I Found Myself at a 50s American Diner in New Cairo…

This is SceneEats correspondent Fatafeet El-Share' reporting live from, well, I’m not quite sure anymore. I know I tend to let my metaphorical lack of sense of direction often influence my PHYSICAL lack of sense of direction, but this time I blame District 5’s Brisk.

This time I’m not the one at fault. And no, this isn’t the oh-so-Pisces tendency of mine to self-victimise, this is the work of a restaurant that has crafted a deliberate ruse (a very meticulous one might I add) to confuse passerby into believing (much like Dorothy Eady) that I am not Fatafeet, but a woman with coiffed hair named Sharon who unapologetically struts to the beat of her own jukebox.

There I was, at my usual hot-girl-hotspot District 5, minding my own business (because mama and baba didn’t raise no meddler), when the glint of Brisk’s gold signage caught my racoon-like attention. Whilst mama and baba didn’t raise no meddler (source: the sentence above), they sure as hell raised a hesharaya. I didn’t just drag my tushy over, I u-hauled headlights first into that eatery. 

Contrary to popular belief, Brisk’s staff did not proclaim their undying love for me with a ketchup bottle in hand. They also weren’t on rollerskates (disappointed but not surprised). They very elegantly focused on what truly matters in life - burgers and fries and fries and burgers. They took my order at a very London Picturehouse looking desk and then delivered it through an elegantly decorated window mere minutes later. 

To those who are new here, NO my fresh mani wasn’t left greased. Yet, to those who know me, they’re now chipped and my lovely nail tech Mariam is now on her way (gel polish in hand) to collect the collateral damage. 

Ciao, adios, I’m done, 

Fatafeet El Share’.