A traditional Ramadhan treat gets a modern remake

Observer

28-03-2025

As the minutes ticked closer to sundown, the crowd grew more impatient, pressing against the glass display case, shouting and shoving bills towards the young men filling order after order of the Ramadhan sweet bread.
'If you please." What is this stuffed with?' 'Sir, take my money!' 'Just be patient!' The high-pressure volley of queries, entreaties and pleas for patience plays out each evening of Ramadhan as Syrians jostle for marook, a sweet bread eaten here during the fasting month. As the time of Iftar, the breaking of the fast, nears, a day's worth of hunger pangs combine with jockeying among patrons desperate to get their marook loaves and rush home before the call to prayer sounds from mosque minarets.
There is a hint of tension in the air, but much more pronounced is the smell of baked bread, sugar and chocolate.
Marook, a simple sweetened bread sprinkled with sesame seeds, has been a part of Syrian Ramadhan traditions for generations. Each year, as bakeries — and the occasional pizza parlour — devote their entire production to it during Ramadhan, new variations emerge to satiate evolving tastes.
Syrians are proud of their rich culinary traditions, but not precious about allowing them to evolve. There are now olives in the fattoush salad. Onions in the shawarma. Parsley in the hummus.
And then there is marook, which comes in so many different iterations that bakeries post long lists of all their offerings, some unrecognisable from the original. Perhaps unavoidably given the viral food trend, a Dubai chocolate marook appeared in some shops this year.
Bakers prepare marook, the sweet bread beloved during Ramadan in Syria, at the Al Jouzeh bakery in Damascus.— NYT
Prices differ from bakery to bakery. Individual loaves often cost around 4,000 Syrian pounds, less than 50 cents, while large ones — depending on how fancy they are — can go up to 45,000 pounds.
'The older people like the classic for sure,' said Tareq al Abyad, owner of one bakery, Al Jouzeh, standing between racks stacked with trays of marook. 'I even get surprised by the new ones. For me, I only like the plain one. But I don't sell only what I like; I have to sell what the customers want.' On the other side of the glass counter his customers stood on the sidewalk calling out their orders above the honking in the street behind them. Occasionally they had to dodge a bicycle or motorcycle racing onto the sidewalk to avoid the bumper-to-bumper traffic on the road as everyone rushed to make it home in time for Iftar.
At Al Jouzeh, baking begins at 6 am. The bakers eat Suhoor, the predawn meal before the fast, at home, then arrive for an exhausting day of kneading, stuffing, glazing and sprinkling.
They work like a well-oiled assembly line.
Mohammad Hilwan, 20, from the Old City in Damascus, has been working at the bakery for more than a year.
'My dear, just one with dates,' said Salih Muhammad, 41, as he stuck his head behind the counter trying to manoeuvrer past the crowd.
'There are no more date ones, uncle,' 17-year-old Muhammad Khawla told him — and then reiterated this for his co-workers. 'Guys,' he said, 'there are no more date ones.'
'We don't know exactly what's still left,' said Khawla, wearing an orange sweatshirt with a Syrian map and the date and time marking the fall of the Assad regime in December. By that point the sweatshirt was smeared with their many flavours on offer: chocolate, pistachio and Biscoff.
Amid the flurry of business, the young men behind the counter didn't always have time to count all the Syrian bills they were being handed by customers. Currency depreciation over the course of the war has meant that even small everyday purchases can require a thick stack of bills.
With only minutes remaining before Iftar, seconds can matter, and some customers did not bother waiting for their change.
Khawla handed over an order of five coconut marooks, five Biscoff-flavoured ones and a bubbly to a regular customer, an older man, and stepped away to get his change. When he turned back, holding out a stack of 1,000 Syrian notes, he scanned the thinning crowd for him in vain.
'Where's the hajji?' asked Khawla, using an honorific for older people. Then he laughed. 'The hajji has rushed home,' he said. — The New York Times