Meet Om Ali. You might be forgiven for assuming that it�s a name adopted by yet another dewy-eyed idealist who thinks he can placate fundamentalists on both sides of bigotry. In fact, Om Ali has nothing to do with ersatz integration. It may be something to chew upon, might deal with a gut concern, be difficult to digest, might even bring a fiery experience to a sweetened closure. But that�s only because Om Ali is a pudding. And lest my Hindu brethren consider the name blasphemous, let me add that �Om� was originally �Umme�, or mother.

I encountered this dessert at a dinner cruise on the �Oberoi Nile Pharaoh� while gawking at the gyrations of the belly dancer rounding off a magical evening. Unlike Sinuous Sakeena, it was no great shakes. Our solicitous waiter proclaimed it to be �the ambrosia of Paradise�, but to me Om Ali looked and tasted like a shahi tukda -- more tukda, less shahi. I later discovered that it was introduced to Egypt by the Irish mistress of one of the khedives, which is why it�s also like a bastardised bread-and-butter pudding.

Actually, why blame a Dubliner in harem pants, when the mummies themselves are no hot hands in the kitchen. Egyptian food is unpretentious. The Pharaohs may have given us the engineering marvel of the Great Pyramid, but they didn�t get round to perfecting grilled Cheops. Maybe an elaborate preparation for a journey into the afterlife doesn�t include packing a picnic hamper. Or, conversely, maybe in a desert culture, they just have to make do with sand-wiches.

Talking of which, as anywhere else in the world, there is a local version, closer to vada pav than tuna-on-rye. The most popular Egyptian snack is ta�amiyya, a parsley-flavoured fava-bean fritter stuffed into the hollow of an oven-baked roti called aish. When hunger strikes, its closest ally is fuul, curied fava scooped out of tilted, round-bottom pots, and mashed into the same pita pockets.

Seduced by the name, I ordered a �Fuul Mesdames�. Madam was fooled. It turned out to be the ubiquitous fava bean again, this time tarted up with tomatoes and a drizzle of olive oil. It�s such a staple that the inveterate Thomas Cook tourist would here aver, �Bean there, done that.�

No, you can�t escape from this Egyptian fava-rite any more than you can get away from dal in India. Indeed, the tastes in Cairo alleys, like the sounds, smells and snarls, could well be those of home. The food is similar, but with just that much of distinctive difference. Chunkier kebabs, blander koftas, baba ghanoug which is a baingan bharta with smoother suavity. Their biryani makes up in rich, fatty sheep�s meat what it has spared in spices. They have a smosa crunch-alike, but stuffed with goat�s cheese.

Hunks of shwarma rotating on vertical skewers I�d expected, but not the horizontal rows of plump chickens turning to gold in a glass-fronted rotisserie like I�d last seen in faraway Germany. Called firkeh, they�re almost as common as the fuul stalls. Or teh kushari kiosks, with their familiar-looking vessels and bowls, but dispensing something completely alien, an instant khichdi of rice, noodles, boiled lentils and tomato sauce.

If Egyptian street food is extremely pedestrian, the sweets are upgraded Mohammedali Road. This means more death by badam-pista. The obligatory baklava is actually Syrian, but Damascus isn�t demanding intenstinal property rights on any of the myriad versions of this flaky, nutty, cloying pastry. A purely native dispenser of diabetes is kunafa, the syrup-soaked nests of brown seviyan smothered in the mandatory extravagance of dry fruit. Their ghee-laced halwas are more velvety than ours, and I bought a box of what looked like a superfine version of the Gujarati sutarfeni. Its sugary, swirl of cream-coloured strands was such gossamer that perhaps it should be called reshamfeni.

As in most places on this hungry planet, bazar food in Cairo is filling, hearty, tasty, even nutriious, but, make no bones about it, it�s basic. Fine dining simply means all the above served on China, silver and damask. At teh Cafe Mahfouz located in the touristy Khan il-Khalili, it means served by costumed waiters in tarbooshes (which is not a drunken melon, but a fez).

It�s difficult to reconcile the riveting funeral mask of Tutankhamen, the elaborate Coptic churches, the architectural arabesques of Islamic mausoleums with such a mundane cuisine. You�d think that a country that had rocked the world as the cradle of three great cultures, been nursed on the civilisational nuances of France, and weaned Britain�s haughtiest imperialism, would have mothered a culinary melting-pot as impressive as its monumental place in history. Alas, Egypt reminds you that a great past doesn�t necessarily boil down to a great repast.