JAYWALKING IN CAIRO

Being a New Yorker, I was almost born jaywalking. Little green men blinking at official crossings are not for me. I just jaywalked my way across Paris (nobody died), but lemme tell ya, kids, Cairo is a whole other story.
Why do we jaywalk? Impatience? For the thrill? Ornereyness? All three for me. I used to jaywalk down the center of the main street of my home town, three blocks at a time.
But six lanes of wildly erratic traffic of ancient, battered, dusty, wobbling cars - I swear, they wobble, staying in a lane apparently isn't an Egyptian thing - really makes me a bit nervous. But it's the only way I could get to the fabled Egyptian Museum (I had a date with Tut), so I practiced my twenty yard sprint on side streets and then made a series of mad dashesacross the fivelane traffic circle. A dozen sets of screaming tires later, I was at the museum, one of the most fabulous, dusty, jam-packed, poorly-maintained, unlabelled, dishevelled collections in the world.
But enough about kulchah, let's talk serious: food. I had ful for dinner, and it wasn't what I thought. It was a lumpy mash of fava beans - love favas! - in a small 5" pita bread. It wasn't bad, but I know we can do better, so  tomorrow I'm testing everything I see, even shawarma.
Wish me luck. I'll probably have to jaywalk again.
POST SCRIPT FROM BEIRUT: Museum buffs would swoon in the modest-but-perfect, pristine, fairly new, completely restored National Museum. Nearly destroyed during the vicious civil war, it is gloriously arranged, with signage in 3 languages including excellent English. Every single item is important (Cairo's is awash with everything they ever dug up all crammed together), best of its kind. The short documentary of the museum's war damage is heart-breakingand should be mandatory in every school in the world.

YOU CAN'T STEP INTO THE SAME RIVER TWICE...

Many years ago (don't ask) I enjoyed a number of light meals at Au Pied Cochon in the old Les Halles area of Paris. They were famous for their delicious ONION SOUP AU GRATIN, served hot enough to scorch, in generous pottery bowls. Rich with long-simmered beef broth and huge amounts of thinly sliced onions, it was topped with a thick layer of melted cheese which ran down the sides of the bowl in crunchy dribbles.
Today, I tried to stroll down memory lane. The casual atmosphere of the old days has been tarted up big time with tuxedo'd waiters, extravagant frosted glass centerpieces (three voluminous layers of fruits and stuff), and - oh, joy! - still the large bowls of french onion soup with a deep layer of cheese bubbling atop. It was fun to crack the broiled cheese and find the bread swimming amidst onions and broth. The broth, a scrumptious brown, was fragrant, the steam caressed my face like an old friend. I dipped the humongous, heavy silver soup spoon into the broth...
And the fantasy ended.
The  thin broth was ridiculously salty and could have been tastier. The cheese was great, but below it lay a pool of disappointment. It was, at best, mediocre, over-salted tourist food.
And the recommended wine - the waiter said it was dry - was flowery and almost sweet, and he served us  extra-large glasses instead of the medium ones we ordered.
Things change, sure, but why do they rarely change for the better? How difficult is it to combine onions, beef broth and cheese? Next Paris visit, when I yearn for authentic french onion soup, I will have to find a new place: Au Pied du Cochon is, regrettably, off my list.