I have known two Em Sherifs in my life so far. One of them was my Dad’s aunt, an old woman who used to wander calmly in the village, hunchbacked and silent. Her son Sherif was an ironer and had a tiny shop at a corner of the village’s main square. He was equally silent, as if they had a deep family secret that prevented them from socializing. That’s why I remember their faces only and not a single conversation I might have had with them. As for the other Em Sherif, I know her and her son by name only. Their food is much better known. We tried it at their restaurant in Ashrafieh (here). It was like a fashion show of entrées, main dishes and desserts. We were sitting on our couch, watching the décor and the people, following the waiters’ rapid va-et-vient, and eating quickly to keep up with their rhythm (a new definition of “fast food”). The lower part of the restaurant was reserved for a few dozens of very talkative women who were socializing very loudly, quite the opposite of my grand aunt Em Sherif. Here are pics of what I remember most: The delicious desserts.