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Al-Ahram Weekly 24 Feb. - 1 March 2000 Issue No. 470 
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Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Al-Ahram Weekly 24 Feb. - 1 March 2000 Issue No. 470
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| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Egypt Region International Economy Opinion Culture Features Focus Heritage Profile Travel Living Sports People Time Out Chronicles Cartoons Letters The empire of the bean
By Yasmine El-Rashidi
If we were to compare Cairo to Manhattan, we could match the Cairo Tower with the Empire State Building, Abu El-Ela with the Brooklyn Bridge, the Mugamma with City Hall, and 26th July with 42nd Street.
But when one walks down 42nd street -- past New Balance, Speedo and one building of the City University of New York -- to the intersection of Fifth Avenue, one comes to a key landmark; one of the things that is a core of any Manhattanite's daily life.
Of course. It is none other than Starbucks Coffee -- that crucial coffee house which adorns every corner and its neighbour, from 116th and Broadway to 108th and Columbus to 96th and Broadway, Penn Station, and on.
Manhattan has Starbucks. But Cairo, we gloat, has Simonds.
The Simonds of today, however, is not quite what it was before. Not because the coffee has changed or the place has moved or the cappuccino master has moved on. Rather, because the younger clientele -- whose New York City counterparts have embraced cappuccinos, frappuccinos, iced lattes, tall lattes, and espressos like they were the hippest drinks to ever grace the planet -- just aren't ready to give the coffee bean -- in any form, by any name -- the kind of place the shisha (water pipe) is afforded in globalising, modern-day Cairo cafés today.
"A young man was in here a few weeks ago waiting for his friends," says Amm Arabi, Simonds' master of ceremonies since 1965, "and when they came and asked him what he would drink, he said stretto [unsweetened Turkish coffee]. They said, 'Oh no, no, we don't drink these things.' They thought it was something alcoholic!"
Instead of embracing the coffee empire as they did fast-food, hip-hop tunes, and blue jeans, Cairo's hippest shabab have accepted the concept -- with their own Café Grande, Coffee Roastery, and Coffeeology 101 -- but not the product. And even when they do venture out to the authentic coffee bar itself, they sit atop the high metal stools and order lemonades and orange juices, teas and mini pizzas.
But were the by-gone days reminiscent of the Starbucks reign today?
"We still have our old customers who order the same thing -- most of them cappuccino -- in their special mugs. But now we also have young people and tourists and passers-by. Before, it was just regulars."
Photo: Randa Shaath
The regulars were replaced for the most part by sporadic visitors, and the pashas or beys by unemployed intellectuals. And whether at Simonds in Zamalek or on Sherif Street, the routine has slackened from Manhattanite rigidity to Cairo's laid-back pace.
"Each customer had a routine," says Amm Arabi. "They would come in on certain days at a specific time, nod hello, and in a minute their drink would be ready. As soon as a customer would walk in I would know immediately what I had to prepare. They each had their specific tastes."
Black, white or sepia; sweet, plain or sickly sweet: orders were known and tastes mastered to a T.
But while today the world-renowned Italian Gaggia cappuccino machine may not be exploited to its full capacity, and a mass of new faces enters the café-patisserie from one week to the next, the greatest change of all comes in a handful of the clientele.
Where once sat Umm Kulthoum and Abdel-Halim Hafez, now sit Samir Sabri and Nagwa Ibrahim. And instead of Faten Hamama and Ihsan Abdel-Quddous, there are now Mervat Ragab and Ibrahim Shaqanqiri.
"Umm Kulthoum used to come in here three times a week," Arabi says, arranging napkins and spoons on the coffee plates in front of him. "She used to walk around the shop for five minutes, then come and sit here" -- he indicates the marble-topped counter with his chin -- "and ask me to list all the drinks we had. So I would tell her all the coffees and juices, Ovaltine and hot chocolate."
She would sit, think, then order lemonade and a single slice of brown toast.
"Every time the exact same thing," he laughs. "But that was a long time ago."
It was a past few people know of. Of those who do, though, Prince Hassan has stuck to his old routine.
"He comes in the afternoon around 3.00," says Amm Arabi. "He sits over there," he says pointing to a counter adjoining a pillar in the centre of the shop, "and he orders the same thing he has been ordering for years."
That order, he explains, is espresso without sugar and a croissant or pâté.
"And if I'm not here he doesn't drink," he adds sternly.
As it turns out, many people don't.
"People wait until Amm Arabi is here," says one 40-something customer sitting at the coffee bar. "With professional coffee machines like this, the difference is in the maker, because it's all in the way the coffee is tamped down. Amm Arabi's the best, there's no question about it."
The evidence lies in a white plastic bag he brings out from behind his barman-type slot.
"These," he smiles, handing over the treasure, "are all the letters and thank-you notes people have written me over the years."
Hellos from Ethiopia, greetings from Canada, love from America, and thoughts from Australia. It is a collection that boasts stamps from a seemingly endless number of countries around the world.
To the stamp collector, the rubber band-bound cards are a great joy. But to the local Cairene, the rest of the package is the real fun.
In a tattered diary from the 1980s, which makes up an entire private collection, are notes from both locals -- famed and unknown -- and foreigners: the ambassador to France, Laila Takla, Ali Salem, Ahmed Zaki, Mahmoud Sultan, and Samia El-Etrebi of Hakawi Al-Qahawi (Coffee Shop Tales) fame.
And close to the middle, making up what would be a good centre-fold, are two line-drawings; one of Amm Arabi, and the other of the less famous morning-shift coffee-maker, Hashem.
"The artist is an Egyptian who used to live in Spain," he says, pointing to the signature, which reads "TAD".
They would look nice hanging on a wall in Arabi's home -- at first glance, that is. For when one looks closer, below the name at a scrawl of black ink, one finds the signature of well-known Egyptian caricaturist and artist Georges Bahgory. Beside it, he has taken the liberty of grading the work.
"5/10", his handwriting reads. A few pages later, there is a sketch of his own!
"My books are full of wonderful souvenirs," Arabi laughs. "And everyone says such nice words."
"I want you to know," wrote one American journalist, "that you make the best coffee in Cairo -- indeed, Egypt, and maybe the world."
Chances are that those from that other great city, halfway across the globe -- the elite Manhattan dwellers themselves -- would appreciate the 'coffee king of Cairo' in much the same way the country's older generation have embraced him.
The difference between Starbucks today and Simonds back then, however, is that although the coffee may be equally good (Simonds-goers will beg to differ), and the selection vast on both counts, Simonds is exclusive while Starbucks is assembly-line; and a Starbucks coffee averages $2, while one at Simonds strips you of just a pound.
The most striking difference, however, is that in Cairo coffee represents the older generation; those who still order tea and petits fours, don't believe in wearing baseball caps indoors, and never ever miss an after-lunch nap. In New York City, though, coffee equals cool. It symbolises youth and intellectualism -- the young writer, actor, graduate student, who has so much to do and so much to learn, yet so little time. The solution to this mad rush to get somewhere, do something, be someone, fast, lies in a 24-hour coffee lounge, piles of papers and books, and hit after hit of extra-strong coffee.
The young Cairene's alternative? Relax with a shisha and a friend. Enjoy life and society, the warm weather and fresh fruit juice. No need to rush, no point in perplexing -- calm down, chill out, life is too short to be surrounded with papers. There is always tomorrow.
