I suddenly had a bunch of people I didn’t know hugging me and laughing and taking selfies.
Whatever reservations Hassani’s court had had about us, they appeared to have disappeared. Somebody put a new drink into my hand, and somebody else plopped a flower crown onto my head, a popular accessory tonight as half the crowd seemed to be wearing them. I supposed it was a nod to the ancient Egyptian practice at festivals, or maybe it was just because.
There was a lot of just because going on.
And not only with the locals. I stared around, dizzy and wondering where my food was. But before I could ask, Louis-Cesare was borne away by a troop of guys dressed in harem pants and tasseled vests.
“Wait,” I said.
The crowd did not wait.
Instead, I was borne over to a bier with a table and a pergola, with some yellow draperies fluttering overhead which were so narrow that they basically just striped the stars. Hassani was reclining on a chaise, this time in a more comfortable looking outfit of a galabeya in unbleached cotton, with a pale blue caftan over the top. His only concession to the festivities was a flower crown, which had fallen to a jaunty angle over one ear, and a goblet of something in his hand.
He waved me up and up I went, mourning my lost tray, only to find it deposited on a low table in front of our chaises before I even sat down. My mood perked up. The consul saw and laughed.
“Eat, eat,” he said with the usual generous Egyptian hospitality.
I took him up on the offer. A young vamp who looked a lot like Lantern Boy but wasn’t kept my glass filled with the local version of lemonade. It was called limoon and didn’t have any alcohol, but went really well with the spicy food.
And some of the offerings needed something to cut the heat, although not the ones on my tray. But they were only half the story, because Hassani kept urging me to also try this hors d’oeuvre and that drink from a seemingly endless stream of passing waiters. Mezze is the Egyptian version of tapas, enjoyed at cafes and dining tables all across Egypt. And Hassani’s chefs had done him proud.
So, in addition to everything on my plate, I ended up consuming pieces of fennel-marinated-feta with olives on skewers; baba ghanoush—the spicy roasted eggplant dish—with flatbread; huge dates stuffed with nuts and honey; dukka—a roasted leek spread—on tiny potato pancakes; salata baladi, a salad made from chopped tomatoes, cucumber, onion, pepper and spicy rocket; lamb and chicken kebobs with the crunchy burnt bits perfectly paired with a lime yogurt sauce; and roast pigeon stuffed with onions, tomatoes and rice.
The result was a captive audience for whatever the hell Hassani wanted to talk about, because I honestly didn’t think I could move. Like ever again. Seriously, if anyone wanted to restrain a person without the needs for cuffs, this would do it.
He eyed up my massive pile of small, empty plates with apparent approval, but then summoned a boy with coffee, served Turkish style in tiny cups that were rich and dark and syrupy sweet. I drank one anyway, because it smelled divine, and made no apologies. I was basically in a food coma by that point, and not responsible for my actions. I reclined and watched the latest group of dancers through rheumy eyes full of spice-induced tears.
They’d been there a while, shimmying and shaking and managing some pretty impressive feats of acrobatics while I ate, but I hadn’t really given them my full attention. I still didn’t, being too busy feeling grateful that I’d worn what was essentially a muumuu, rather than one of Radu’s skin tight numbers, or I’d have split the seams by now sure as hell. And then I almost did anyway, although for a different reason.
Because Louis-Cesare was one of the dancers.
I did a double take, but it was definitely him. He’d lost the top half of the tux, including the shirt, had acquired a tasseled vest, and was strutting with the locals. I looked down at my cup in concern, wondering what the hell they’d put in there. And then I was pulled up to join the festivities, which no, no, no, not right now!
Luckily, Hassani intervened, shooing off the boys and allowing me to retake my seat and just watch while they and my husband put on a show.