Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who might have voted for Starmer if he’d known he’d be so much like Maggie.

FUNNY lot, the Arabs. Always killing each other and living in tents in the desert because they’re too lazy to build proper houses. Nothing wrong with camping, but you can take things too far.

I confess I know very little about their food despite being so knowledgeable about their culture. I’m amazed they find time for cooking anyway when they’re busy doing jihads on anyone who worships the wrong pretend man in the sky. 

But there’s a place in town I’ve heard people banging on about, so being an open-minded chap, I’ve booked myself a table for one. Let’s just hope it’s not a front for a terrorist cell.

There’s a selection of titbits to start with, served with pitta bread. Obviously they got that from the classic British doner kebab, but I don’t mind a bit of fusion cuisine.

There’s also the staple of every leftie vegan dinner, hummus. It’s heavy on the garlic, so I don’t touch more than a mouthful. And falafel, which they insist is made of ground chickpeas, but for all I know could be deep-fried camel’s bollocks. 

It comes with labneh, which is strained yogurt. I do enough straining if I eat yogurt anyway, but that’s what you get for ignoring a lactose intolerance. Bungs me up so much you’d think my arse was on strike.

Moving on to mains, I briefly consider the shakshuka, eggs poached in a spicy tomato sauce, but then I come to my senses and remember there’s only two ways to eat eggs: fried as part of the Great British breakfast, or boiled with soldiers to dip in them. They’re probably not too keen on British soldiers round here though.

I recoil in horror when I see ‘chicken cooked in smen’, which I assume is a typo. They assure me it’s their name for clarified butter, but I’m not taking the risk.

I decide on the fatteh makdous, baby aubergines stuffed with minced lamb in a tomato and tahini sauce. The sauce has a disturbing gloopy consistency, which they tell me is the tahini paste. Not so sure myself. Maybe they do have a penchant for knocking one out in the food. Wouldn’t surprise me. They’ve never forgiven us for running Egypt properly.

It’s served with couscous, which is like eating f**king sand. I suppose needs must when everywhere around you is desert.

Onto pud, and I eschew the tahini cheesecake – not getting caught out by that again – and opt for baklava, which I always thought was Greek, but they insist originated in the Middle East. No wonder they’re always having wars if they can’t even agree where their afters came from.

It’s rich in butter and syrup, and tastes okay as well as being really filling. Which is just as well since I’ve only been able to eat a few mouthfuls of my previous courses.

With my stomach at least sufficiently lined to soak up a few post-meal pints, I pay up and leave. Would I return? Not in a month of Ramadans. But I gave it a try and nobody strapped a suicide vest on me, so I’ve broadened my cultural horizons again.