Ramadan's delicacies go global Kanafani superstar Profile by Youssef Rakha Of all the holy month's culinary associations, konafa is arguably the one quintessential menu item. A golden crisp delicacy said to be of Fatimid origin, it manifests in a wide variety of forms: as a tray-braced cake (stuffed with nuts, cream, or bananas); as bite-size, pistachio- studded conical or egg-shaped nuggets; as treacle-dripping fingers or squares of wafer... Yet konafa's most celebrated manifestation -- a childhood wonder to be rivalled only by the fanous (Ramadan lantern) -- is its raw form, as pale yellow, thread-like strips of stuff to be manipulated (traditionally by the housewife) and placed in the oven. In the more recent, mechanical version of the process by which this pulp is produced, konafa-dough is poured into a vast metal funnel from which the threads emerge, courtesy of a fine sieve, usually invisible; they fall flat onto a hot, rotating surface and are eventually collected in mammoth blond braids ready for baking. To a child's eyes the person who presides over this process has the dignity of an alchemist and something of the mystery. The kanafani, as he is called, tends to be a versatile baker; after all, he has to provide for himself for 11 lunar months during which the demand for konafa is never very high. Yet, even though he produces pies, breads and even other Ramadan-specific delicacies, the most famous being qatayef (crescent-shaped dumplings), it is konafa that lends him the glory; hence the epithet of kanafani. Divested of the child's impressionable fascination, the image of the kanafani -- as with that of the fatatri (fetir- or pie-maker) -- is of someone both conventional and haggard. If he is not in a dough-soiled galabeya he is likely to be wearing the vaguely Ottoman uniform of the more kitsch, exotically-oriented establishments. His life is likely to be of the workaday sort and such are the monstrous distortions of bias that it is easy not to expect a highly developed personal or professional sense of self. It is easy, all too easy, to predict a certain inarticulacy, a certain dissatisfaction with his lot. Yet Omar Abdel-Ma'boud of the Al-Captain string of fetir- and konafa-producing bakeries is far from diffident. Casually dressed, loquacious, self-conscious in the most positive sense, Hagg Omar, as he is widely known, goes about his business in the Haram branch of Al- Captain, off Faisal Road, with unaffected ease, with, it might be said, a healthy degree of opulence, displaying the kind of confidence only the most highly prized skilled artisans can muster. He is 42, a university graduate and globe- trotting man of the world who sports a stylish grey beard and sweatshirt, conducts complex deals via a tiny mobile phone and exudes self- possession. You begin to sense the secrets of his success almost as soon as you arrive: he welcomes his customers like old friends and maintains his exacting standards through a calculated combination of friendly mingling and disciplinarian authority-wielding. He behaves as though his is an ongoing quest for self- and business-betterment. And he is an innovative artist, as interested in the hybrid intricacies of Egyptian pizza-making as he is in the definitive konafa recipes of his forebears. "Wherever you like." I opt for one of the small benches lined up outside the shop. "Later we can go and take pictures there." He points to the towering funnel where the konafa making is already underway. "But please, first, taste my pizza." The last word is uttered in the accepted Western, not the more common, Egyptianised, pronunciation. "No? Well, as you like..." Hagg Omar settles down before me with a smile. He was born in Doqqi, where his father's first shop was located; his grandfather had started a fetir business in Tanta which his father brought with him to Cairo. And although he was among the first generation of his family to complete his education, he too felt drawn to the profession. "I worked as a secondary school teacher for only a year and a half. Even then," he confesses, "I would rush back to the shop as soon as my lessons were finished. I gave up quickly because teaching left me unfulfilled. I wanted to devote myself to this profession, in which I always felt I could make a very positive contribution. And also because it's my family's most viable form of capital: all our money was made this way. Besides two other shops here in Cairo, members of my family are engaged in the same profession in Abu Dhabi. And thankfully it has never left us in need. So it is a kind of loyalty. But never forced or planned. It just so happened that I grew up this way and I wanted to continue on the path of the fatatri and kanafani. To be an educated kanafani," he says. "In this profession having an education is not the same as not having an education. First there are all the obvious benefits: status, literacy, mathematical know-how. But then there is something else that's harder to pinpoint. A kind of understanding that you develop which lets you locate your activities in the middle of everything else that goes on around you." A vision, perhaps? "As a teacher I would've ended up being just another humdrum teacher with nothing more to say for myself. In this profession, on the other hand, I can stand out." There is not the slightest hint of vanity as he says this. "I know my stuff. I know, for example, that if you price your menu items modestly you will sell far more, which besides providing you with an opportunity for expansion allows you to make more money in the long run. And I am constantly doing and thinking new things, experimenting with my menu and expanding the scope of my activities as well. The results are very satisfying to me. It's very important to feel in harmony with your work, but maybe I would never have understood this or felt so clearly had I not had an education and the option of an altogether different career path. I would have been less aware of this harmony." A former football player, the father of four children and the godfather of a whole battalion of young people growing up to be increasingly proud of their heritage, Hagg Omar wears many hats, including that of the mentor- teacher, besides that of the workaholic educated kanafani. "Like any normal human being I have my interests," he says. While it may explain his physical energy, his football connection has been reduced to watching televised broadcasts of matches, often in the company of work mates. Overlap between professional and family life notwithstanding, he leads a typical middle-class existence: supervising the children as they do their homework and gathering before the television are as important a part of his life as any. Like many Egyptians he maintains strong links with his extended family. Many of his customers are former neighbours and close friends. "Education is absolutely important, yes. Even if they are to follow in my footsteps my children must complete their education first. And if they choose to have another job I would never stand in their way. Except that I suspect they will choose to latch onto this profession, too, for no other reason than the fact that these shops are likely to be all the assets they will inherit. And because they will have access to all the secrets of the trade, the modes of operation -- so much to back them up." "You must understand that part of the attraction of this work is that it is a family enterprise. My wife, for example: simply by helping me out and being let in on everything she has become so adept at managing the shop I am even more comfortable leaving it in her hands, when I travel for example, than when it is in my own hands. Women have a way about them, and a certain sensitivity that, given her experience and knowledge, makes her a very successful manager of the shop. All my children, nephews and nieces, come here to lend a hand in their free time. The girls will chop up the vegetables to decorate the pizzas, for example, while the boys might work the ovens or knead the dough. They love it, and so do I..." Hagg Omar excuses himself to supervise the konafa making, which provides the promised photo op. "I like to supervise everything very closely, yes," he begins once we are back. "There are well- kept secrets, yes, no doubt. And I no longer divulge them to anyone except my wife and children. I learned my lesson when a worker whom I had employed for 10 years and told everything went off and set up shop right in front of me, luring away my customers." Of the konafa making secrets he mentions only this: "Some people use only oil, water and salt in the dough; others use milk and ghee besides. This konafa can taste so different." But how does Hagg Omar guarantee the taste of his baked goodies when the workers who produce them do not know all the secrets? "They know bits and pieces," he responds. "They know most of what they need to know in order for the food to taste right. But I'll tell you something: some customers will come in and demand that I, not the workers, produce a certain fetira for them. Because they say that when I do it, it's something else. And this is what differentiates a worker from a seasoned fatatri. It's an art, as I have said. And it has developed significantly over time." First, he explains, the sweet fetira comprised a simple pie topped with ground sugar. Now, besides the nuts, jam, cream, even unsold konafa is grilled to perfection and mixed with sugar to be added to the stuffing. "I don't sell anything that has stayed overnight. But as far as possible nothing is wasted, either." Hagg Omar's grandfather provided the ground work, he says, the basic principles. "Since then, though, the profession has progressed so far, it would be barely recognisable to him." And the progress goes beyond the ingredients. Egyptian pizza -- one obvious example -- has been added to the canon. Fetir is baked in a far broader range of ways. "And then I like to experiment," Hagg Omar says. "Say it occurs to me to add anchovies to a certain kind of fetir, altering the constituents of the dough itself to match. I try it out. If I like it, I offer it to the customer. Then, there you have it: the birth of anchovy fetir." Art and trade aside, the most interesting aspect of Hagg Omar's vision is its global perspective. He has worked in a number of Arab countries, notably in Qatar, where he presided over his own shop for many years. An offer to establish a shop in Canada was rejected because of a reluctance to depart. Another, similar offer -- this time the destination is Australia -- is currently, in Hagg Omar's own words, under review. "It's a hard decision to make. Even when I lived abroad I always knew I would come back and settle down here in my own country, among my own people. One of my brothers has been working in Saudi Arabia for 22 years now," he confides, "and the last time he was here we discussed the prospect of his return. He asked me about the viability of practising the profession and I was very positive. However depressed the economic conditions, I told him, people will never want to stop eating. And it's not as if our food is in any way expensive, either. So he will come back and establish a shop. Much as I regret the fact that we are unlikely to be expanding in the West -- because we want to be here -- my ambition is to establish a whole chain of Al-Captain, like Kentucky Fried Chicken -- the secret ingredient. We already do home delivery within Haram but hopefully that too will expand. In the end," Hagg Omar smiles again, "an educated kanafani must keep up with the times. Otherwise that education, that subtle thing that education adds to you, is of no value whatsoever." Photos: Youssef Rakha
