A smashed window here, a provocative sticker there. In an age when protest feels increasingly meaningless, it’s no wonder that acts of petty symbolism are on the rise
F
irst comes the hummus: studded with chickpeas, anointed with a little reservoir of olive oil, greedily smeared up with hunks of pitta bread and messy fingers. Then the tabbouleh, then some homemade falafels, and then the lentil soup, and already the senses are overloaded, plates and bowls spilling off the edge of the table. But there shall be no reprieve, for the mains are coming.
Maqluba for the meat-eaters – traditional Palestinian upside-down chicken and rice, decorated with lightly browned cauliflower florets, topped with razor-fine almonds. Stuffed aubergine and courgette for the veggies. Before you ask: yes, there will be dessert, and it’s baklava and homemade chocolate. Home time, and slowly you winch yourself upright, stagger sideways towards the door and vow never to do something so gluttonous and decadent ever again.
But then Faten and Mahmoud have been running their supper club at Cafe Metro for six months now, and so far repeat business has not been a problem. The space is small and intimate; tickets sell out weeks in advance; the proceeds pay for aid for the hungry and homeless of Gaza. And like so many successful ideas, it happened basically by accident: a one-off fundraiser that quickly graduated into a kind of cultural event, a fixture of the north London social scene, a source of comfort and community in troubling times, resistance in its tastiest and most delicately spiced form.
