Class: Tamima

Tamima - Class Master

Except for the fact it faced a slightly tired, tree-filled square, Tamima’s apartment building wasn’t much different from any other dun-colored concrete building in Cairo. But this is typical of Egypt where ostentation and/or good taste are hidden behind a common façade.

But then there was ther chandeliered, polished marble walls of the entryway and the man in a white serving coat to greet us.

Our hostess, Tamima, a petite, beautiful woman with sparkling eyes, conspiratorial smile and luxurious black hair, is an artist and, by heritage, one of Cairo’s elite. We know her from the art studio, where she wields pen and ink with one hand and cell-phone with the other.

When on the phone she’s like somebody’s chief of staff—directing, advising and appointing, stopping every now and then to rearrange that marvelous flow of hair.

As an elite, her sentences are polylingual. A few words in French, an interjection in Arabic, an English noun modified by a French adjective, back to Arabic and so on. She chooses them a she sees fit, in no discernable pattern. She also shops internationally.

Egypt’s elite are about 15% of the population. Always have been and, many assume, always will be (although today there is a very small, history-defying middle class perturbating at the edges). Naturally, over the 5,000 years of Egyptian history, the dominant stars in its zodiac have changed: From Pharonic, to Roman, Fatimid, Mameluk, etc. Today it’s said that the businesspeople are rising and the aristocrats in retrograde.
Tamima derives her status from the latter group – her grandfather was King Farouk’s minister of the Armed Forces – but she knows what’s going on with the comers but she doesn’t sport diamonds so large they make her knuckles drag on the ground.

Amidst sculptures, painting, a colony of inlaid tables, beaded dishes, sepia photos, silver nut dishes and a collection of antique French children’s books with prints so soft and tender you want to curl up between the pages, we gathered: some who adoringly remembered reveling in the party days of King Farouk and some – the darn perturbators – professionals
in whose hearts Nasser’s pledge to the people still fluttered.

We ate under a contemporary chandelier but drank Turkish coffee from elegantly frosted glass cups. In between we consumed an exquisite meal of stuffed grape leaves, spinach torte and veal a la Turq, served not from the kitchen but familiarly, if with consummate grace, from the sideboard. Tamima and the fellow in the white jacket had cooked the meal together.

A playwright would have thrown out the table discussion as too, too predictable. But the debate about the qualities of Nasser’s wife, Mona, did unfold. Was she a wonderfully good woman—one who had herself gone to her daughter school where the girl had misbehaved, made the her publicly apologize to her classmates and admonished the school leaders to do better by the nation’s citizens by treating all equally? Or had she been embarrassingly rough at the edges, not even knowing what to do with a sari when one was given to her as gift?

Tamima, occupied by her duties as a hostess and wrestling internally with troubling real life issues, served and smiled.

Later. she said that entertaining was as satisfying to her as making art. Not the part where you chat people up, but the cooking and the presentation. Which could mean that she, herself, may have achieved a state of relative classlessness. A place where you focus on what gives your life meaning while the status issues ripple around you.

Dessert was a simple rice pudding flavored with lavendar water.

Posted November 2009

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	Tamima - Class Master Except for the fact it faced a slightly tired, tree-filled square, Tamima’s apartment building wasn’t much different from any other dun-colored concrete building in Cairo. But this is typical of Egypt where ostentation and/or good taste are hidden behind a common façade. But then there was ther chandeliered, polished marble walls of the entryway and the man in a white serving coat to greet us. Our hostess, Tamima, a petite, beautiful woman with sparkling eyes, conspiratorial smile and luxurious black hair, is an artist and, by heritage, one of Cairo’s elite. We know her from the art studio, where she wields pen and ink with one hand and cell-phone with the other. When on the phone she’s like somebody’s chief of staff—directing, advising and appointing, stopping every now and then to rearrange that marvelous flow of hair. As an elite, her sentences are polylingual. A few words in French, an interjection in Arabic, an English noun modified by a French adjective, back to Arabic and so on. She chooses them a she sees fit, in no discernable pattern. She also shops internationally. Egypt’s elite are about 15% of the population. Always have been and, many assume, always will be (although today there is a very small, history-defying middle class perturbating at the edges). Naturally, over the 5,000 years of Egyptian history, the dominant stars in its zodiac have changed: From Pharonic, to Roman, Fatimid, Mameluk, etc. Today it’s said that the businesspeople are rising and the aristocrats in retrograde. Tamima derives her status from the latter group – her grandfather was King Farouk’s minister of the Armed Forces – but she knows what’s going on with the comers but she doesn’t sport diamonds so large they make her knuckles drag on the ground. Amidst sculptures, painting, a colony of inlaid tables, beaded dishes, sepia photos, silver nut dishes and a collection of antique French children’s books with prints so soft and tender you want to curl up between the pages, we gathered: some who adoringly remembered reveling in the party days of King Farouk and some – the darn perturbators – professionals in whose hearts Nasser’s pledge to the people still fluttered. We ate under a contemporary chandelier but drank Turkish coffee from elegantly frosted glass cups. In between we consumed an exquisite meal of stuffed grape leaves, spinach torte and veal a la Turq, served not from the kitchen but familiarly, if with consummate grace, from the sideboard. Tamima and the fellow in the white jacket had cooked the meal together. A playwright would have thrown out the table discussion as too, too predictable. But the debate about the qualities of Nasser’s wife, Mona, did unfold. Was she a wonderfully good woman—one who had herself gone to her daughter school where the girl had misbehaved, made the her publicly apologize to her classmates and admonished the school leaders to do better by the nation’s citizens by treating all equally? Or had she been embarrassingly rough at the edges, not even knowing what to do with a sari when one was given to her as gift? Tamima, occupied by her duties as a hostess and wrestling internally with troubling real life issues, served and smiled. Later. she said that entertaining was as satisfying to her as making art. Not the part where you chat people up, but the cooking and the presentation. Which could mean that she, herself, may have achieved a state of relative classlessness. A place where you focus on what gives your life meaning while the status issues ripple around you. Dessert was a simple rice pudding flavored with lavendar water. Posted November 2009 Comment on this article