Sarit Packer - Chasing Smoke

Mustafa was waiting for us at Cairo International Airport to take us to our hotel downtown. We had thought about renting a car, but negotiating the streets of Cairo is not something any visitor should attempt, so we put our trust in Mustafa, driver and self-appointed tour guide. As we hit a three-lane road with five rows of cars squeezed door-to-door and bumper-to-bumper, a scattering of scooters and the occasional horse cart inching forward in the afternoon traffic, the air is thick with desert dust and smog, a thousand car horns and muezzins calling people to salat-al-maghrib, the evening prayer.

Deft as a dancer, brave as a bullfighter and with the faith of a poker player, Mustafa takes these roads without breaking a sweat, while we curl with terror and excitement in the back seat. We nearly scream when the car stops just shy of hitting a pedestrian, who appears out of nowhere in the packed road, but Mustafa explains that the only way to cross a road in Cairo is to go for it and hope for the best. It usually works. The car ahead of us has its boot open; two children sit with their legs dangling out and hands over their heads, keeping the lid from slamming closed. They squeal with joy and fear as if its the best rollercoaster ride ever, waving at us and making faces. As Mustafa overtakes, we try to count the number of people inside four heads in the back (but there may be more), one squashed against the glass, while in the front seat a plump man and his smiling wife cradle a child across their knees.

Buses ride with their doors open, rather than pull up to the kerb, so people can pop in and out. A guy with a vegetable truck is doing brisk trade as commuters nip out of their cars or the bus to get provisions, suddenly rushing back as the traffic starts to move. Mustafa sees this slow, hair-raising journey as an opportunity to point out the sights the Citadel and Alabaster Mosque, with the neat neighbourhood of al Arafa at their feet, the City of the Dead. Even when his knowledge is patchy, he still finds something to say: See these statues? Famous people from the past. He swerves to avoid a couple of drivers who have left their vehicles and started yelling at each other. Nothing to worry about, he says. People think the Cairenes are always shouting but this is just how we talk. It doesnt mean that theyre going to start a fight. Pretty soon the drivers start roughing each other up. Dont even worry about it, he shrugs. Its not serious until there are more than two people involved. Just as we drive by, other people leave their cars to join the mle. We are transfixed, looking through the back window till Mustafa calls, Look, you can see the tips of the pyramids! Were not sure we can, but something else has caught our attention: in the dusty, dusk half-light we are passing a street lit by neon shop signs, and the most delicious-smelling smoke wafts from the grills that line it. This is hawawshi street, Mustafa informs us. All of Cairo comes here to eat hawawshi. Are you hungry? We dont know what hawawshi is, but we are certainly hungry from our flight and hungry for a taste of this city, so Mustafa stops the car.

The street is buzzing with people. All the shops here sell the same dish, but Mustafa knows which one is best, so this is the one we go to. The grill guys are on autopilot, working at full speed. They take a big baladi flatbread, slice it open, fill it with minced meat, cheese and sliced chilli peppers, close it and grill it till the meat is cooked, the cheese melted and the bread (which has been brushed with clarified butter) is a crisp, delicious shell. These golden discs come fresh and hot from the grill, a cross between a pizza and a burger, but so much better than either. Theres a little pot of pickles and another of tahini, and we sit at a table on a side street, dipping our wedges of hawawshi, while Mustafa shows us pictures of him and his son, a giant perch they caught in the Nile, and the lemon tree in his backyard. We tell him that we want to go to Alexandria and his face lights up. Alexandria! Arouset el bahr, the bride of the sea, the mermaid, so beautiful. The food is so nice, restaurants on the beach, beautiful! You will love it! The old city is quite small so you can walk everywhere, he says, which is good, because the traffic there is really bad.

It is dark now and the streets have a different feel, quieter, less hectic. Further down the street we see a glow and smell fresh bread; its the bakery where they make the baladi bread we just ate. They are lighting the wood oven in preparation for baking all night. Mustafa says, Wanna see?

That trail of smoke is one we have been following all our lives. From Haifa and Jerusalem where we grew up, throughout our travels around the Mediterranean, it has led us to rooftops in Marrakesh, to beach shacks in Kefalonia, and to Londons Lebanese restaurants on the Edgware Road and the Turkish kebab shops on Green Lanes. We have learned that good things await us at the end of that trail: where theres smoke, there is fire, and where theres fire, there are often people and stories and something good cooking. Where theres fire, food, friendships and memories are made.

Our own fire burns at the northern end of Great Portland Street in London, in our grill house Honey & Smoke. Every morning our grill is stacked with coal and wood, then lit. Aubergines, squashes, courgettes and onions are charred for salads and sides, and all the good gossip is dished. Lamb is marinated in sage and lemon rind; octopus is braised to soft submission before it goes on the blazing coals; prawns are threaded on skewers; and the drama of our life in the kitchen plays out. Everywhere weve been, all the food weve tried on our travels, and all the people that weve met along the way all are in our restaurant. Every morning when we light up the grill, we go on another adventure.

We hope our fire sends a wisp of smoke out to the street, and that people chefs, waiters, guests follow the trail just as we do. When you get to us, we hope you find something good to eat and join us, either in the restaurant or through this book, on a sunny Middle Eastern journey.

I grew up in a very English household in the middle of a completely different culture. My parents emigrated to Israel in 1970, before I was born, and decided to make their life and raise their kids there. In some ways they remained very British. In others they embraced the Levant and its customs, most notably the weekend tradition of grilling food outside and eating with your fingers.