Camel on a stick

The camel meat in Lulu looked superb as the butcher took our kilo of lean red meat to be minced for koftas. Together with onion, parsley, cumin, coriander, thyme, Cayenne pepper and egg the mixture was left to rest in the fridge for a few hours until our guests arrived. At the appropriate hour, I wrapped the meat onto skewers for a short blast on the barbeque to accompany rice with pine nuts and sultanas, and a small tomato salad. In case this was not enough for everyone, Sarah rounded off the evening with a good old fashioned trifle.

So that’s covered mutton, goat and camel. What next?

Goat

The butcher in Carrefour remembered us from last week as we enquired about the Tanzanian goat on display. ‘Did madam enjoy the mutton last week?’ he enquired on the incorrect assumption that madam did the cooking as he hacked our chosen lump of goat into pieces on a band saw.

After cutting out the bones with the help of three cats, the meat was left in a low oven for three hours with red wine in accordance with a Portuguese recipe, filling the house with a delicious aroma. The rich dark gravy contrasted nicely with pomme mousseline (or runny mashed potato as I would call it with my French aunt) and some nice vegetables.

Next week, camel.

Grammar, syntax...and semantics

Saloon: a room or establishment where alcoholic drinks are served over a counter.

Salon: a shop where hairdressers and beauticians work.

It’s not mutton, it’s old lamb

After rummaging through Elizabeth David’s French Country Cooking recently, I felt the need for gigot aux flageolets. At Carrefour we discussed the apparent paucity of mutton on the shelves with the butcher. ‘This is mutton,’ he advised, pointing to the Indian lamb. ‘But it says lamb?’ ‘Yes, sir.... we call it lamb for the locals.’ I purchased the two-year-old lamb and turned it later that evening into a rather fine gigot with caper sauce and proper French Carrefour flageolets. Prince Charles would have been proud.

New shoes

The Prado was sitting in the drive at a rather unusual angle last week due to a puncture, probably caused by building site debris. This was therefore an appropriate time to replace all four tyres which I’d been putting off for a couple of months.

With usual trepidation I headed for Wadi Al Kabir to a shop recommended by a well-seasoned colleague. Unfortunately, a stack of cars piled up in front of the premises forced me to head to the area where most of the tyre shops are located. The place looked like the pit lane of a racing circuit minus the health and safety rules. At one of the shops I have frequented before, we agreed a price and the guys proceeded to whip off the wheels and set to work, slowed down only by my request to check the dates on (yes, of course all four) tyres. Further complications arose as I wanted them to scrape the tar and grit (collected last year in Salalah) off the inside of rims, before they were balanced. If looks could have killed.

Half an hour and a handful of cash later I was testing the balancing on the highway. Pretty good actually. I was a happy boy.

The Turkish House

Our former landlord and wife took us to dinner this evening to celebrate the end of our tenancy. The car park outside the Turkish House in Al Khuwayr exceeded its capacity forcing us to squeeze into a space in one of the side roads. The restaurant is located in two separate parts – one facing the main road which was full of rather dismal looking diners; the other tucked down a side road was bursting at the seams with customers from every nationality.

We found a table in the corner where we took stabs in the dark with the unfamiliar Turkish menu. The waiters brought salad starters accompanied by huge freshly-cooked breads which flopped over the ends of their baskets. Our main courses comprised mostly of chicken, although judging by the huge amount of food being served to the table behind, we should have tried the lobster and fish.

A popular, cheap and unpretentious restaurant with excellent excellent service. Damn good – a place to take visitors perhaps.