Covert Operations

We snuck out.

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The first night, it was to a traditional Algerian restaurant. We made reservations and arrived in the rain in our taxi, er, contract vehicle, and the windows were barred and the thick wooden door had a worn knob in the middle. It opened and the old man stood there looking at us, expressionless. "We have a reservation..." His expression didn't change. "We have a reservation for 8 o'clock for four people..." He stepped aside, but not enough to signify a welcome. "Our reservation is under the name..." He stepped aside a little more and we barged in as politely as we could manage--it was cold and drizzly outside. When he saw that we definitely had made up our minds and were not going to leave him alone, he closed the door behind us and went into the kitchen to find the owner. She came out and was all French convivilatiy as she sat us in the dining room--a room of whitewashed woodwork in intricate detail, curlicues and Arabic script around the moldings, red cushions, blue tile floors, candles that burned to the last of the wick. The owner was delighted to bring us whatever we wanted, and what we wanted was "brick," lamb and kefta appetizers, couscous, lamb, chicken, Algerian red wine, and a little Turkish coffee to finish it off.

Poulet avec citron confit-I chose it because I have the recipe in my fantastic Claudia Roden cookbook (which you should go out and buy *right now* if you are at all interested in making Middle Eastern food) and I keep turning to it, eyeing it, wondering about it, and never trying it, usually for lack of citron confit. But here! In its native land, I had to try it. It is exactly how you expect it to taste, all buttery chicken and bitter green olives and tangy lemon sauce.

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Two nights in a row, we have used our, ahem, "contract vehicles," to visit the Slaughterhouse. There are three restaurants, simply named "Rotisserie," if that even counts as a name, flashing neon and christmas lights in the dark alley. The roads on the way there cross many dark alleys--some have signs, some do not. The signs are Parisian--green with blue rim, "Rue des Martyrs," "Place de la Concorde," "Rue des Anges" with the Arabic equivalent snaking beneath. The glass showcases in front of the Slaughterhouse restaurants are filled with skewered raw meat, les brochettes, and some, sometimes, have mechouie, spits of lamb rotating over a fire, sizzling and spurting. The first night, they were out of le mechouie, to our great disappointment, but the brochettes were delicious, and the mergez sausages. The local soda, Hamoud, and the fluffy bread, the bitter green pepper spread (for which I don't particularly care, but it's good with a dash of harissa) the sugary tea to wash it all down. The second time they had le mechouie--heaps of lamb with french fries soaking in the juice, enough to keep us busy for an hour while Samia told her story of witnessing an honest-to-goodness brawl on her Air Algerie flight from Frankfurt to Algiers.

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We had an organized tour (i.e., legit) of the Monument des Martyrs, a national museum of Algerian history. The museum - the "National Museum of the Army" - is dedicated most particularly the war for independence, which comprises one-third of the museum's shelf space, although they do give a nod to other eras. Not much more than a nod, though. As far as national museums go, this one is blatantly political, shocking in the graphic descriptions and pictures of Algerian martyrs from the war against France. Our guide was clever and fluent in English, and amiable until he discussed the injustices of the war.

As we left the museum to wander up to the monument itself, the rain started coming down harder--many of us decided that a vew from afar was sufficient, and we explored the little shops under the canopy while waiting for the bus. I bought the last roll of 200 speed film, although the man seemed disgruntled that I didn't want 100 speed, for he had many rolls of 100. Why did I need the last of the 200? I shrugged and gave him my money.

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Algiers has much potential--two or three languages are mixed together in a charming dialect, the food is superb, the old city is beautiful and Mediterranean, wrought iron gates, white buildings, gardens, promenades. The people are friendly, the history is rich and interesting. It's but 2 hours from Paris. But it's decidedly, deliberately inaccessible to tourists, and the general feeling of disrepair is depressing. If you came here for a vacation-which, given my experience with the embassy, might be impossible-I'm not sure what you would do with yourself. Besides eat lamb and couscous, I mean.

And if you ever do find yourself in Algiers, do not stay in the Hilton.