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 "In
the deserts of southern Arabia, there is no rhythm of the seasons,
no rise or fall of sap, but empty wastes where only changing temperature
marks the passage of the year. It is a bitter, desicated land which
knows nothing of gentleness or ease. Yet men have lived there since
earliest times. Passing generations have left fire-blackened stones
at camping sites, a few faint tracks polished on the gravel plains.
Elsewhere the winds wipe out their footprints."*
This is how the English traveller, Wilfred Thesiger, describes his
impressions of the desert, the Rub al-Khali (the 'Empty Quarter'),
during an expedition to cross it back in the 1940s. Nowadays, on
the fringes of this desert, the landscape is no longer as empty
as it was in those days. Above all, masses of asphalt and concrete
have caused the desert sands to retreat and ruled out the possibility
of anyone leaving footprints behind. On the other hand, there's
no shortage of camping sites anymore. But instead of being marked
by fire-blackened stones, these are adorned with exquisite marble,
the finest satin or columns ornamented with gold. This fringe is
now occupied by Dubai.
Very gently, Ibrahim bin Muhammad runs his fingers over his wares.
While doing so, the old spice-seller in the souk in Dubai has a
melancholy air, as if he were stroking his own children. "Within
a single generation, Dubai has lost its soul", he grumbles.
"But it's different with my spices. People haven't been able
to live without them for thousands of years, and that's how it will
always be". Ibrahim doesn't know exactly how old he is, but
he must be over 70, because he can still remember the Dubai of yesteryear,
when the little boats of the fishermen and pearl-divers along with
old trading ships, so-called dhows, used to tie up on the beach
here. There wasn't a proper harbour at that time. And the Creek,
an inlet about 10 miles long and an important trading route, had
yet to be dredged out properly. At low tide, the dhows were unable
to get close enough to moor up; they had to drop anchor and offload
their wares onto smaller boats which then brought them ashore. That
was all not so long ago. Nonetheless, when you see present-day Dubai,
it's hard to imagine how things were at that time.
(...)
A customer has stopped in front of his stall. He is sniffing at
the attractive dark-green curry leaves that Ibrahim has presented
to him for inspection, and his eyes are surveying the pleasingly
shaped cinnamon sticks and dark dried limes or luumis. The customer
is Ingo Maass, the executive chef of the JW Marriott Hotel. "What
would you use them for?", he asks the old spice-seller in English,
the lingua franca used for most business transactions in the Gulf
region. Any trace of melancholy has vanished completely as he replies
without hesitation, "Madshbuus: hammour fish with luumis, cinnamon
and curry leaves, along with a couple of dates. Could there be anything
more delicious?" Ingo Maass is delighted by this answer. "Along
with lamb cooked in hot desert sand, that's one of the traditional
dishes of the Gulf States", he explains. "It still enjoys
widespread popularity. A classic of its kind, you might say. You
can be sure that the old man has known it since he was a child".
The dealer is nodding his head approvingly, as if he understood
every word.
 The
French chef, Christian Jean, has joined Ingo and is also smelling
the cinnamon. Then he asks his fellow-chef, "have you ever
tried turning fish in cinnamon and then frying it? I could well
imagine that they would go together well". Chef Amgad from
Egypt is sceptical: "Fish with a cinnamon crust? I can't really
imagine what that might taste like, but it does sound interesting,
at least. Let's give it a try this evening". While Khalil Zakhem,
the Syrian chef from Damascus, is haggling with a young spice-seller
from Iran about the price of saffron from his native country, Chef
Ingo is watching how the old dealer is sorting and arranging his
spices and seems to be lost in thought.
The scene before his eyes has reminded him of his grandmother, how
she used to stand at the cooking stove, seemingly oblivious to the
world around her, while the pan was sizzling with her speciality
that he, as a child, always used to look forward to so much: Bavarian
meat rissoles (Bouletten). He often used to stand next to her at
the stove, where he then picked up a first culinary trick or two.
One day, he asked 'Oma Maass' why she always prepared these meat
patties in exactly the same way and whether there wasn't some other
way of making them. "That's how my mother always used to do
it, and her mother before that", she replied. "Why should
I change it? It's a family recipe. Don't you like them anymore?"
Of course he still liked them. On recalling this scene, he has to
smile to himself. "Why should I change it?" That's a question
he often hears from his chefs these days. The old spice-seller would
also probably look rather baffled if someone asked him whether he
or his wife varied the madshbuus recipe now and again.
(...)
 Chefs
working in Arabian or Islamic countries sometimes have to come to
terms with certain circumstances and peculiarities that are unknown
in other parts of the world. For example, during Ramadan, strict
Muslims fast from sunrise to sunset for a whole month. This means
that, during the hours of daylight, Muslim cooks cannot - or are
forbidden to - check the seasoning of any food they have prepared.
Dubai is a cosmopolitan society, which means that there are a good
number of Muslims to be found in Chef Ingo's troupe of culinary
artistes. All of the other cooks - primarily Christians, Hindus
or Buddhists beliefs - soon start grumbling, because every couple
of minutes or so, one of their Muslim co-workers presents them with
a spoonful of soup, dessert or sauce asking their opinion about
the flavour.
Another peculiarity is the matter of cooking without alcohol. Although
the Koran does not expressly forbid Muslims to partake of alcohol,
some of its verses might well be interpreted in this way. The Koran's
appeal to the faithful not to appear at daily prayers in a state
of drunkenness might still be taken to be a well-intentioned request
aimed at preventing any disturbance detrimental to the conduct and
dignity of religious rituals. It would appear that the prophet,
Muhammad, was not spared the sight of drunken Muslims during the
early days of his religious congregation. Date wine was considered
to be something very fine indeed, even in Mecca and Medina. Apparently,
the drinking sprees that it gave rise to resulted in shameful excesses,
because the Koran's statement that alcohol is a thing of the devil
represents an admonishment with a more compelling quality. The majority
of Islamic theologians have interpreted this as an unequivocal prohibition
and have stigmatised alcohol as one of the greatest sins. And a
great many Muslims do indeed follow the commandment of never drinking
alcohol.
(...)
The sight of inebriated people on the streets is utterly unknown
in Arabian countries. However, you can't help wondering how all
of the blind-drunk specimens who haunt the many dives in Cairo,
Alexandria and Tunis ever manage to find their way home. Except
in Libya and Saudi Arabia, alcohol is available for sale in Arabian
countries, with Arabian wines as well as the aniseed schnapps, arak,
being regional specialities. Such products have to be bought in
special shops licensed to sell alcohol. In Arabian cities, these
are either to be found in Christian quarters or else their exteriors
give little inkling of what's inside. In Dubai, these licensed shops
offer the finest wines, spirits and beers, but you'd never guess
this from the outside. You have to know where to find them. And
not everyone is allowed to purchase alcohol. Natives of the Emirates,
for example.
In order to monitor this, (non-Muslim!) foreigners have to apply
for an alcohol licence that costs about US$ 30 and has to be renewed
annually: this 'Annual Licence to Acquire Alcoholic Drinks' is demanded
by the 'Dubai Alcoholic Drinks Law of 1972' and is issued by no
less a prestigious governmental entity than the 'Director-General
Department of Criminal Investigations'. These licenses specify how
much money the holder is permitted to spend on alcohol each month,
and a crate of beer costs about US$ 30. Having stashed it away in
your car - preferably under wine bottles packed in opaque black
plastic bags - it is wise to opt for the shortest route home. Because,
if you do end up being checked and just happen to be going in the
opposite direction to where you are registered as living, you can
be pretty certain of being accused of illegal dealing with drink.
(...)
Texts& Photos © Lutz Jäkel
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