How to get your Persian friends worked up: ask them if they’ve seen the movie 300. “It’s atrocious! Ridiculous! Just... wrong!” Let me start from the beginning. For years my friends and I were regulars at Hossein’s Persian Kebab, a hole-in-the-wall restaurant on Makati Avenue.
A food writer had recommended the place for its reasonably priced Middle Eastern cuisine. In the mid-‘90s we would troop to Hossein’s — traffic in that area was slightly less infuriating at the time — and stuff ourselves for about P150 per person. After an excellent meal, we would ask the Iranian chef and proprietor, Mr. Hossein, for coffee. “Oh, Persian coffee is the finest on earth!” he would declare, then go into a rapturous description of the beans growing on the banks of the Tigris and the Euphrates or some other paradise.
Then we’d chorus, “Give each of us a cup of this heavenly coffee!” And he would shrug and say, “We only have instant coffee.”
Inevitably our dinner group broke up as some members were excommunicated, some changed jobs, and others moved away. I started going to another Mid-dle Eastern restaurant, where the food was cheaper, though the menu was limited. The main virtue of this other restaurant was that it apparently never closed; we would repair to it after the last full show at the cinema and have a meal for P50.
Unfortunately, as is often the case with small restaurants that do well, the proprietors developed fantasies of expansion — which, if inadequately planned, leads to a deterioration in the quality of the food, and worse, a “fine dining” upgrade. One day you turn up at your favorite dive, the one where you usually re-quest a glass of boiling water to soak your utensils in, and discover that the owner has vented his petit-bourgeois pretensions: “fancy” tablecloths, tacky decor, hideous murals and other crimes against humanity.
Listen, cheesy decor is perfectly acceptable, even required, in a greasy spoon/dive, but not in an alleged fine dining restaurant with matching prices. The so-called improvements are factored into the price of the food, but the portions shrink and it no longer tastes as good as it used to.
(Sometimes the waiters even start putting on airs. One of our favorite little restaurants suddenly sprouted red nylon curtains and — aieee! — a torch singer. When my friend complained that her pasta was overcooked, the waiter snottily replied, “You’re just not used to homemade pasta.”
My friend was incensed. My ears are still ringing; I doubt that the waiter has recovered his hearing.)
So my alternate favorite Middle Eastern restaurant went into a steady decline. The last time we set foot in it two months ago, the staff refused to acknowledge our presence. When a waitress finally deigned to approach, she responded to each of our orders by shrieking, “Ha?!?” Lassi, the yogurt drink, had vanished from the selections, and the food tasted like it had been thrown up by a cow some days earlier. I’m never going there again.
Last month we wandered into Serendra and discovered that Mr. Hossein had opened a branch there. It’s a fine dining place, so I had my doubts, which I’m happy to report were unfounded. I recognized many of the staff from the original Makati Avenue restaurant (which is still there, now spruced up) — they knew the menu forwards and backwards, and patiently answered all our questions. Of course, the dishes cost four times what they used to, and it was with a shock that I realized it’d been 13 years since I first ate at Hossein’s.
Then Mr. Hossein emerged from the kitchen and demanded to know why I hadn’t eaten in his restaurant in years. I launched into my long explanation — see above — but he waved it off and told us to sit down.
“What’s good here?” I asked.
“Everything,” he replied, as if I’d just asked an idiotic question. We started with bread and hummus, and a hot tamarind yogurt soup that cleared my head. The main course was grilled fish marinated in lemon, saffron and spices, and lamb biryani. Everything was wonderful; I ate so much I did not have room left for dessert. Me turning down dessert — a very rare occurrence, comparable to appearances of Halley’s Comet.
Despite our best efforts, my friend and I could only finish half of the fish entree, so I took the rest home in a bag, allegedly for my cats. (I had it for a midnight snack.)
Mr. Hossein kept coming to our table to ask if the food was satisfactory. I find that when I like what I’m eating, I’d rather not discuss it. However, when I am unhappy with the meal, you’ll hear from me.
Mr. Hossein and his son Sassan joined us for coffee — yes, the restaurant has acquired a fancy espresso ma-chine. We talked about Iran, recent Iranian history (Mr. Hossein arrived in Manila in the late ‘70s; he still speaks fondly of the Shah), trains, caviar, why Turkish coffee collects between your teeth and, naturally, 300.
“Do you know who Xerxes was?” our host cried, referring to the character portrayed in the movie as a bald, pierced, queeny diva nine feet high.
“He was the king who saved the Jews!” Then he reminded us of the story of Esther the Jewish girl who was taken into King Xerxes’ harem, and how she per-suaded Xerxes to spare her people from a massacre planned by his underlings. Cuisine and history — they should always go together.