At Carter's table, two worlds meet. On one side, the Egyptian sufra — that large shared platter set directly on the mat or low table, where everyone breaks bread (aish baladi) and dips into communal bowls of fava beans, herbs, and vegetables; the meal has no starter-main-dessert order, everything arrives at once and you nibble. On the other, British expatriate habits: tea taken at fixed hours, tinned goods brought from London, the "civilized" dinner offered to distinguished visitors. The day revolves around ftour (the morning snack before the heat), the big meal taken in the shade when the sun is high, and the evening tea under the veranda of the dig house, facing the Valley of the Kings.

The warm, earthy scent of roasted cumin, brightened with a squeeze of lemon and a drizzle of olive oil, is the true signature of the Egyptian table where Carter spent his life. It appears on the morning fava beans as well as in the stuffing of festive pigeons: it is the very smell of the Valley, the one that clings to your fingers after the meal.