Usually one tries to eat the food of the culture when visiting a foreign country. I want to eat pizza and pasta in Italy, croissants in France. I’m also a vegetarian, which complicates things. I’m in Muscat, Oman for a few weeks, and there’s another layer here: it’s actually hard to find “Omani” cuisine. It’s not what people here want when they go out to eat. It’s what they eat at home (if they’re Omani), when they go to their villages in the countryside.
So eating Omani food has not been a priority of mine. Looking at the restaurants here, there’s an amazing variety that one cannot find even in the US: Iranian, Yemeni, Iraqi cuisines are represented. Chicago just got its first Jolly Bee this year; there’s been one in Muscat for years.
If I was a carnivore I would be doing up this scene. But I’m not, and there’s often a language barrier, so I’ve looked in other directions, and I’ve found some great food in Muscat.
One of my favorites is a simple joint in Al-Khuwair called Turkish House. There isn’t really a menu. When you walk in, the host will take you over to a window that looks onto the kitchen. He’ll describe what they have on offer today—what kind of schwarma, what kind of meat on a platter. When I said I was a vegetarian he took me over to a card with pictures and said the only option was pide, which I’ve often seen translated as cheezy bread. I went for it, and what arrived went far beyond what I’ve had at other Turkish places in Muscat.
The pide was easily a foot and a half long, shaped like a boat, and just baked. It was filled with spinach, onions, red peppers, covered in a mild, white melting cheese. So, a sort of Turkish pizza. But it was also served with two lemon halves, and that’s where the dish really took off. Squeeze lemon juice on that combination of cheese, spinach, and dough, and the acidity adds a new note that deepens all the flavors.
They were also squeezing oranges, so I had an orange juice. I managed to finish the whole pide, which is the only reason I didn’t buy a box of cookies or olives to take home.
The easiest-to-find cuisines in Muscat are Turkish and Indian (if you take out KFC, Pizza Hut, and McDonald’s, that is). I stumbled upon two entirely vegetarian south Indian restaurants near the hotel I stayed at for my first few days. The first is Sarvanaa Bhavan, a huge international chain with several branches in the US—though none in places where I’ve ever lived, thus I had never heard of them. The menu is exceedingly vast, and while the version I found online had descriptions, the one offered in the restaurant did not, so I went with a thali—a selection of many dishes served in little silver bowls on a platter
I’m not exactly an authority on Indian food, though I’ve had a dosa or two in my day, and certainly I’ve only ever had Indian food in restaurants that cater primarily to non-Indians. But even I could tell that the food here wasn’t amazing. The puffy fried bread was great, but the potatoes in the Aloo Gobi weren’t adequately spiced. There was a whole dish of curried baby corn, and that made me want to die—though that’s certainly my own personal hang up and not the fault of the restaurant. There was a pea curry, one of okra, a dish of plain yogurt, some kind of oddly unsweet watermelon colored thing, and a mango ice cream. It was pretty good, but I wasn’t blown away.
That would have to wait for a few days later, when I found a little hole in the wall restaurant behind the Tulip hotel in Al-Khuwair: Dilkush. I didn’t really get the set up here—there were menus under glass on the tabletops, but when I tried to order a dosa, the waiter implied they didn’t have any. I didn’t really know what any of the other dishes were, but there were vegetarian so I ordered a tomato and onion uttahapam, which they did have. It was unbelievable. The uttahpam, sambar, and those other two condiments were served on one of those food trays they use in grade schools, with different size compartments. It was out of this world: such depth of flavor. The uttahpam itself is a thick, crispy fried patty. Everyone of the condiments was spicy, but that kind of deep spiciness that builds gradually rather than sitting in the front of the mouthful. I had the uttahapam, a bottle of water, and a cup of sweet masala milk tea, and the total was 1.1 rial. Seriously. I left a half rial as a tip out of white American guilt and went back the next day (and, truth be told, at least once a week during my stay in Muscat).
Another day, I went to BonnBonn café in the Panorama Mall. This was a pretty depressing place because the mall was pretty empty, and this café is located in a back corner across from a laser tag joint that appeared totally empty, despite the looped footage of westerners having fun that played on a screen outside its doors. The restaurant was pretty good, though I was the only patron to approach the place and the staff appeared to be going out of their minds with boredom. I had a lemon juice with mint so huge it was served in a carafe, and a grilled halloumi salad. The cheese was a nice touch, and the salad—almost entirely lettuce—was fresh, well-dressed, and sprinkled with pine nuts. The total was about 5 rial—totally reasonable price, but we were definitely in the developing-world section of Muscat.
More on that next time: thoughts on Muscat’s international division of labor and its attendant social striations, which are immediately evident to a casual restaurant-goer.