Ed eats
Ali Baba
9, Ponsomby Street,
Gżira
Tel: 2134 0119
Food: 9/10
Service: 9/10
Ambience: 6/10
Value: 9/10
Overall: 8/10
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. I refer to no revolution though since Charles Dickens did a good job of that and will not be bested by me.
The food is authentic, unusual for Malta, and of exceedingly high quality
I am reflecting upon a month of great contradiction, of an unhealthy overdose of canapes and of the most enjoyable of meals.
I am recalling moments where I rubbed shoulders with a thousand people and had nothing to say to any of them, and other moments in the company of remarkable people who have the ability to turn any meal into a wonderful evening.
By the end of the month I had had an overdose of little nibbles of mass-produced food carried around on trays and pitied the people who had the mind-numbing task of preparing them.
I felt the remaining shreds of sanity drain, fearing that if I saw another pastry boat with defrosted shrimps on it I’d break down and cry like a professional mourner.
Ineeded real food. I needed three good meals that would make up for all the rubbish that had been forced down my throat.
And to make sure I got things right, I prepared an action plan. One meal would be cooked by my dad. The other by Andrew at Salvino’s. For the last one I wanted a wildcard based on an educated guess so I racked my brains to pull up the memory of the last meal that was a totally unexpected gift from the food gods.
Ali Baba was the first that sprung to mind, and along with it the memory of a meal that tasted like I’d been invited to the house of a Lebanese epicurean for dinner.
My first visit to Ali Baba is permanently seared into my memory as one of my most unexpectedly pleasant surprises. The place simply did not look the part.
A combination of a North African grocery with furniture from the 1970s that had gone a full cycle and now sports an effortless, retro cool. Wooden tables and chairs with bare surfaces were more suited to a peddler of kebabs than anything else.
There was no uniformed staff or even a real menu to speak of. And yet the kitchen delivered dish upon dish of passion and love and flavour that had me close to tears of joy.
The bill by the end of this feast was insignificant and I remember walking away feeling almost guilty, like I’d robbed the place.
Recently, Ali Baba has started to turn up in conversations again. Most mentions are simply a cryptic, “Hany’s back”.
To those who recall Ali Baba a few years ago, and those who have been treated to Hany’s cuisine, those two words mean that the young chef is back where we first got to know him – back to Ali Baba – bringing his experience in the world of formal catering and fine dining to the hidden cave of wonders in Gżira.
The place is the same and very little has been done to change the interior except for the welcome addition of impossibly white, starched table cloths and neatly laid tables. There are expertly designed menus now and a new wine menu.
And now, in addition to the bundle of charm that Abdul has always been, the quietly confident Hany pops in and out of the kitchen to greet his patrons.
Both father and son have taken the word ‘hospitality’ and restored its original meaning. All too often, we follow the word ‘hospitality’ with the word ‘industry’, forming a coupling that is becoming increasingly uncomfortable.
The ‘hospitality industry’ is forced, due to the huge scale of its operation, to mass-deliver hospitality, and we all know what to expect of a hotel or a restaurant that is open to the masses.
Not so at Ali Baba. They have taken the word and driven back a few decades so inside there you feel truly welcome, almost like you’ve gone to your parents’ place for lunch.
Abdul’s kitchen had impressed me with a mature confidence that is impossible to conjure up without years of experience and that cannot be easily replicated without his own, personal experiences to guide the hand that stirs the stew. Could Hany’s cuisine match his dad’s?
The menus have been given plenty of attention and time was spent transliterating all items from Arabic. Some have retained the spelling we know while a more liberal approach was taken to others. The result is an exotic-sounding list of dishes that forces all but those very familiar with Lebanese cooking to read through the menu before making their choice.
Hany let me read through the menu and, when it was evident that my difficulty lay in wanting to eat everything it contained, he offered to take care of the selection himself.
That liberated me from both the agony of choice and the eventual responsibility once the food turns up so I happily agreed.
With a nod and a smile he scooted to the kitchen and within minutes I was eating arayess be lahmeh, pitta filled with an interestingly spiced lamb mince.
A house yoghurt and a bowl of muhammara (Hany rattled off the ingredients that included bell pepper, walnut, garlic, pomegranate and chilli peppers) were served with them and Abdul snuck up to me, winking like he was sharing a conspiracy and suggesting that I dip the arayess into the muhammara.
The spices dance gracefully to an age-old choreography, not a single one taking the lead, as they execute the most intricate of steps, swaying as a whole to the chef’s rhythm. The last time I had experienced this was at the very same table.
Next up was a dish that contained two different kinds of meat in tiny portions. I now understood why Hany had asked whether there was absolutely anything I would not eat. He wanted to treat me to the cheek and the tongue of lamb, quite possibly the most tender cuts that manage to pack the most flavour.
If you are reading this and feel squeamish I strongly suggest you overcome any such feelings and try these unusual delights.
More food came in the form of sausage with chicken, lemon, ginger, pistachio, a zesty and almost summery dish that complemented the adjacent dish of grilled chicken with coriander and lemon.
A third dish completed this course, an expertly grilled fillet.
Before I had time to ask them to stop, a final coup de grace was served, a plate of slow-cooked lamb served on the bone with pumpkin and potato. The lamb was tender and the stew had seeped right through, permeating the meat and soaking it with flavour.
The star on the dish was the pumpkin and there was magic at work there that, despite questioning, the chef was not prepared to share with me.
Once again, when it came to dessert, I allowed the chef to surprise us. A milk and rose water pudding with crushed nuts and cinnamon, unusual as it sounds, was outstanding. It felt like I was biting into my favourite perfume and being rewarded with a rich, creamy, fragrant chunk of heaven.
Even more unusual was the creme brûlée with chocolate, tahini, chilli and pomegranate. I have long suspected that chocolate and chilli were the Romeo and Juliet of flavours, destined to be forever bound and yet separated by those who do not condone their union. This dessert rewrites the ending, turning the bard’s tragedy into romantic romp.
Once again Ali Baba had shined. I could not score the food any higher than my previous visit because, excellent though it was, it was not better than the food I tasted the first time.
In both cases, the simplicity of the dishes came not only from restraint but from balance, managing to be dramatic without a hint of drama.
We drank a bottle of Chateau Kefraya’s Les Breteches with our meal and rounded it off with a shot (actually more than one) of Kefraya’s own Arak and paid just over €35 for each of us.
Once again the value is incredible, the service a shining example of true hospitality, and the food is authentic, unusual for Malta, and of exceedingly high quality.
Do remember to book in advance. This little patch of Lebanon is sadly no longer a secret.
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