Then came the pièce de résistance—a turkey. The police officer who was sitting next to me, who was himself an excellent cook, and quite knew what he was talking about, said it had been boiled in milk and then buttered, covered over with some sort of paste and put into the oven for a few minutes. It was stuffed with almonds, rice, raisons and ferikh, a sort of pop-corn, made, I believe, of green corn fried in butter. The stuffing had also some sort of spice in it that I was not able to identify.
The meat seemed to have lost all its fibre and almost melted in one’s mouth; the skin was crisp and tasted like pastry; the stuffing—but to give an idea of what that stuffing was like is beyond me—no one but a poet could describe it.
After the turkey came chickens, roasted and also stuffed. Rissoles, flavoured with some delicious herbs, followed.
By the time the rissoles had been finished, I already felt that I had done more than justice to Sheykh Ahmed’s hospitality, and that to attempt to pay him any further compliments in this direction might be attended by serious consequences. I hoped that the end of the meal might be in sight. But not a bit of it.
“The hardships of the lonely white man in Africa” have often been described, but they have never been really done justice to—they’re frightful! After the rissoles came an endless succession of sweets, made as only a Turkish cook can make them. A spongy kind of blancmange eaten with jam. Jam-tarts—the jam being apparently made from dates. Crisp, thin flakes of pastry, covered with whipped cream, coloured pink and eaten with honey. A kind of very sweet nougat, also eaten with cream, followed by unmistakable Turkish Delight, thickly covered with powdered white sugar, which was infinitely superior to the best “Rahat lakum” that could be bought even in Cairo—rahat lakum, by the way, was a name that no one seemed to have even heard.
After dinner of course came tea, and following that kerkadi, or Sudan tea—a drink made from the dried flowers of a plant that grows somewhere in the Sudan.
The latter I had heard of in Egypt, but had never seen, so hearing that Sheykh Ahmed had some, I asked for it. It is not only considered by Moslems to be quite correct to ask your host to produce any little thing in this way, but it is even considered as a compliment.
The kerkadi was first made cold. A few flowers were dropped into a tumbler and stirred round for a few minutes till a pale pink decoction was produced, and then sugar was added to sweeten it.
When made in this way it produced a drink with a curious slightly acid flavour, that would have been very pleasant and refreshing on a hot day. It can also be drunk hot, in which case it is made exactly in the same manner as ordinary tea. But it is not nearly so good when made in this way, and when it has been left standing for some time it takes a strong acrid flavour, that would not be likely to appeal to European tastes. But as a cold drink it is surprising that it is so little known.
The policeman told me in a whisper that the tea which preceded the kerkadi was of extremely fine quality, adding native-like that Sheykh Ahmed must have paid a guinea a pound for it. He was very likely correct, for this is by no means an unusual price for one of the richer natives of the oasis to give for his favourite Persian tea.