. You are right but America is show business, is it not? Hype and razzle-dazzle.”
“I’m sure the food is as good as the presentation,” I said.
The lamb was in large pieces and turned slowly over a spit in an alcove like a fireplace. Other pieces hung on chains.
“We burn only olive wood—it does not smoke,” she told me, then she indicated a heap of flat cakes of bread, thin enough to be sheets. “We call this petlah bread. It is unleavened, and it is thin so it serves also as a table napkin—you can wipe your mouth with it and then eat it. The poor people buy these on the streets from vendors and fill them with vegetables.”
“It’s fascinating,” I said. “You’ve done a remarkable job of reproducing the ancient styles of cooking and eating.”
“Thank you, kind sir.” She gave me a curtsy. Her eyes mocked her action but her smile was full.
“You mentioned spices. What spices do you use?”
Her expression changed, became serious.
“Yes, you are very interested in spices—no, more than that, involved even. Is it not so?”
I was debating an answer, not sure how much to tell her.
“Who are you?” she asked softly.
I handed her a card. She took it in long slender fingers and her wonderful eyes turned to me.
“You are one who tasted the Ko Feng,” she said, and her voice was as reverent as if she had referred to an audience with the Dalai Lama.
I nodded.
“Let us go over here and talk.” She led the way to a table. The restaurant was still empty. It was early for people to be eating, though the streams of visitors passing by were thickening.
We sat then she rose abruptly. “Let me get something.”
She was back with porcelain cups and a steaming brass vessel shaped like a samovar. She poured from it and set down a tray of delicious-looking cookies. “Rose-hip tea and those are almond paste—we call them sanbuniya. Now tell me about the Ko Feng.”
Her imperious tone didn’t offer me any alternative but it didn’t matter because I would have seized any opportunity to have this glorious creature hanging on my every word.
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