O happy biscuit

"You are going to have a very comfortable old age"

That, I seriously doubt. With my love of Champagne, Bouche D’affinois, chocolate truffles and many other vessels of alcohol, sugar and saturated fat, combined with my complete lack of willpower, I am probably going to spend my old age unable to move due to weight, explosive hypertension, gnawing gout and exhaustion. I wish it were true, but unless I can get a handle on my love of the finer things, or someone manages paint me a Dorian Grayesque version of Sarah Walton, I think I am doomed. As Oscar Wilde says:

"The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful."

Possibly I should hand the fortune cookie back to it's provider: Wok In, the new Asian restaurant at the Movenpick, Deira. Its future is sitting on Libra's scales even more precariously than mine. I can simply stop yielding to temptation, but the Movenpick has to weather multitudes of economic, cultural and fashionable storms and remain standing. The gift of longevity is all a new hotel asks for.



Wok in....

Is it a play on "walk in"? Or "rockin'"? When I arrived (date of the foodiva for one night only), there was an uber-funky DJ in shades spinning the decks with style. Just my kind of house - progressive, but gentle and chatter friendly. He was a spectacle in spectacles, Buddy Holly in negative and casual attire. He ignored me while I attempted to artfully photograph him on low shutter speed in the dim light. I'm far too school for cool.

Waitresses with soft corsets strapped over their conservative attire handed us Asian herb-infused alcohol bombs, which we sipped and discarded in preference for the mainstream but good quality Italian wines on offer.

My companion schmoozed. It's an art I have yet to master - I am the queen of uncomfortable silences and Freudian slips, or at least inappropriate jokes or ill-timed guffawing. Within moments, I had met the entire room, but settled on a new friend - Anu - the Indian who can't tolerate chilli, the photographer without a blog, the woman who teaches English to laborers on her days off, but hates learning languages, the food lover who can't put on weight. I love a woman of contrasts.

Soon more cocktails arrived - brightly colored, scary as witches brews but tasting like bubblegum. And then a gong was pounded to draw our attention to the bar tender who suddenly morphed into Tom Cruise and flared bottles of vodka. Literally. Not just the flipping and jiggling, but large amounts of hot, real, spewing flame. Talented, and a demonstration of Movenpick's knowledge and promotion of gifts within staff. A sign of good HR in Dubai? Rare, but possible, I suppose.

The waitresses fed us wasabi prawns and crumbed dumplings - the former great, the latter non-astounding. And when we had eaten enough for a main meal, we were told that dinner was served.

The room is perfect - that "Chinatown" feel has been captured, right down to the red and black chairs, the central circular kitchen, the chrome-framed glass doors that show passers by how many are dining inside. Sometimes it's best to stick with a classic - it's old, but not tired, non-pretentious, and I like it.

The ruckus inside was wonderful. Woks clanging, fires surging, noodles violently slapping bench tops. The chefs smiled - they knew they were the leading players, and their audience well entertained.

The BBQ beef spare ribs were divinely tender and well seasoned, and at 39 dirhams, a steal. The dumplings were good, but not superb. The Szechwan chicken sauce was very flavoursome, but the meat a little tough. Noodles a little too wet, and the fried rice a little bland. But give them time - this was their first night officially open, and I think they did very well. It was only a quiet opening, and I'm sure they will improve with time. Besides, I am the fussiest of all diners.

Dessert was OK, but again not superb. Foodiva and I decided that the only desserts we ever want to see in a restaurant like this are bowls of sweetened lychees, green tea ice-cream, or the old favorite, banana fritters. Again, the classics should not be ignored - they are classic because people have enjoyed them time and time again.

After our meal, Michael Nugent, the hotel GM, sat next to us and we talked about hotel saturation, construction, regional history and earth hour. He's really a very nice bloke, and in fact, we didn't meet a single member of staff who did not come across as friendly, content, and willing to serve.

And that's why I have confidence that Wok In is worth a return visit. The personality of the venue is one that appears flexible, warm, open minded and ambitious. I hope I'm right. Opening a hotel in a city where there are already about 68 000 hotel rooms is not without risks, especially when the political system of the middle east is combustive. So I extend my cookie - good luck to you friends, I will work on my own old-age personally...

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Mövenpick Hotel Deira Corner Abu Baker Al Siddique and Sallahudin Road - Deira, Phone:+971 4 444 0111


My tips for the Movenpick:

I see great potential for the bar, particularly if the DJ I saw remains, and I really hope there is a plan for lunch-time yum-cha!

Poetry in ocean

On the New South Wales coast, a couple of hours south of Sydney, there is a deep blue bay by the name of Jervis. On the southern arm, nestled in a crooked wrist, between the retiree-infected Vincentia, the most chilled out army base in the world, and the breathtaking Jervis Bay National Park, lies Hyams Beach. We call it Hymens beach, because it is so perfectly pure and clean, and just resting on it's fluorescent white sand (officially the whitest in the world) feels like one has broken through into an alternate reality. In our family, Hyams beach has been on a non-toppling pedestal, and though some have come within the vicinity, no beach has really come close enough to make us question this pinnacle.

Until now.

It's a secret. The coast either side is fairly straight, with the occasional large bay, invariably full of rusty hulks and fuel-seeping fishing vessels. It is without doubt a lovely coastline, but just a nice stretch of beach, that is all. Our driver, who has lived in the area all his life, can't find our destination, has to call and check on the address of "the Villa". When he takes a narrow dirt road between two high and mould-blackened walls, we're convinced he is entering private property. He bumps us past chickens and roaming calves and naked toddlers on a half-lane track, until a few minutes later, we start to see signs of tourism - a stall selling sarongs, a tiny bar, then a flash of blue to the left. Then a guest house, a surfboard rental shack, another flash of blue. Then the coconut palms thin, the track widens a few inches, and we are in the arms of Unawatuna beach.

There are several components to the perfect beach - the water, the wave, the sand, the view, the smell, the facilities, the surroundings, and of course, the vibe.

The water is almost identical to Hyams Beach. Azure and sparkling like a cut gemstone, crystal clear. It's warm. Cooler than the air, but not so cool that your toes recoil at that first touch. The wave breaks directly onto the shore, and although the surf is 1-2 foot, even a three-year-old can wade through the crash to the mellow flow behind. We float and bob as if on a waterbed, which I suppose is exactly what we are on. The current is gentle, one meter this way, one meter that. We could stay here all day floating like dried starfish, and we'd end up exactly where we started.

The sand is creamy beige, coarse, but soft. The perfect texture for construction. Leprechauns can lose themselves in fairytales and space wars of sand while adults float in idle meditation just meters away in the shoulder-deep water. The waves bring bounty from the deep and dump them behind curtains of retracting foam. Shells, coral, polished stones become jewelry for the sandy masterpieces. And the adults still float.

Between my semi-submersed toes I can see the shore, and beyond it, candy-colored guest houses that remind me of photographs I have seen of the Caribbean. The sea air has bleached them, but has not tempered their beauty. Dudes with boards wax in anticipation, and occasionally a "tinny" with an ancient off-board motor appears to take them to the reef break. Boats approach us too, glass-bottomed and manned by Sri Lankas luckiest workers. They peddle visions of the deep and snorkeling equipment. $10 for an hour of underwater glory? Sounds like a good deal to me.

The boys leave me to hunt treasure beneath the waves, and I continue to float. The land hugs the bay in a loose arc, and I feel protected. The sun finally pushes me back to land, and I find refuge between the coconut palms and a kaftan hut. Here, in my wonderous solitude, I find hunger. I am positioned at a midpoint between grilled prawns and frying curry leaves. They are tearing me in two directions, and yet I have to wait for my family. I watch the beach break as I would count sheep, and eventually my brain gains control of my stomach. I wait.

It is from a half-sleep that I glimpse Lion racing towards me. Smiles all round, the boat was a great success. They too are caught quickly by the aroma of lunch, and we vamoose in the direction of the curry leaves.

Lunch is typical SW Sri Lankan fare. Mainly vegetables, hundreds of bowls, coconut, curry leaves, garlic, lemon, mustard, cumin, dried fish, all intoxicating in their own right, but so thickly laid with chilli, cold lager is also required. Theblasphemous kids eat pizza and slurp chocolate milk. It is the best food so far at a Sri Lankan restaurant. Even Mary and the driver are impressed.

We sit as long as we can, dodging requests for beach or home with extra orders of ice-cream or turns with the iPad. The staff tickle goldilocks and chase him around the garden while we order more beer and stare through the ornate iron railings and over the blue. Occasionally we sigh happily. Then we realise that the last time we felt like this was at Hyams beach. The sand is not as white, but the water is warmer. The trees are not as tall, but they are just as thickly planted. The architecture is not as modern, as sympathetic to the landscape, but the contrast it provides is welcome. The food is better. The people are more chilled. The vibe is definitely supreme. And finally, we could actually afford to buy here. Now there's a thought....

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Unawatuna is about a 2 1/2 hour drive from Colombo airport, and the first village after Galle. There are two parts to Unawatuna - the village and "Unawatuna Beach", which rests on a small peninsular, and has a particularly secret access! If we were staying again, we would definitely stay here rather than Hikkaduwa, but it is quieter - so it really depends on the kind of holiday you are aiming for. We ate at the Villa, and saw the rooms there too - they are charming, clean and spacious, with lovely bathrooms. The Villa is next-door to Thaproban, which gets a pretty good rap too. All accommodation is in small guest houses, and pools are rare. There are basic shops and facilities in Unawatuna, plenty of (small) restaurants, cafes and bars. It would be easy to plonk here and not move for weeks.

Putontha Puttanesca

When I was living in Melbourne, I used to get acupuncture once a fortnight after work. I would look forward to this day for thirteen days before it - not because I was going to get stuck with needles, sucked with cups and given a revolting tea decoction by Marina, but because Simon Johnson Fine Foods was underneath her parlour of mini-pain. After every session, I would buy a 560g jar of his Puttanesca sauce, and bring it home to make the easiest dinner ever - boil and drain pasta, add jar, chilli and one tin of drained tuna, stir and heat, and serve with stacks of piquant pecorino. And despite being the least difficult of all meals to prepare, it was always the household favourite, even when young Lion came along (minus the chilli).

In Dubai, I have not found the equivalent. Sacla have a lovely arrabbiata, and Jamie Oliver's rosemary sauce is not bad, but there is nothing that even comes close to Simon Johnson's Puttanesca. But it's no big deal, because it is fairly easy to make. Leave the tuna out if you like - traditionally, Puttanesca sauce does not contain it, but if you do, it's best to keep the anchovies in for that touch of salty/fishy goodness.

Ingredients:

• 1 onion, diced
• 3 garlic cloves, crushed
• 1 jar of passata (crushed tomatoes, about 400g)
• 1 tin of tuna, drained (about 220g - optional)
• 1/3 cup chopped pimento olives
• 1tbsp chopped capers
• 2 anchovies, finely chopped (optional)
• 1tbsp tomato paste
• 1tsp sugar
• 1/2 tsp dried thyme
• salt, pepper and chilli powder to taste

• penne, or any pasta - about 300g

Instructions:

1. Put water on to boil, adding pasta when boiling.
2. soften onions and garlic in a pan over medium heat, then add all ingredients except tuna. simmer until pasta is cooked.
3. When pasta is cooked, drain, then add tuna and pasta to the puttanesca base and stir through. Serve with grated pecorino or parmesan

Serves two people with leftovers for lunch, or 4 people as an entree. The sauce freezes very well, so you could easily double quantities and keep some for later. You can use tinned or fresh tomatoes instead of the passata, but fresh tomatoes should be given extra time to simmer down, especially if you do not peel them. The other alternative is to simply add olives, capers, chilli and tuna to a basic tomato pasta sauce - just cook in the pan for 3-4 minutes to help the flavours merge nicely. 

A drink, a drink, a drink, a drink, a drink.....

Excerpt from the Qur'an:

"Shaitân (Satan) wants only to excite enmity and hatred between you with intoxicants (alcoholic drinks) and gambling, and hinder you from the remembrance of Allâh (God) and from As-Salât (the prayer). So, will you not then abstain?"

I live in a region of alcohol avoiders. It's not surprising - it is a Muslim state, after all. In fact, I count myself lucky that I am allowed a drink at all - in Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Gaza, and even just 20km away in Sharjah, alcohol is prohibited completely (but it's amazing what some people can do with some peaches, a bucket and some aquarium equipment...) When my husband first suggested the UAE as an expat stint, my first question may well have been: "Will I have to give up the booze?" Because I am not a Muslim, and the God I talk to is not telling me to abandon that tempting elixir. Thankfully, Dubai is kind to the pro-alcohol people of this world, and I am allowed to drink in most hotels, clubs, and my own home.

In Australia, drinking is part of social culture. It is rare to have a picnic, dinner, night out on the town, casual barbeque, or even a baby shower, without a little tipple. Some events require a big tipple. The use of alcohol is so ingrained in us that we have got to the stage where a non-drinker is not to be trusted. They are generally perverts, religious extremists (mainly Christian, because Australia is still very vanilla) or are pure to a scary level that might one day involve them personally taking on the endeavour to wash the world clean of its filth.


Here in the UAE, I find I meet just as many non-drinkers as drinkers, and surprisingly, most of them are pretty much ok. It's got to the stage, however that we tend to have two distinctive groups of friends, and never the twain shall meet.

It's been a giant cultural leap for an Australian. All of a sudden, I have had to find other forms of entertainment at picnics, and different ingredients for my Dutch Courage. I was introduced to this during pregnancy, but quickly discovered that all the drinkers were very boring when I wasn't joining them, and I always wanted to go home. As you could imagine, I resumed my liquid hobby upon cessation of lactation. Amazingly, parties became fun again. Here, it's easier. When people have lived entire lives without alcohol, they find other ways to have fun, and I am grateful they are sharing the secrets. Also, I find that in contrast to being the solely sober while pregnant at parties, here, where everyone is sober, the conversation is far more sensible, and just as often as exhilarating as when it is injected with liquor.

After a while of living here, I had begun to lable all people as non-drinkers until they proved themselves otherwise (except for the Australians of course, and the Brits, who are even worse than us). So when someone I had assumed was a teetotaler asked me to do a structured wine tasting at her home, I jumped for joy. Not only was she a rare and treasured drinker, but she also had a love of fine wine! A comrade of the finest sort! I have not run a wine session for over three years, and it had me singing a happy tune for a week in the lead-up.

Wine tastings with friends are an excellent way to brush up on your wine knowledge, even without a resident expert. Just the action of trying several similar tastes alongside each other trains your palate into looking for more narrow and particular traits, and is a quick step towards becoming a wine geek.

We had a look at Chardonnay and Pinot noir, the two great grapes of Burgundy. Prohibitavely expensive to buy for private consumption, this is the perfect way to try - one bottle shared between several. Now Burgundy is savory and somewhat stinky stuff to the uninitiated, and so I wanted to throw in a couple of fragrant cheapies and some new world wines for comparison.

But the I was faced with a problem. Selecting wine in Dubai is simply despairing.

Firstly, it's at least twice as expensive to buy. Dubai's wholesalers bring in wines from all over the world. Some, they double the price of. Some they triple. Some they simply invent an astronomical price for. Then they add 30% tax at the checkout. Alcohol is so expensive here that they won't allow everyone a license to buy it (that's right - in other countries you need a licence to sell alcohol - here, you need a license to purchase from a wine store). You have to earn over a certain amount (4000aed a month from memory) before you can get one, you must not be Muslim, and you must also have a letter of acceptance from your employer.

This has several results:

1. Some people drink less, or not at all.
2. Some people spend too much on alcohol
3. Some people become involved in illegal bootlegging (which has a reputation of gang leaders constantly murdering each other in the most brutal ways you can imagine)
4. Some people do the "booze run" to the worst-kept-secret tax-free liquor stores in Umm al Quwain or RAK such as Barracuda, or Al Hamra, which involves a passage back through the dry state of Sharjah, where of course it is forbidden to posses alcohol. This has resulted in all kinds of road shenanigans, where it is said a local will hit your car on purpose, then blackmail you into handing over insane wads of cash before they call the police (as one must for all road accidents in the UAE). This does have the dubious characteristic of all urban legends though - "I know someone who knew someone who....."

I fall into category two. I have been told that Barracuda has an incredible range of wine - much better than we find here in Dubai, but to my chagrin, my lawyer husband refuses to allow me to go - the return is, after all illegal, as there is no way to avoid Sharjah unless you travel by air.

Secondly, the selection is despairingly narrow and mainstream. Back in Melbourne I could have a different wine every night and still never run out of fantastic options. Here, we constantly drink the same stuff - it's doing hideous damage to my palate memory. After much deliberation and several wine shops, my wine friend and I finally came up with the following list.

Chardonnay:
Finca Flichman, Reserva Chardonnay, Mendoza Argentina 2008
Maison Louis Latour, Macon-Villages Chameroy, France 2009
Bouchard Pere et Fils, Meursault, Cote D’or France 2007

Pinot Noir:
De Bortoli, Windy Peak Pinot Noir, Victoria, Australia 2008
Jean Claude Boisset, Les Ursulines, Burgundy France 2009
Joseph Drouhin, Chassagne-Montrachet, Burgundy, France 200

And then to confuse them, a Gamay from the Beaujolais region:
Joseph Drouhin, Moulin A Vent Burgundy, France 2007

We had an enlightening night - all 9 of us were so wrapped up in the wine talk, that we missed our dinner reservation by over an hour. All the wines were very good, with the shining stars being the Macon-Villages, and the De Bortoli Pinot.  By the time we got to my tricky one, they were all so entrenched and doing such a good job, they picked the differences without knowing exactly what they were putting their finger on. The wine was really such a great example of what a serious Beaujolais can be, that they were all suitably impressed with the unveiling.

What fun. Can't wait for the next one...

Sheilas in shelas and impressions on oppression

Australian Sheila in dress-ups

In Australia, "Sheila" is a term for a woman. It's fairly archaic now - generally only used by rusty old bogans from the outback, and rarely comes without the obligatory sexist smack on the bottom and a demand for a "frosty one from the icebox" (beer from the fridge). In the Middle East, a sheila is a head covering, pronounced with an "ay" vowel sound rather than "ee", and also spelled shaila, shela and shayla. You will see plenty of "Sheelas" in Australia, but "shaylas" are few and far between.

In countries like Australia, France and the USA, any dress that covers more than what they deem “normal” is seen by some as a form of cruelty or domination. The first thing most Australians would think upon seeing a woman in traditional Arabic dress is "she's from a different world", followed by "that poor thing, her husband/father makes her dress like that" and "she must have a terrible life." And it's little surprise. Australia's Muslim minority only takes up about 1.5% of the total population, and many have assimilated to the point where conservative dress has been abandoned. The only time we see any traditional arabic dress is on TV, when we see Iraqi women wailing with grief over their son's bloodied bodies, or rows of Taliban-governed Afghan women in blue burqas with only a gauze for vision. Of course we associate it with misery and oppression.

Afghan burqa

Just before I moved to Dubai, I had even been asked by some Australians if I would be forced to wear a burqa once I got here (these were not the brightest sparks in my peer group). In France, they banned the burqa (I'm still deciding how I feel about this).

When I first arrived in Dubai, I had never been to any part of the middle east. I remember the first trip to the Mall of the Emirates with my son Lion (then four years old), and he actually screamed when he saw a woman coming towards him in an abaya and a niqab - he thought she was a ghost. Only last night, I heard a full-grown man describe a beautiful, fragile woman in an abaya and hijab as "Darth Vader". And I, after three years of living surrounded by traditional dress, have only just started to look women in the eye if they wear a niqab - I suppose I had subconsciously assumed that because she covered so much, she did not want to be looked at. It does take getting used to. The abaya I love, but the fact that a woman will willingly cover her entire face is still alien to me - I would feel like I couldn't breathe or talk properly. The cloth on it's own would be a burdon, whether I was forced to wear it or not.

Lion (now 7) has finally become accostomed to the appearance, and Goldilocks (4) has always been accustomed - in fact, when I got Lion to take the photo of me above, Goldilocks was dancing around alongside declaring "Mummy Bootiful!"

So, for all my western readers, after hearing a little about it at the culural breakfast, I had an informal chat with an Emirati, a Saudi, and a crossed-culture muslim about this ever-so-oppressive dress. (I'm going to call them Cheryl, Barbara and Nolene respectively, because then you'll know they are not their real names)

Abaya with hijab (or shela)

Surprise, surprise, it turns out they have a choice.

Cheryl wears an abaya (black, ground-length cloak, slightly tapered but not tight, closed at the front), and a hijab, or sheila (headscarf). When I visited her at home, she wore none of those things, and although she is very beautiful, I must say, the grace and stature she possesses when in traditional dress is lost. Cheryl wears the abaya because it is absolutely normal for her to do so, and only a small percentage of Emirati women don’t wear it at least most of the time. She says it is much like Indian women wear a saree or shalwr kameezes, and if she didn't wear it, she would position herself as a minority within her peer group. It is traditional dress as distinct from required by religion (it was around well before Islam, and worn by Jews and Christians before Muslims), and she never wears it while abroad (although some do).

Cheryl argues that contrary to feeling oppressed by it, that this form of attire opens doors for her. The treatment she receives at banks, airports and government offices is alone worth dressing up for. Cheryl has a choice of the style - for example, she chooses not to wear a niqab, and her abaya and hijab are adorned. There are many different shapes and styles to the abaya and the head covering, and it is easy to express one's individuality despite the fact they are all in head-to-toe black (One day soon we are going to go out spotting the abaya-wearing "tarts" and "geeks" and “bohos” over coffee). One day I saw her dressed for a wedding, and although out, she was not wearing the hijab, and had fuchsia detail on the collar and creeping down the front. Her height and the liquid nature of that adorned and billowy cloak made her set for the catwalk – I wasn’t the only one admiring her. Cheryl believes the burqa is considered quite old fashioned, and the niqab stereotypes the wearer as conservative, even by her.

UAE Traditional burqa

Her other reason for wearing traditional dress is that she feels elegant, and it's true - she, and other Emirati women who dress like her, look like they are going to a ball. It's probably the same reason that the traditional dress looks so funny when worn by women while exercising - to me it appears like they're jogging in haute couture.

Barbara wears western dress. And although I have never seen her in a tank top and short shorts, I would not even call it particularly conservative. In Jeddah, she wears an abaya and hijab, partially because she must, but again, because she does not want to stand out. In Saudi Arabia, quite distinct from the UAE, where adaptation of traditional dress by westerners is discouraged, all women are required to cover everything except for their faces and hands. Probably because she grew up with it, she does not feel oppressed by it, but she never, ever wears traditional dress out of Saudi Arabia. She recalled stories of her youth of bathing in shorts and t-shirts on the sun-drenched Jeddah foreshore, but she's not so sure if that would be tolerated now – the religious police are finding more power every day. She used to enjoy the freedom of wearing an abaya, and because it covered everything underneath, she could do the shopping in her pyjamas.

Niqab

Noelene dresses in conservative western dress and wears only a sheila. It is almost part of her skin, and I have only once seen her without it. She wears it because her faith dictates it, and she is very happy with her chosen faith. In fact, she is the only one that mentioned Islam when explaining why she wears the sheila. And after all, the Quran only suggests modest dress and the covering of the bosom, not a full-body sheath. She sees no problem with her chosen form of modesty, enjoys it, and treats it like an accessory, different colours, textures, ornamentation.

All women said that contrary to belief that their fathers or husbands made them go "behind the veil" so to speak, they make their own decisions on this. So these women are far from oppressed, but this is not an area ruled by religious police or the Taliban. And so I would suggest that the women subjected to the rules in countries such as these are not oppressed by their religion, but by men, probably the same kind of men that are happy to dominate people in any other way they can find, not with just attire, but freedom in all its forms. I have never been to a country under this kind of rule, and despite a fairly open mind, I doubt I ever will.

Also, I would argue that although the women say they don't feel forced to wear this form of dress (except for Barbara when she is in Saudi Arabia), their community or peers make quite strong demands upon them. If any were to buck against this trend, would they (particularly Cheryl) label themselves as revolutionary, or in the least, a controversial drama queen?

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for those who would like a rundown on the names an types of traditional Arabic dress, go here.

The un-french cafe and the preposterously good eclair

This is what I picture when I imagine a Paris cafe.

I've never really liked the term "soft opening" when referring to the commencement of a business. It's a term restaurants and hotels like to use to describe that they have in fact opened, but have not had a big party to celebrate it yet. It is followed eventually by an "official opening", which should, by comparison, be called a "hard opening". But the fact is, the "soft opening" is the "hard opening", because that's the time when nothing works, all the staff make mistakes, the recipes turn out to be unloved by the clientelle, and if they're not busy upsetting customers, then the staff sit idle waiting for them, just hoping for a little more practice.

This is Dubai's version of a Paris Cafe

Last night I went to a new cafe that I have been walking past for at least two months. No soft opening, no official opening, but open, nonetheless.

Fauchon is a Parisian Cafe. The Fauchon in Paris is a gourmet grocery store with a bakery and delicatessen attached on Place de Madelaine in the 8th arrondissment, equidistant from the Champs Elysees, Opera and Printemps (yes, fancy pants area).

As with the term above, nothing is what it seems. Firstly, it's not a cafe, and secondly, it's not what I would describe as "very french". But maybe that's just me. When I call up memories of France, I don't think of Louis Vuitton, Chanel and YSL. Sure, they are French, but to me, France is all about croissants flaking into my cafe au lait, tiny tomatoes and radishes at stunning markets, toy boats in the pond at the Luxembourg gardens, skinny women with pretty dogs and bouffant hair, obscurely labeled Champagne in the afternoon on a picnic rug, degustation at wineries with flirty winemakers, and romantic art and architecture everywhere you look. When I recall Paris, I don't think of Philipino waitresses in a mall, in a shiny geometric black, white and pink pleasure cube that to me looks like it should be a nightclub.

Saying that, Fauchon Dubai is similar to the Paris model (the YSL of Parisian cafes), and well worth a visit. Do you remember my last post, when I was talking about the next big fashion in food? I thought maybe it could be turkish delight. But I was wrong - it's going to be eclairs. And Fauchon have the most preposterously good caramel eclair I have ever sunk my teeth into. This alone is worth a daily trip. It is so good, I would even walk there daily in summer to have one. They served it last night in mini-form. It is a choux pastry finger, piped full of caramel cream, and topped with chocolate, flecks of crunchy caramel toffee, and gold leaf. I'm going absolutely mad just sitting here describing it, so I might just have to take a moment.....

The chef had erected a piece montee in the back corner of all these mini-eclairs. Possibly he has the same notion that I do - that the eclair has fashion promise, and prepared the correct way, it may even take off wedding-cake style as macaroons have. but I realised something while looking at this odd construction that appeared to be made of baby eggplants, carrots and zucchini. They need to be round. Not only that, they need to be obsene colours - hues far less vegetative. Chef, if you are reading, please let me know if you ever decide to make a piece montee of strawberry, vanilla and caramel round eclairs - now that would be a photo. But I would probably demolish it double-time.

The odd presentation continued. Scallops came macerated in inverted syringes. House-cured salmon came lolly-pop style on sticks of grissini, and I picked up one of these lovely-looking chocolate lollipops, and had already popped the entire lot in my mouth as my companion's answer to "what is it?" came out of the waitress's mouth: "liver goose". Little shock, I must say. Luckily I like "liver goose", but prefer it infinitely when it is called paté. If she had said it in a French accent I would have liked it even more.

Like the Paris version, there is a shop attached in Dubai (Mall of the Emirates), and you can find all kinds of treats that are as pretty as a picture and priced accordingly - the kind of thing some tend to look at more than eat. There is an excellent selection of tea that is purchased by the scoop, a rarity for Dubai. The patisserie is sublime. Here, they emulate the french perfectly - each piece of pastry is une œuvre d' art - exact, too good to be true, and a shame to destroy by the act of consumption. The chocolate is likewise exceptional, and tastes as good as it looks. And of course the packaging is worth the price alone - the macaroon tins are destined to house jewelry, tea or buttons in their subsequent lives, and possibly turn up in the year 2150 on ebay for a small fortune.   


The verdict? Go. Don't expect it to be a french - you are in Dubai, after all - the antithesis of Paris. And don't expect it to be a cafe, because it is more than that. But you can expect it to be worth the trip, especially if you find a caramel eclair to put in your "soft opening" (I mean your mouth...)

Pretty Sweet Things

There's just something wonderful about a gorgeous thin woman stuffing her face with something extravagant. It's damn sexy. Even for me - despite the lack of lesbian tendancies. But rest assured, I'm lusting after the cupcake, not the woman. 

I find it quite amusing watching food go in and out of fashion, and at the moment, baking is king, with a strong leaning towards flamboyantly decorated cupcakes and multi-colored macaroons. I have come across a few youngsters in our UAE food blogging group - and they're not interested in the slightest in boring things like dinner. They concentrate almost entirely on desserts. 

 

If that's not enough, just ask Bebhinn, our favourite UAE fashion blogger at hellwafashion.com - she's talking about it too. Unlike Bebhinn, I don't pretend for a moment to have any idea what is going on with clothing (my style disappeared with the ability to buy size 8 when I was 25 years old), but food is something I manage to keep my finger - or tongue - on the pulse of. So what's the big thing about sugar?

I put it all down to our natural human trait that is at it's peak between adolescence and our late twenties - the need to rebel. Generation Y, who are just now handing fashion mantles to generation Z, have been raised in an era of nutrient knowledge. Their parents outlawed the white bread jam sandwich that was the staple snack of Gen X, and instead were raised on celery and peanut butter, wholemeal salad sandwiches and granola bars for the sweet carbohydrate hit. Gen Z got all that, plus organic, minus the nuts. And then the world got type 2 diabetes - only the Gen Xs and older of course. So instead of sex, drugs and rock and roll, how do the Generation Y/Zs rebel? With sugar.

And that is why we see tiny fashionistas on screen "oohing" and "ahhing" over Magnolia cupcakes in Sex and The City, and why we see Gossip Girls and fashion bloggers like hellwafashion lauding The macaroon (or macaron for the slightly more francais). It's not because they are the best tasting things in the world (for we all know that title is reserved for cannoli, mangoes and Parmesan-encrusted lamb cutlets), but because they directly rebel against all messages of cholesterol, diabetes and empty calories, and a particularly tiny woman can pick them up in her pretty manicured hands and look like Alice in Wonderland with a naughty fetish.

The funny thing is that women like this don't really eat food like that - not more than once a year. Unless... they portion off a twentieth of it and accidentally drop the rest on the ground, they have a rare metabolic disorder (which usually co-insides with psychotic bitchiness - fact - Google "hyperthyroidism"), or if they barf the lot up the second nobody's looking. But please let us continue to allow them to pose for the camera shot, because a woman like Oprah Whinfrey might make me cry for orphans, but she's not going to sell me a macaroon.

So, what's next for food fashion? Well, I think there are certain characteristics that need to be fulfilled, and they are:

• it has to be just that little bit too hard to make perfectly, so that thin girls can buy them, and fat girls can show off because they can make them as beautifully in the shops.
• It has to have a romantic or fairytale past (e.g. cupcakes and 4-year old birthday parties for little girls, or elegant french ladies with fluffy hand-bag dogs nibbling on macaroons in Parisian cafes)
• They have to come in pretty girly colours, preferably pastels
• They must be able to be packaged adorably for gift-giving
• They have to have no nutritional value and be sweet, sweet, sweet.

And the last two characteristics are desirable but not necessary: they should be bite sized, and exotic.

 

So, have you realised where I'm heading? Think about The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. What did Edmund ask for when the Ice Queen offered him anything in the world that he could wish for? It came in a beautiful little box, and he couldn't stop eating it. The promise of more was alone enough to entice him into delivering his siblings into her evil clutches....

Turkish Delight. It's flavoured with flowers, or not, if the rose is too unusual for you. I've found it in orange blossom, mint, lemon, apricot, vanilla and even violet, with or without nuts. And I'd pretty much die for the stuff. The best examples I have found are at Vivel Patisserie, who are all over Dubai, and if you don't mind big chunks and less variety (strictly rose or vanilla), then believe it or not, Hyperpanda at Festival City is about as good as it gets, and a quarter the price of Vivel.

 

For those who are not food-fashion-forward, you can stick with the cupcake - either go western with the New York Magnolia Bakery at Bloomingdales, or Sugar Daddy's if you like to keep it regional. Both are pretty spectacular, but seriously, it's just a lump of cake with a stack of creamy frosting on top. Macaroons are a little trickier to get perfect, and Ladurée have the reputation for being the best, but are closely rivaled by Fauchon, and Vivel also make some decent ones (but just not quite up there with the others). You'll find all of the above in the Dubai Mall (and other places for some), except Sugar Daddy's, who are at the Jumeirah Village Mall on Beach Rd.

The good, the bad and the eggly

It's Friday morning. I've been in Dubai long enough now that I don't accidentally call it Saturday any more. To my right is the aroma of fresh cut herbs and earthy vine ripened tomatoes. To my right, the alluring nutty aroma of artisinal bread. I can't stop myself from running my fingertips across the tops of outstanding and upstanding chives - a welcome change to the droopy, supermarket-refrigerated version. And I am staring at the Holy Grail. The highly sought after and seldom found, local free range egg. It's hard not to break into song.

I'm at the "farmers market", a weekly affair organized by and held next to Baker and Spice at Souk al Bahar. It's small - only a few stalls - a far cry from the whole-oval affair at the St Kilda Peanut Farm back in Melbourne. The buskers, the chai brewer and the gourmet hotdog man are missing - but it is, nonetheless, an excellent attempt to help Dubians to understand the possibilities of the region, and give them the ability to purchase food that has a carbon footprint smaller than the shadow of a blue whale.

The peppers are the first to grab my attention - a visual smorgasbord of waxy colour - red, green, purple and orange, and some finger-chillies that pop like fire crackers - all 5 dirhams a packet, very good value. The scent of the tomatoes transports me to Granny's back yard in West Rosebud, and I buy them by the bucketload with swathes of purple basil and a thought of combining them with something magical and goaty from the Galeries Lafayette cheese-room. The cauliflowers are grapefruit sized and pink tinged, and I recall a Suzanne Husseini recipe for fritters I have been meaning to try out.... "two please".

I linger at the central stall and speak with the happy honey-man. He sells three varieties - different flowers, flavors and prices, all helpful in building immunity and defending against allergies to local pollens, because they are, of course, local. I buy the middle one - not for the health benefits, but because I suspect the deep brown goo might just be ambrosia. He also sells fresh labne in re-fillable bottles.

The stall holders are talkative, which is lucky - everyone has questions: Organic? Location of the farm? Irrigation techniques? Home delivery? The answers vary from stall to stall, but there is one constant - Everybody here loves fresh food.

Just like back in Melbourne, a morning's shop can be rewarded with a cooked breakfast nearby, and we follow our noses to the coffee at Baker and Spice, hoping they will do a better job at the machine than the effort we received at Dean and Deluca next-door a few weeks back.... Unfortunately not. A sole barista toils at the $20,000 machine turning out expensive but average slop at about 2 coffees a minute - not appropriate for a restaurant with over 100 patrons. As is common for the region, although we ordered them first, our coffees arrive after our food. It's not the coffee-maker's fault - poor systems and training again turn what should be easy into unhappy labour. The waiters also have a bizarre pecking order which keeps four very busy and the others simply looking busy. I think I need to start consulting in restaurant service techniques - it's a debacle, but a calamity that is far from rare in this town.

The breakfast however is superb. My husband and I shared a local egg dish (meant for two), which came with deliciously crunchy bread. It's an oven-baked concoction of rich and spicy chunky tomato sauce, with the eggs baked into it. We nearly licked the pan. The kids' hot chocolate was Mexican style, thick and intense - requiring extra milk for them, much to my horror at the adulteration of something so wonderful.

So - home with my pretty peppers and splendid assortment to make my own recipe for ratatouille, Suzanne Husseini's cauliflower fritters and to imitate Baker and Spice's superb egg dish. Happy days...

The farmers market runs every Friday from 10am. There was still plenty of good produce available at midday. I'm not sure what tha plan is when it warms up in a month or two - hopefully it will move inside. There is easy covered parking at souk al Bahar, entry next to the Palace Hotel.

You can find the recipe for my Ratatouille here

Twisted Ratatouille

With multi-hued farm-fresh capsicums as my inspiration, I set off to make one of my all-time comfort foods, ratatouille. Now, there are a million recipes out there for ratatouille, and probably 90% of them would offend the historically correct die-hard ratatouillans, but general consencus is that it has to be a tomato based dish with onions and garlic, herbes de Provence, and vegetables such as courgette and aubergine. 


So you will all be shocked to find that my recipe below does not contain aubergine. It's not because I dislike aubergine, but because I find the recipe far easier to make, more flexible in its use, and more delicate in flavour without it. I also have a couple of illicit ingredients that I think make my ratatouille better than everyone elses (no false modesty around here).

Ingredients:

• 2-3 cups coarsely chopped zucchini (courgette) 
• 2-3 cups of coarsely chopped capsicum (red, green and in my case, purple pepper)
• 2 medium purple onions, coarsely chopped
• 3 cloves of garlic, crushed
• 1 chilli - finely chopped.
• 1 medium jar tomato passata (or tin of crushed tomatoes)
• 2 fresh tomatoes - coarsely chopped
• 1 tbsp tomato paste (concentrate)
• 1 tsp dried marjoram
• 1 tsp dried rosemary
• 1 tsp dried thyme
• 1 tsp black cumin seeds (or 1/2 tsp cumin powder is a mediocre substitute)
• salt and pepper to taste

• And the secret ingredient: 1 big glug of sparkling date juice (or if you don't have this magical stuff which is very specific to this region, white wine + 1 tbsp sugar)

Instructions:

1. Pan-fry onion, garlic and cumin seeds on medium-high until soft, then throw in the date juice to deglaze the pan. 
2. Add the rest of the ingredients and bring to the simmer
3. turn the heat down, cover and simmer gently for about 20 to 30 minutes, or until the peppers are firm, but soft to bite. 

Don't overcook, because it will turn to mush and lose colour. I use ratatouille as a side dish, a sauce, a bruschetta topping, a relish and a recipe base. You could also add 1 liter of chicken stock and some extra salt, puree half, add it back in and make a soup - I make it up in the bucket-load and freeze it in small tubs, then bring it out as I need it later. The quantities listed here however will make enough for four as a side dish/topping.

Chicken and Herb Salad

The problem with living life as a hedonista is that you tend to get fat - all of that overindulgence eventually catches up with you. I have a friend who refuses to let that get him down - he laughs and pops another cholesterol pill with his saucisson, and says that life would be meaningless without good food. I however, also take pleasure from wearing beautiful clothes, and at the moment, all I fit into is tents from Carrefour.

So. Diet. But what diet for a hedonista? The Atken's Diet of course. Well, maybe an abridged one - I simply avoid all starches (rather than all carbohydrates including sugars) every second day, and amazingly, it works. When things get really bad, I have to go weeks on end without starch, but that has a particularly cranky side effect. 

Here is my favourite healthyish dish. You can substitute the herbs for your favourites, you can decide the quantity of the creamy dressing you use, you can make it with or without chicken or egg. You can add carrot, capsicum, avocado, toasted almonds, pomegranate seeds. The basic thing to remember is to use crunchy lettuce like iceberg or cos, otherwise the dressing turns the salad to soup.

Ingredients:

• cos lettuce - half a smallish one, chopped coarsely
• purple cabbage (raw) - 1 cup, chopped finer than the lettuce
• chives - 1/4 cup, chopped coarsely
• mint - 1/4 cup, chopped coarsely
• avocado - firmish one - diced
• chicken - 1 breast fillet pan-fried, cooled and diced (season with salt and pepper before cooking)
• 2 tbsp light mayonnaise
• 2 tbsp light yoghurt
• 1 tsp Dijon mustard
• 1tsp olive oil
• squeeze of lemon
• salt and pepper

Instructions

1. put the last six ingredients in a bowl and mix. If you like a loose dressing or if you are more committed to losing weight, you can halve the ingredients and water down slightly
2. put other ingredients in a big bowl
3. drizzle with dressing and mix. 

If you are not on a diet, this is fantastic served with whopping great garlic crostini. (baguette sliced on a severe diagonal, buttered and oven baked, then rubbed with a cut garlic clove while still hot). Serves two as a main meal or four as a side dish.

Can you please offend me politely?

I love a rant.

All bloggers do. In fact, it's quite possible that over half what I read on blogs is a rant of some form. I don't want to read about kittens and sailboats - it's just plain boring. We love to complain, but why do we do it in such a public way? And why do our readers enjoy it? And how far is too far? There have been a couple of posts recently that have sparked something in me, and made me reflect on my own writing, and my experience with criticism.



One is Mark's at twofortyeightam on Benihana Kuwait. Mark is a very popular blogger in Kuwait, and he reviewed a restaurant with a thumbs down. Although it's not completely scathing, it definitely doesn't make you want to eat there. But he's a just a blogger.... I mean bloggers write this kind of stuff all the time, don't they? I'm guilty of it, and got my carving knife stuck into both Verre and Stay recently. But Benihana Kuwait decided to sue him. The funny thing is, nobody else really took a much notice of the post until it became famous through Benihana's retiliatory action. Most restaurants would contact the blogger, ask him to come back and try again in the hope they would be able to get him to remove his ugly post and pop up something a little less harsh. But Benihana Kuwait felt so strongly about it, they are taking him to court. What pushed them over the line?

The second is a Vanity Fair post in the Culture Section. It's written by A A Gill, who has a bit of a reputation for scandalous ranting, and a history of upsetting people so much they tend to take him to court quite a bit. And after reading his wikipedia bio, for the sake of baboons all over the world, I'm going to try as hard as I can to avoid his work for the rest of my life. This particular article is called Dubai on Empty, and it attacks almost every side of Dubai - the weather, the culture, the architecture, the population, the financials, the events and the style. And as a lover of Dubai it got me pretty miffed. So why does this particular post get me so annoyed?

A few years back, my husband had a friend called Adrian Leicestershire (not his real name). Adrian was a very witty bloke - he's probably a bit like A A Gill. He was also the unheralded Earl of St Kilda, and for a time, it seemed that whenever we were out in the area, he would turn up at our table with a glass of red in hand, and impart some topical quip or tale that would have us amused by his intelligence or laughing at his perspective... But he was quite opinionated, and several times, he discomposed a friend or two of mine. I didn't realise what a complete arse he was until he attacked me one day. He had been married to a winemaker (now divorced), and had gone on to say that - despite the fact that his expertise was in finance - he taught her everything she knows, and that without male guidance, women would get nowhere in the wine industry, "because physically they were incapable of consistantly telling a good wine from a bad." Now I had just studied wine for 4 years, so as you can imagine, I was a tad upset. The conversation bloomed like a mushroom cloud, and unfortunately I lost all composure and had to leave the wine dinner wailing like a big hormonal baby. We are no longer in contact with Adrian.

So. Offense. Is it funny? What is the difference between a harmless rant and genuine offense?

As for the first blog post (Mark and Benihana), I think this is a harmless rant - well, not entirely harmless, I must admit.  But the greater damage has been caused by the restaurant management - it's a PR disaster, because somebody took something too personally, and put feelings in the way of critique. And it is critique - he points out both the good and the bad, and the way he writes suggests a perspective, not a cold hard fact.

The second example (Gill and Dubai) is blatantly offensive. It is written as a statement of fact. There is only condemnation, no suggestion that a silver lining - however small - could lie undiscovered by him. His statements are sweeping generalizations, and because they generalise, they can be read as quite racist. He has not backed up his statements with solid facts - but here in the back-up, an inappropriate position, we see his opinions - his theories on why "these people" behave the way he says they all do. A A Gill often writes in this way. It is a shame, because his writing has a flow that is admirable, and possibly if the subject matter did not so offend me, I would enjoy the piece. But that's what happens with writers like Gill - everything's fine and dandy until it touches a nerve.

And Adrian Leicestershire is the same. It's all fun and games until someone gets hurt, and then you see the speaker for what they are - a bitter, twisted little soul, who can think of little to speak about but the faults of others.

So for me, the rant/offense balance is tipped thus:

1. Make sure everyone knows it's your opinion that this group is a bunch of clowns - not fact.
2. Back up your perspective with fact, and relate it to personal experience.
3. Talk about how it affects you - if it doesn't hurt you in some way, what is the point of complaining?
4. Make things specific rather than using sweeping statements - these come of as racist, sexist etc.
5. Make it constructive criticism - if the accused has no way of knowing how to improve, again the rant is pointless (unless your main objective is indeed to cause pain, which could get you sued)

And in my personal opinion, make it funny, or at least write it well - otherwise I'm going to tune out. Here's a lovely example - Seebee's been having some issues with HSBC...

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Dubai in 48 Hours

Two days - it's not long. If you were in Paris, you would have enough time to visit the Eiffel Tower, Musee d'Orsay, and possibly Notre Dame, maybe with enough time for a little cafe au lait and croissant before jumping on the metro, and heading back to the airport. In my home town of Melbourne, you would probably have to spend half the time figuring out if there is actually anything worth seeing - of course there is, but in two days you're not going to find it. But in Dubai, you can see the natural Dubai, traditional Dubai, sleazy Dubai and modern Dubai. And you'll even have time for a dip in the pool. I've just said goodbye to my friend at the airport, and although two days was not long enough to spend with her, I think she got a pretty good idea that the place that I live is not nearly what she expected.



1. The Desert

A six am arrival co-incided with our school-day wake-up. I knew there was a reason that school starts so early, and that's because it gives you enough time to get to Bab al Shams with breakfast time to spare. Only half an hour or so will take you past the mind-boggling developments such as Arabian Ranches and Motor City, the space shuttle of the now-on-hold Dubailand, camels, and sometimes even a bedouin camp or two. By the time you reach the desert resort, you have caught up with the latest news, and your friend is starting to drift off mid-sentence, saying "The desert is right here! I can't believe we are in the desert already! Ooh look! A camel! Ahhhhh, those dunes, they are so beautiful. Look at the patterns, they are creeping all over the road - are we going to be able to get back ok?". Then when you walk your friend through the giant wooden entrance of Bab al Shams, they start planning their second honeymoon. Take them past all the carpets, exotic lanterns and water features, then above the restaurant. On the rooftop they are guaranteed to just stop and take twenty deep breaths before they realize they should be taking photos. This can be followed by a leisurely Arabic breakfast, and because it's a buffet, another leisurely continental breakfast. And the whole time you can switch your perspective from the immaculate croquet green to the sandy towers, to the sand itself.


2. Traditional Dubai

By the time you get back to Dubai, it will be about 11:30 - a perfect time to visit the Creek. Park just near the wooden arch that marks the entrance to the Old Souk (many call this the textile souk - which is actually a little further down), then walk through for just a look. Don't buy straight away, because you will have to carry it. Instead, think about what you want while you take a 1 dirham abra ride across to the spice souk, where you show your friend the difference between good, bad and fake saffron. Where you show them frankinsenc in it's raw form, laugh at the size of the cooking pots (which incidentally I can climb inside of), and you buy spicy cashews to eat on the way back. Your friend will ooh and ahh again, because the place is full of middle eastern nationals, and the image completely destroys the cold hard vision they have been given to represent Dubai. Then you choof back across the creek, make your deal with the bedspread and wall-hanging man, and then cool off on the shady terrace of Bayt al Wakeel, which is perfectly positioned to capture the breeze. Drink mint tea out of moroccan glasses, burn your fingers on the classic teapots, and eat sambousek and fatoush. Don't forget to climb all the way to the roof to get the view of the creek on one side, and the blue mosque on the other before you depart to pick up the kids from school.

3. Your home

By then, your friend will be completely stuffed, and besides, your friend is here to see you, not just dubai. So, have a quick swim in the pool at home, and let them fall asleep on the sunlounger, ensuring that you cover up their pasty non-accustomed skin with shade of some sort. When they awake, give them some arabic mezze, which you have secretly popped out of jars and plastic supermarket tubs while they were still napping. Don't forget to heat the arabic bread, and sprinkle everything with pomegranate seeds - it's the details that make it so exotic.


4. Dinner with the locals

Dinner is at al Khayma at the Dubai Marine beach resort (and I should stress, when I say local, I mean regional rather than specifically Emirati). The resort is old and sleazy, full of dirty nightclubs with deals for the ladies, and the crowd is on the whole dressed like they are trying to both make the opposite sex and true fashionistas drop dead on sight. But al Khayma is an institution, and unless your friend is Lebanese, they'll never find anything like it back home. It used to be tents on the foreshore, but has recently been renovated. Unfortunately a little of the charm left with the plastic walls, but it is still a majlis-styled, shisha-smoke-filled haven, with superb baclava to boot. Your friends will try not to stare at the mix of tarts, past-their-bedtime-children,  and locals in traditional dress. Then you will flog them at backgammon, because they are too busy trying to keep their mouth closed. Don't stay too late, because the quality of the crowd gets even sleazier, and the music gets louder as the night progresses. Unless of course you like that kind of thing.


5. The Beach

Day two. You have to go to the beach. For some reason, nobody expects the beaches here to be as beautiful as they are, and tourists get so wrapped up in shopping they forget to explore the natural beauty of the region. Surprise them with the crystal clear blue water and the array of traditional wooden fishing boats and lobster cages, which sit in stark comparison to the carparks full of shiny hummers and the expensive cruisers waiting to be dropped into the glittering ocean. Make sure you go early, because you don't want to freak them out with the heat. Off the sand by 11:30.

6. The Burj

Modern Dubai cannot be forgotten. I recommend a lunch at Souk al Bahar (we ate at Bice Mare) overlooking the fountains, which now erupt every half-hour from midday. Of course you cannot ignore the shiny mammoth that is Burj Khalifa - which never fails to disappoint. Even those who are usually unimpressed by material wealth and its gross representations tend to get just a little impressed. And then of course, a stroll around Dubai Mall, taking in The Waterfall and the Aquarium (just the free bit), and a coffee from Brunetti's to help stave off that after-lunch lie-down desire, because there is still much to do. If your visitor is not from France (mine was), you should probably pop into Galeries Lafayette. 

7. The black market

Karama can be visited on the way home - now that we have seen all the "Champagne taste" in the mall, we have to go to where our "beer budget" will provide us with a souvenir. Read here for the rundown on Karama, and how to secure the best "genuine copy" designer handbag. But it's not just the handbag that you go for. For a visitor, the excitement of going to the wrong side of the tracks, doing something naughty, following a strange man up a secret stairwell, or down an abandoned street into a grotty apartment is enough thrill to keep them buzzing for several hours - at least until dinner.

8. Madinat Jumeirah

One cannot visit Dubai without a trip to Madinat Jumeirah. Sure, the souk is ridiculously overpriced, the restaurants are expensive, halfway decent wine is never less than 300 dirhams a bottle, and 50 dirhams for an abra ride should be punishable by law. BUT, it is a fairyland of magic lights and oriental spirit (if a little tempered to modern taste). Standing on high and viewing the golden windtowers and the background of the rainbow-lit Burj al Arab is guaranteed to take the breath away of any visitor. Wondering through the stunning foyer of Mina al Salam, with its rose-petal and floating candle central water feature, and down the seemingly antique stairs to the abra station is enough to make them believe that THEY are the oil barons. From here, you can hop on the abra for free, and take the short but romantic ride to Shimmers (with kids), or Pier Chic (without kids), where you can dine under the stars and beholden by the spectacular view of water, traditional architecture and our city's favourite sail-shaped icon. Then if you still have energy, you can meander back through the souk, accidentally picking up a carpet or two, and have a digestif at Centimetro,  where you can plomp on the beanbags, surrounded by ochre stone and the warm arabian breeze.

And by the time you finish all that, you will find that your friend, despite all her preconceptions of this city that everyone loves to hate will have changed her sentences from "...If I come back..." to "...When I come back...", and if she cries at the airport, you know your job is done.

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There are plenty of things you might think I have missed - but 48 hours is such a short time. With longer, there is so much more to see. Maybe there's another post in this for later...