Every century that ever passed through.

Two old men were playing tawla. Neither looked up when the boats blew their horns. The wind from the harbor smelled like every century that had ever passed through it — fish, diesel, jasmine, salt, and something older I couldn't place.

Egyptian tea is strong, black, and almost always sweetened to the limit of what the water will hold. The mint is fresh, picked the same morning, crushed against the side of the glass with a spoon. The glass is small. You will have more than one. [^1]

The café had been there, the owner said, since his grandfather. The grandfather was a Greek; the father, an Egyptian; the owner, both. The tea, he said, had not changed.

I sat for an hour. The boats kept coming and going. The men kept playing. Neither of them, I noticed, was winning.

[^1]: There are two schools — koshary, where the leaves boil with the water, and saiidi, brewed Bedouin-strong. Coastal cafés do koshary.