Finding tradition and modernity in the desert

National Geographic

22-07-2025

A National Geographic Explorer eats through the culinary past, present, and future of
Abu Dhabi. National Geographic Explorer Jenny Dorsey follows a nomadic journey across the desert, seeing how traditional food culture still influences Abu Dhabi today. Video by National Geographic CreativeWorks
"A nation without a past is a country without a present or a future."—the late Sheikh Zayed bin Sultan Al Nahyan.
I saw this quote on wall after wall in Abu Dhabi. It's an apt statement that captures the beauty and tension of a city navigating what it means to evolve, but perhaps not to reinvent itself entirely.
This was my first time in the UAE, and it showed—especially when I was hungry. Besides knowing certain things, such as the now-viral Dubai chocolate, or dishes like kunafa (which has taken Singapore by storm), I was furiously tapping away on my phone with the screen image of every restaurant menu. Machboos, haleem… these were all new words to me. Their preparations, too. What felt familiar, however, was seeing how evocative a single dish could be across so many contexts of a changing city. Whether it's hot chicken, dim sum, or—as I'd recently eaten in Singapore—varying presentations of Peranakan ayam buah keluak, each interpretation of a dish revealed something about the time, place, and character of its culture.
The UAE's rapid transformation from fishing villages to a global metropolis has created a particular relationship with food—a combination of active construction alongside preservation. With so much having been built in the past few decades, the kinds of experiences and traditions deemed worthy of maintaining from past times are potentially contentious. When it comes to familiar foods, dishes, or ingredients, identifying what exactly within them serves for cultural continuity is no small order. From humble beginnings as fishing communities on the coast, Abu Dhabi has grown to become the mighty capital of the UAE. Despite its modernity, the metropolis still holds tradition dear, evident in the preservation of the heart and soul of its cuisine. Photograph by MATTHIEU PALEY
This delicate dance of now and then, this question of how Abu Dhabi sees itself versus how it wants others to see it, was clear at the central fish market. Inside, the offerings ranged from luxurious—spiny lobsters, crabs chock-full of roe, tiger prawns the size of my hand—to more familiar ones, like farmed salmon and grouper. But even with a veritably international set of offerings, hammour is still the local favorite. A type of rock cod, it's a firm, white fish I've never eaten before. In the back of the market, I watch several dozen fishmongers deftly handle them (alongside lots of other seafood), all trimmed and cut to order on a bevy of stainless steel tables. Hungry patrons can also bring their cleaned cuts to one of the grill shops inside the market to be cooked on the spot. Mina Zayed fish souk fish market is Abu Dhabi's seafood hub, offering the very best of the day's catch, including local favorite, the deliciously dense white fish, hammour. Photograph by ADOBE STOCK
My market guide points out an adjacent room where fishermen still bring in their daily catch to be examined and bid for by each fish stall. I find myself wondering: What are the touchpoints we use to measure a society's development? What does honoring tradition mean at a personal or a social level? What is the work of becoming something… new?
The question isn't whether this new market constitutes "real" tradition, but instead how communities navigate the space between cultural practice and cultural presentation. As I sit down to eat chargrilled hammour at Al Shader restaurant, I learn that most of the cooks at seafood restaurants are Egyptian—especially Northern Egyptian—they know their fish, my guide tells me. But the flair of the fish's presentation was the restaurant's own. And flair it was: The whole fish came on a boat of aluminum foil, topped by a molded swan, in between two wells of flamed salt. While preparations in other countries encase the fish and set it on fire to cook its flesh, here it was adapted to be theatrical and visually striking—a memorable experience for diners.
Later, at Erth restaurant, I see a different kind of adaptation. Meaning 'legacy' in Arabic, Erth is a peaceful, earth-toned space filled with natural textures. Executive Chef Arivukkarasan Ravikkumar tells me about the lengths he goes to in using traditional techniques and sourcing ingredients from the surrounding area, including Abu Dhabi and Al Ain, while his food presentation reflects contemporary fine dining. Doing so requires a certain type of cultural bilingualism: Speaking both to internal traditions and external expectations, ever changing, ever present.
This balance came to the fore amid a sandstorm in the Arabian Desert. As we attempted to set up camp and dig a pit to roast our whole lamb, following in the footsteps of the Bedouin tribes before us, the shifting ground beneath us struggled back. Us travelers were eager to learn the secrets of the sand and taste its succulent rewards, but some things simply cannot be rushed. Nomadic people like the Bedouin made an arduous journey from what is now Abu Dhabi to Al Ain—necessitating specific methods of cooking and eating in the starkness of the desert. Photograph by ADOBE STOCK
Acquiring the kind of knowledge necessary to survive in such an extreme environment—reading weather patterns, finding water sources, and understanding animal behavior—took our guide, Ali, decades. Some materials may have modernized, but techniques remains the same. Wrapping the lamb in aluminum foil before covering it with sand felt like a meditation on what changes and what endures. Hours later, we ate hungrily as a team, spiced oils dripping through our fingers and softening our pita bread. It felt like an ode to the spirit of zarb (the ancient Bedouin cooking technique) and a testament to the level of camaraderie that only comes with a long, hot, and sandy day.
We officially crossed the desert in the wee hours of the morning. On the other side was Al Ain Oasis. Surrounded by almost 150,000 date palms, I wondered if the oasis might've looked like a mirage to early explorers. After traversing such barren wilderness—the last part of the desert crossing is known as the 'Empty Quarter'—to hear the melody of water flowing down the mountainsides must've been revelatory. The irrigation system that makes this possible, the falaj, represents a distinctly different philosophy of progress. For 3,000 years, these underground channels have moved water from mountain aquifers to desert gardens. The technology is unconcerned with novelty and invisible unless you know where to look for it. Even after so much time and innovation, it remains what quietly powers this 'Living Oasis' agricultural miracle.
I eat one last meal at Al Fanar restaurant, sharing mutton machboos with the camera crew. The dish is distinct in its caramelized tomato flavor, a feature I learned is sometimes included at the chef's preference. It's a fitting conclusion to my time here, an ode to the creative work underpinning cultural connections across time. Sheikh Zayed's words echo again: Perhaps it's not about having traditions preserved "correctly," but having them evolve in ways that reflect the diversity of people.
I began my journey in Abu Dhabi with questions about what it means to achieve modernity in a place steeped in history. Having been privileged to enjoy such a full itinerary, I observed how each person has found unique ways to maintain their connections with the past, make meaning of the ongoing change in the present, and adapt without losing their core identity. Seeing that it's humans who make the nation, perhaps that's indicative of what this era of change represents for the UAE as well: Not so much idolizing "authentic" experiences, but celebrating the complexity and creativity within the everyday work of cultural adaptation.
Discover more of Abu Dhabi here.