Kenyan, Brazilian, Arabica, long or short latte with or without a shot of espresso, cappuccino, plain coffee with milk or fancy herbal teas -- all are available on demand 24/7 at the coffee shops that have sprouted up over the last decade in almost every quarter of Cairo. Fayza Hassan samples the offerings of coffee culture Lost age of the salon de thé This year marks the centenary of Groppi's tearoom on Adli Street, Fayza Hassan marks the occasion In 1908 Giacomo Groppi, a Swiss national, founded his new teashop on Maghrabi (now Adli) Street in Cairo. Soon, Maison Groppi "became the chief purveyor of chocolates to monarchs and pashas throughout the Middle East," in the words of Samir Raafat in his book Cairo, the Glory Years. It seems that in those days Groppi's was many things to many people. The best pastry shop in Egypt, it rivaled the most famous patisseries in France, as was acknowledged by hundred of travelers. It was also from Groppi's kitchens that crème Chantilly emerged for the first time in Egypt, the process having been learnt in France. Groppi kept his recipes a secret and employed a different cook to make each item so that no one person would possess all the information necessary to replicate the delicacy on his own. His charcuterie was second to none, and he imported what he could not grow or find in Egypt. According to Raafat, "after a short apprenticeship with an uncle in Lugano and brief employment in Provence -- Groppi arrived in Egypt in 1880 to take up employment at Maison Gianola, a popular Swiss pastry and teashop on Bawaki Street, Cairo. In 1890, 27-year-old Giacomo Groppi bought out Gianola's interests in its Alexandria Rue de France branch and proceeded to open his own pastry and dairy shop." Some 15 years later Groppi retired, selling his business in 1906 to Frenchman Auguste Baudrot, who ran the most famous tearoom in Alexandria for the following 60 years. However, Groppi lost his savings in the 1907 economic crash and had to go back to work. He moved his activities to Cairo, where he established the Adli tearoom, which opened to the public at Christmas 1909. It proved to be a very successful business, and there was a need for a second branch. It was Achilles, Giacomo's son, who was responsible for the opening of the new Groppi's tearoom and rotunda in Soliman Pacha Square in 1926 (now Talaat Harb Square). The architect Mazza designed the unique art déco premises inspired by a model exhibited at the international fair in Paris, and A. Casterman created the beautiful mosaics that are still visible today. This is the Groppi's I knew when I was growing up in the 1940s, although as children we were only allowed in at Christmas and Easter to admire the outlandish displays of chocolates, watched over by a huge Santa Claus complete with sleigh and reindeers, or the oversized chocolate eggs from which spilled yellow feathery little chicks, a few of which were given to us as a reward for our mother's hefty bill. Groppi imported watercress, which had not been known in Egypt before. My mother bought quantities of it to make cress soup, which she served with a dollop of cream. On such days she also bought charcuterie, as well as croissants that she stuffed with cheese and tiny portions of smoked tongue. She called this a "Swiss meal," probably in honour of Mr Groppi. On some afternoons, she ordered cakes that were home-delivered for tea. These often included what was called a "Neapolitan," a fruit cake featuring more candied fruit than cake and steeped in liqueur. I loved it so much that it is a wonder I did not pursue the exploration of alcoholic beverages further. However, Groppi's aim was to attract a larger public than merely children addicted to his specialty choux à la crème. This was a time when children did not really count as consumers, unlike today, and it was the adults that had to be courted. In Groppi's they could enjoy a sophisticated coffee shop and also, even more importantly, the famous thé dansant, an afternoon and early evening event that gathered well-heeled Cairene society. My parents were habitués of the thé dansants, and even though I never had a chance to see what was going on for myself I always fantasised about what my parents and older sisters did there, dressed to the nines with their fancy hairstyles and heady perfumes. Once I heard my father comment that he had again been criticised in the newspapers, being referred to as the young MP who regularly attended the event and removed his tarboush to foxtrot with his European wife. "Would they rather I kept the tarboush on, or let it roll on the floor while I was doing the Charleston?" he asked. I was fascinated and wanted to know more. What was the "Charleston" that caused tarboushes to roll on the floor? My mother simply shrugged. She did not think that the Arabic newspapers were able to produce a proper society column, and therefore she dismissed them. Many of these pleasurable activities came to a halt in 1952 when the Egyptian population turned against its cosmopolitan element and burned the establishments owned by foreigners. On the evening of that day, Cairo was engulfed in the bitter- sweet smell of burning Groppi's chocolate. I think that after that my mother stayed at home in the evenings, and my father spent his evenings at El-Shams café, a venue probably more in line with his status as a parliamentarian. Many years later I found my mother less nonchalant about patronising coffee shops when I strayed from university to sit with a couple of friends at L'Américaine, Groppi's more hip sister foundation downtown, which featured a bit of a terrace on the pavement of Soliman Pacha Street. I had just come back from Paris where, with my parents, we had sat everyday at a different café to watch the passers-by. I had fancied myself then as an intellectual sitting with Simone de Beauvoir, Sartre, Juliette Greco and Barbara, dismissing from my mind the presence of the family. I had sat as far from our table as I could and pretended to observe them as if they were the subject of a book I might write one day. Now back in Cairo, I was dying to sit with people my age in a café and have intellectual discussions. We should have a place where we could become habitués, I insisted. All French intellectuals had a favourite café. However, I knew that both Groppi's were forbidden because of the effendis who would spend their entire days there sipping cups of coffee and ogling the female population. Artemis Cooper in her book Cairo in the War confirms this. Describing Groppi's she writes, "there were two, one on Midan Soliman Pasha and the other on Adli Pasha Street which boasted a garden where pashas came to sip coffee and eat cream cakes with their Levantine mistresses, and where officers on leave looked out for female companionship." That is probably why as a teenager I could only go there if accompanied by an adult. However, neither Groppi's was really on the sidewalk, and I had never seen youngsters sitting together on the rare occasions when I went in with my mother for a quick cup of tea before resuming our shopping. While Groppi's was out of bounds, no one had said anything about L'Américaine or Lappas, another famous coffee shop on Qasr el-Nil Street. We opted for the Américaine, the closest to a street café, because I asserted it would be "more French." The traffic was scarce, and we ran all the way from AUC to our destination, stealing glances now and then at the boutiques in case one of our mothers had decided to go shopping despite the heat. We arrived safely, and without wasting a minute pushed our way through to reach a table near the rail that separated the customers from the street. It was only after accommodating ourselves that we noticed that we were the only women in the crowded, rather shabby place, and that all the other customers were watching us, taken aback by our unusual arrival. I wanted to order beer or wine because I fancied that was what they drank in France, but I thought better of it and settled for coffee. I racked my brains for an intelligent topic of conversation and was holding forth quite successfully, I thought, when I felt a firm grip on my collar and with a cry of surprise turned around to find myself face to face with my mother. She pulled at my shirt, shouting something that was lost in the din but which I knew had to do with women of ill-repute frequenting cafés. She pushed me roughly into the car and hissed, "you have AUC and the Gezira Club. If that is not enough, you can stay at home and we will arrange a marriage for you." I knew the marriage part was an empty threat, but the keeping me at home probably was not. Neither of my parents was overly impressed with my academic performance, which was mostly concentrated on enhancing my social life. Therefore, I put an end to this part of my intellectual development and forgot about writing books. However, I still believe that sitting in coffee shops is an essential part of the life of any intellectual worth his or her salt.
