All along Faissal District—where high-rise buildings stand alongside narrow streets and streams of people intertwine very much like the transportation network serving them—Greater Cairo appears in its densest and most chaotic aspects. Here, in this expanse that brings together Egyptians, who have flocked from the provinces seeking a better livelihood, and Sudanese refugees driven across the border by violence and political unrest in their country, something like a “confluence of oppressed people” takes shape (the district also hosts Yemenis fleeing war in their country). Daily life in Faissal seems like a rushing river, a tangle of microbuses, Tuk-Tuks, and human movement, dominated by a rapid rhythm that sets it quite apart from the calmness and breadth of Khartoum.
Amidst this crowded world, a small Sudanese restaurant appears, no larger than forty square meters, yet it manages to draw attention. Outside its door, a short line forms—Sudanese and Egyptians waiting for their packaged meals—while inside the premises, there are small tables teeming with patrons from both countries sharing food. Directly beside the restaurant stands a Sudanese bakery, from which the smell of bread drifts, and next to it a modest café that turns into a gathering point for large numbers of Sudanese people in the evening.
It would be recalled that the year 2018 saw the beginning of the socio-political movement which paved the way for the 2019 Sudanese revolution, heralding the end of the era of General Omar El-Bachir, after three decades of rule. Yet, the promising transformation remained incomplete, as power passed on to two other generals: Mohamed Hamdan Daqalo (Hemedti), commander of the Rapid Support Forces, and Abdelfettah Al-Burhan, commander of the army and head of the Sovereignty Council—two figures whose names are associated with a bloody record during the Darfur wars, and who became the guardians of post-revolution Sudan. This incomplete political transition ultimately led to war in 2023, a comprehensive war which swept all of Sudan. With the fall of Khartoum –a scene reminiscent of its fall to the British back in 1898—the city experienced one of the largest waves of displacement in its modern history. Tens of thousands of its residents crossed lands and took desert routes—some on foot, others in overcrowded cars, across the border in search of a safe refuge in Egypt. Amidst this turmoil, working in the Sudanese food sector has become an essential lifeline for thousands of Sudanese people hailing from various classes and backgrounds. For them, cooking has become not merely a profession, but a means—perhaps the only means—to reclaim a measure of stability and semblance of identity.
Nothing in the scene of the small Sudanese restaurant suggests that it is entirely new; yet in reality, it has only emerged over the last two years. In fact, Sudanese restaurants and bakeries—often accompanied by a café where Sudanese nationals gather—have become quite a widespread phenomenon across many areas in Greater Cairo, Alexandria, and some cities in Upper Egypt. It is as though Sudanese cuisine did not come to Egypt merely in search of a place where to set up and cook meals, but to establish a daily space for encounter, a small space offering respite amidst a suffocating economic crisis endured by Egyptians and Sudanese, alike. The spread of Sudanese cuisine has come at a time when a large proportion of Egyptians is undergoing financial crises, impelling many to adopt non-conventional, yet economical food alternatives—alternatives which, for some willing to try them, may well become part of their dietary habits.
The presence of these Sudanese restaurants seems like an artery stretching all the way from Khartoum to Cairo, in small, yet memory-laden spaces, filled with the rituals of food consumption and attempts to preserve a semblance of home in a new turbulent environment. As Egyptian customers enter these spaces to eat or to purchase food, whole new dynamics emerge - daily mingling, shared conversations replete with Egyptian expressions of solidarity against the deadly war in Sudan, along with first experiences with the cuisine and comparisons between the two cultures—all often unfolding within a narrow space where everyone shares the same table.
The most pressing questions arising from this remarkable proliferation are as follows: is it because the dense presence of Sudanese people –in the wake of a massive wave of displacement provoked by the recent war—has created a commercial demand that has quickly turned into a trend (bearing in mind that according to an ACAPS report release last May as many as 1.5 million Sudanese have moved to Egypt)? Many restaurants now have multiple branches across different areas. Or, is it rather because Egyptians are seeking cheap food alternatives amid inflation that erodes their purchasing power, or simply, are Egyptian looking for Sudanese food out of curiosity? And could food, in its simplicity and closeness to people, become a fast track to understanding the wave of sudden change that is sweeping many Egyptian cities and neighborhoods?
The introduction, which begins with a description of a small restaurant does not end here; it extends to a whole map that is taking shape today—a map of displacement which is redrawing entire Egyptians neighborhoods; an expanding Egyptian palate that is eager to experiment with new food, under pressing economic conditions; and Sudanese nostalgia striving to find a place of its own—even if that place should be a space no larger than forty square meters on a crowded sidewalk.
Mapping the Spread of Sudanese Cuisine in Egypt
No one expected that many Egyptian areas would, within the span of a few years only, morph into an array of regional markets marked by a striking proliferation of Sudanese restaurants, bakeries, and `Attarah shops—i.e., shops specialized in selling herbs, medicinal plants, spices, and incense brought from Sudan. This phenomenon was once limited to a few historically Sudanese enclaves in Cairo, such as Abdeen and Sayyida Zeinab neighborhoods in central and southern Cairo. The spread was not clamorous or deliberate; it came gradually, like a flavor slowly seeping into the air, then asserting its presence among the foods consumed by Egyptians.
Tracing the emerging geography of Sudanese cuisine, one finds that Greater Cairo has become the most densely populated center for such establishments. In districts as Faissal, Ard Al-Lewa, `Ein As-Shems As-Sharqiah, and others, for instance, a ten-minute walk is often enough to encounter a Sudanese restaurant, bakery, or supermarket. While these food premises are typically small—no more than a few square meters—they are perpetually crowded with patrons.
Sudanese presence, however, is not confined to Cairo alone. In Alexandria, as well, Sudanese restaurants can be found in Al-Manshiyah, Ar-Raml Station, Sidi Bishr, Al-Siyouf, and Al-`Ajamy. The city, long accustomed to assimilating cultures and re-articulating them, has embraced Sudanese cuisine with notable warmth, particularly in its densely-populated neighborhoods.
The Alexandrian districts where Sudanese communities are concentrated are largely similar to those in Greater Cairo: popular districts with open social fabrics that readily receive newcomers and allow them to integrate more socially enclosed classes without much friction. Besides, these largely popular neighborhoods offer lower living costs and a greater capacity to accommodate new arrivals without the usual difficulties opposed by class-based or social barriers.
This pattern is not incidental; it reflects a clear Sudanese preference for areas characterized by high population density, affordable prices, and the existence of an informal support networks that help newcomers settle quickly. Over the past decade, the majority of Sudanese people arriving in Egypt has naturally gravitated towards these same neighborhoods—often through the intermediation of relatives, friends, or acquaintances who preceded them—reinforcing a sense of collective familiarity in an unfamiliar place. In such districts, difference becomes less conspicuous, and the vibrancy of the streets and the everyday culture of “living together” offer a feeling of proximity to their home and a sense of social security, albeit minimal.
A third center of Sudanese presence in Egypt is to be found in the Governorate of Asswān, which borders Sudan. The politics of gastronomy and food commerce there are more complex, though. Asswān forms part of a shared historical continuum between Egypt and northern Sudan, and Sudanese cuisine has, therefore, never been alien or “imported,” but rather a natural extension of centuries-old ties. What is new, however, is the increase in the number of restaurants after the outbreak of war—which is perhaps why they have not spread in Asswān with the same momentum or ease as in Greater Cairo.
The forms through which Sudanese cuisine has made its presence felt are diverse, varying according to social class affiliation and the character of individual neighborhoods. At one end of the spectrum, one finds the large, pricy restaurants that are patterned after Egypt’s major spacious dining establishments. A group of affluent Sudanese people have managed to open such venues, most of which serve Sudanese dishes, at times alongside Egyptian ones. There even exists a major Sudanese chain, owned by a Sudanese businessman, with multiple branches in Khartoum and the provinces. Following the outbreak of war, three more branches were opened in Greater Cairo, in upscale residential districts, such as Sheikh Zayed district. On the opposite end of the spectrum, one finds a model that is quite different in terms of spirit and character: the small Sudanese eateries that are scattered throughout popular neighborhoods. Modest in size, they often have small food-display carts positioned at their entrances, drawing in many Egyptians who enjoy trying new dishes that are proposed at affordable prices.
Equally noteworthy is the rise of home-based Sudanese kitchens, akin to the “home-cooked food” services that are now widespread in Egypt. This kind of venues is one of the most striking recent developments. Sudanese women living in small apartments create Facebook pages where they showcase “authentic Sudanese meals” and offer daily delivery services to dozens of families, Sudanese and Egyptian, alike. This phenomenon suggests that although many Sudanese women possess the same skills and capacities as Sudanese men—especially in restaurant work, a field traditionally sustained by Sudanese labor—they are unable to participate in the sector in the same way, due to constraints related to Egyptian labor-market dynamics, including the difficulty of working in Sudanese concentrated districts. Consequently, they have turned to technology, and in so doing, have given rise to the concept of mobile or home-based Sudanese kitchens. Social media has thus opened a space that enables Sudanese women to work on a footing equal to that of men.
These kitchens have shifted the experience from “restaurant” to “home,” and from an occasional individual choice to a weekly routine for many families. Such is the case of Afiyah Muhammed, a young Sudanese woman who arrived in Egypt immediately after the start of the war and now runs a home-cooked food service from her small apartment in Nasr Street, assisted by housemates who help her prepare the meals.
Because Afiyah targets Egyptian working women seeking alternatives to home cooking, she did not limit herself to Sudanese recipes alone; she also learned how to prepare Egyptian dishes. This was not difficult for a Sudanese woman who already shared cultural and social affinities with Egypt. Together with her colleagues, she has been able to offer a distinctive home-style dining experience that blends Sudanese and Egyptian flavors, attracting numerous Egyptian families looking for homemade meals with a unique character. This fusion reveals the depth of cultural overlaps between the two cuisines and may pave the way for greater integration and the emergence of new hybrid recipes in the future.
It is noteworthy that most Sudanese food entrepreneurs today belong to two principal waves of migration: an earlier wave that arrived for study, work, or medical treatment and ultimately chose to settle in Egypt. A more recent wave, which has marked the last few years, has been driven largely by political and economic factors, as well as better living conditions. Some among them had previously worked in the culinary sector in Sudan, while others had never cooked professionally before coming to Egypt, but found in food-work a safe industry, through which to begin a new life with minimal financial capital—eventually transforming these ventures into steady source of income.
In a small restaurant tucked away on one of the side streets branching off `Ishrīn Street in Faissal district, Mohammed Ahmed stands behind the counter of his modest eatery, Ibn An-Nīl (Son of the Nile), attending to the orders of his Sudanese, Egyptian, and Yemini customers. He is assisted by two young men—one Sudanese, the other Egyptian—who have worked with him since the restaurant opened in the middle of 2018, shortly after he arrived in Egypt with members of his family to seek medical treatment for their father. Following the COVID-19 pandemic, the family decided to settle permanently in Egypt and to bring the rest of their relatives over to live with them.
Just as Mohammed helps deliver the freshly prepared dishes to the patrons seated at the three tables inside his small premises, he also prepares falafel, fūl, and fried potato sandwiches late into the night. This allows many people who begin their day late—especially the workers serving in the numerous industrial workshops that dot the area—to obtain a filling meal at an affordable price.
Having worked in the restaurant trade since his days in Omdurman and being known for his distinctive skill in food preparation, many of his neighboring shopkeepers rely on him for their daily lunch—either eating on-site or purchasing meals to take home. Mohammed notes that for more than two years now, the restaurant has cultivated a regular Egyptian clientele who arrive at set times each day, particularly students coming from the many tutoring centers in the neighborhood, as well as workers from nearby workshops that regularly request Sudanese-style sandwiches.
Immediately adjacent to Ibn An-Nīl stands a newly-opened Al-Qurāsa bakery, which produces a type of Sudanese bread somewhat similar in form and preparation to Ethiopian Injera. The bakery, owned by Mohammed Omar, has been operating for nearly seven months. He explains that he did not intend to target Sudanese customers alone; many of his patrons are Egyptians who have developed a taste for “Sudanese bread.” He points out that the shared culinary habit of eating by means of ghamūs—that is, taking a piece of bread and directly scooping up the food from the dish, which is an economical and filling practice. Besides Egyptian bread, Sudanese bread has become hugely popular. There are perhaps more Sudanese bakeries in Egypt than Sudanese restaurants, which reflects high demand for bread.
Mohammed adds that many customers have told him that their preference for Sudanese bread stems not only from its greater satiating power, compared to its Egyptian counterpart, but also from the fact that it does not leave them feeling uncomfortably full afterwards. Moreover, it is always fresh, since Sudanese bakeries operate around the clock, unlike many Egyptian bakeries which primarily run in the morning only. He also points out that numerous Egyptian restaurants purchase their daily bread supply from his bakery to use for their sandwiches, signaling the strong entry of Sudanese bread into Egyptian food habits.
Speaking of customs, Mohammed recounts that when he opened the bakery, he decided to host a communal `Uzūma (invitation) for a number of his friends and neighbors on his street, which took the form of an open Sudanese breakfast after a Friday prayer—on the weekly day of rest. After they grew fond of both the food and the accompanying rituals, they began to observe this practice regularly among themselves. The weekly Friday breakfast table in Faissal district has thus come to feature a rich variety of dishes inspired by Sudanese and Egyptian traditions.
In the Tawābiq precinct within Faissal district—an area that has also become a dense hub of Sudanese settlement—a fifty-year-old man, Murtadha Hāshim, runs his restaurant, which he has named Bayt As-Samak (the Fish House). The establishment is slightly more spacious than most eateries in the neighborhood. Inside, alongside a few tables, sits a woman before a small cart used for preparing Sudanese beverages. She is known as Sitty Shayy (or, the Tea Lady).
The Sitty-Shayy is a firmly rooted phenomenon in Sudanese society, practiced by thousands of Sudanese women. It first emerged in the early 1990s as an alternative women-led economy in a context marked by poverty and dwindling formal employment opportunities. Over time, it evolved into a stable profession, a cultural institution, and a recognizable feature of everyday life in Sudanese cities, becoming a symbol of women’s presence in public space—despite the social stigma and official restrictions that initially targeted the practice. The transfer of this phenomenon “as is” to Egypt in the wake of the war in Sudan reflects the efforts of Sudanese women in the diaspora to rebuild informal economic and social support network by working in a cultural familiar occupation that enables them to secure a rapid source of income and establish their footing in a new environment.
As for Bayt As-Samak—the name Murtadha elected for his restaurant in Faissal district—it evokes a deeply rooted practice tied to a clear geographical and social reality: a country through which the Nile and its tributaries flow across numerous cities and villages, making fish an easily accessible and widely available food for most people. From this abundance emerged the notion of the “fish house”: modest eateries where fish is prepared in simple and straightforward ways without elaborate methods or complicated recipes. Over time, such places became integral to the urban landscape of Sudanese cities and evolved into social meeting points that reflected the Sudanese relationship to food as part of the texture of daily life.
When Mortadha opened his restaurant more than four years ago—as a business venture following his decision to move to and settle in Egypt—the Egyptian clientele was not as sizeable as it is today. At first, Egyptians were surprised by the unfamiliar names of the dishes, but that soon changed once they tried them. He now has Egyptian customers who come daily, especially enthusiasts of Sudanese-style fūl and falafel sandwiches. Mortadha introduced small modifications—such as adding sesame tahīnah—to suit Egyptian tastes, which tend to favor sauced sandwiches. Students in particular arrive in throngs, often bringing with them types of Sudanese soft drinks such as “Steam” and “Bezyānus,” which local Egyptian shops in the neighborhood have started to stock and sell.
Recalling the early days of his venture, Mortadha highlights a revealing dimension of the subtle affinities between Egyptian and Sudanese cuisines. Soon after opening his premises, he noticed a strong demand among his Egyptian customers for Kamūniyya—a Sudanese dish that consists in cooking an animal’s offal, especially tripe, with a robust blend of spices, tomato sauce, and hot pepper sauce. He realized that what he was serving bore a strong resemblance to the Egyptian Karsha (tripe) dish, though the latter is typically prepared with a lighter sauce and milder seasoning, without the intensely layered marinades characteristic of Sudanese cooking. This shared core with distinct “spirits” and flavor profiles, he notes, became a point of warm convergence between diners from the two countries.
The same applies to Ta`miah, one of the most prominent “common foods” shared by the two culinary traditions, albeit grounded in two different philosophies. Egyptian Ta`miah is made from ground fava beans mixed with herbs, whereas its Sudanese counterpart substitutes chickpeas for fava beans, giving it a lighter texture, a slightly darker hue, and a stronger inclination toward spice.
With the emergence of new spaces for Sudanese cuisine, these restaurants nonetheless continue to struggle. Rising costs—particularly rent, gas, and the basic ingredients required for food preparation—have adversely affected the spread of Sudanese food. This challenge is compounded by the fact that Sudanese cooking relies heavily on meat and on high-quality fava-beans used daily—morning and evening—the prices of all these essentials have multiplied several times ever since the restaurant first opened.
The Economic Crisis and Shifting Consumer Behavior
Sudanese refugees are not the only ones to be affected by the economic crisis brought about by war and displacement. The steep deterioration in living conditions has touched many Egyptians as well, especially over the last three years. Between 2023 and 2025, Egyptian people’s relationship to food—an everyday ritual—has been transformed into an ongoing struggle, during which their dietary culture has been reshaped. Successive increases in the prices of basic commodities have compelled Egyptians to re-discover their relationship with food not only in terms of taste, but also as matter of necessity—the necessity of adapting to material constraints.
The trajectory taken by the prices of meat and poultry in Egypt has come to be seen as a barometer of the state of the economy: sharp rises followed by slight declines that do little to ease the burden shouldered by consumer have become common. The past few years have been particularly difficult for many Egyptian households. Between 2023 and 2025, the meat price index witnessed unprecedented surges—driven by rising costs of animal feed, fluctuations in the exchange rate and higher fuel prices that reverberate across the prices of all goods. In 2023, for example, the price of a kilogram of fresh meat ranged between 180 and 230 Egyptian pounds (approximately USD 3.6–4.6 at an average exchange rate of 50 pounds per dollar); however, by early 2025 the average had leapt to 380–400 pounds, the equivalent of USD 7.6–8 per kilogram.
A simple calculation makes the impact of price hikes clear: purchasing just one kilogram of meat at this price eats up nearly 5.7% of the average monthly income of many Egyptians—those who make around 7,000 pounds. That percentage alone explains the declining presence of meat on the tables of numerous families.
Poultry has not been spared by this same spiral, either. After fluctuating between 55 and 65 pounds per kilogram (the equivalent of USD 1.1-1.3) in 2023, Egyptians greeted 2025 facing prices ranging from 100 to 120 pounds (USD 2.2.4) per kilogram. Even with the slight decrease during the first months of 2025—by about 4-5%--a kilogram priced at around 120 pounds still represents roughly 1.7% of an average monthly income. Weekly poultry consumption thus becomes a burden no less weighty than other essential items in the Egyptian food basket.
For middle-income households, these numbers tell an additional story. Whereas securing a weekly meat or poultry-based meal was commonplace only a few years ago, it has now become an equation requiring constant re-calculation. As this upward trend continues, the issue of food –and especially protein—has become one of the most sensitive aspects of daily life, intricately tied to the daily pace of the Egyptian street and its broader social transformations.
Amid this climate of economic turbulence, Sudanese eateries have emerged –perhaps unexpectedly, yet in many ways logically—as an appealing option for Egyptian consumers. Sudanese cuisine is notably satisfying, both in terms of the size of its portions and its sandwiches, and it naturally relies on Sudanese meat, which remains significantly cheaper on the Egyptian marketplace. The price gap between Sudanese and locally-raised Egyptian meat stems from an interlocking set of factors shaping the livestock sectors in both countries. Sudan possesses one of the largest cattle herds in Africa, raised primarily thanks to natural grazing rather than intensive feed-based methods—thus avoiding the high feed costs that weigh heavily on Egyptian producers. Added to this, there are bilateral agreements that facilitate direct importation of live animals or slaughtered cattle—at relatively low tariffs and customs duties compared with other countries. Once Sudanese livestock enters Egypt and is processed locally, production costs remain far lower than those of Egyptian baladi (or, home-produced) meat, which is continually affected by the rising prices of imported feed and fluctuations in the exchange rate. As a result, Sudanese meat reaches Egyptian consumers at a significantly lower price, becoming thus a practical economic choice amid current livelihood pressures.
Sudanese cuisine also relies on low-cost ingredients—such as sorghum, legumes, and animal fats—rendering the final meal significantly cheaper than its Egyptian counterparts. Egyptians who have grown accustomed to paying substantial sums for a meat, chicken-based meal or even koshari (a meal made of rice, lentils, past, chickpeas and onions) have found an alternative that is filling, tasty, and budget-friendly. Dishes like `assīdah or Sudanese fatta have thus emerged not only as markers of cultural differences, but also as attractive economic propositions—with food that satisfies, with bold flavors, quality raw ingredients, and an affordable price. `Assīdah made by mixing sorghum flour with water and cooking until it thickens, is inexpensive precisely because sorghum is less on demand than wheat. Sudanese fatta, known locally as albūsh, consists of tearing bread into small pieces, soaking it in fava-bean broth, and adding toppings, according to one’s taste preferences. In this sense, both `assidah and al-būsh are highly economical meals.
With the expanding base of Egyptian customers, Sudanese cuisine may well become—without deliberate prior planning—an economic player in the market of popular, affordable foods. Ironically, many Sudanese restaurant owners themselves did not anticipate such demand; they launched their businesses primarily to serve a community displaced by war. They soon discovered, however, that Egyptians, especially students, workers, and employees, were searching for “a filling meal at a reasonable price,” much as Sudanese families were seeking safe refuge in a neighboring country.
Yet this spread has not been solely economic. The image of Sudanese cuisine in the Egyptian imagination has also shifted largely thanks to social media. Paid advertisements and promotional campaigns by Sudanese restaurants—featuring photographs and short videos on platforms such as Facebook, TikTok, and Instagram—have played a substantial role in boosting popularity. Restaurants often collaborate with Egyptian food bloggers who film the premises along with their chefs or owners and introduce Sudanese dishes to the public of viewers.
In doing so, social media has also served to broadcast Sudanese culture more broadly. These short videos convey far more than cooking techniques: they subtly transmit elements such as the Sudanese dialect, which has now, through repeated exposure, become widely recognizable to many Egyptians.
In what may well be the first time ever, Sudanese culture is now being presented in a genuinely positive light. Where Egyptians once mocked Sudanese speech patterns, there is now not only an acceptance of them, but a growing attentiveness to a linguistic register that Egyptians increasingly hear, understand, and, at times, even incorporate into their own daily speech. Online publicity surrounding these restaurants has thus morphed into a spontaneous wave of popular promotion: it is not as much an organized campaign, as mere collective curiosity seeking to discover a neighboring culture, through its simplest medium—taste. Some of these videos have garnered millions of views, generating a current of culinary curiosity reminiscent of the earlier rise of Syrian cuisine, albeit under somewhat different circumstances and across a different temporal arc.
At this intersection of economic hardship and the desire for new experiences, the essence of the phenomenon becomes evident: the economic crisis was not the sole reason behind the spread of Sudanese cuisine; it was indeed its main catalyst. It has prompted Egyptians to rethink their dietary choices. Yet, this alone cannot fully explain the magnitude of the trend. Sudanese food has resolved another equation altogether inasmuch as it has offered a distinctive flavor profile; provided a social space for interaction between Egyptians and Sudanese; and created a point of convergence between economy and identity—crisis and curiosity. Meanwhile, the Sudanese table has become a site where relations between two geographically proximate, yet politically estranged societies are being quietly remade.
Tariq Gamal, an Egyptian admirer of Sudanese food, recounts that what first caught his attention as he was walking through the streets of his neighborhood in `Aish Shams Al-Sharqiyyah (in northeast Cairo) were the names of the Sudanese restaurants and bakeries proliferating around him: Bint An-Nil (or, Daughter of the Nile, a reference to Sudan, where the Nile river symbolizes life and identity); Agāshī (a delicacy originating from Darfur consisting of thin slices of meat, deftly seasoned with hot Sudanese spices and grilled); Center Sudan (Central Khartoum); and Dukkāny (meaning, as the case may be: my shop, my eatery, or my bakery). The growing visibility of these venues was what eventually impelled him to try Sudanese cuisine.
Tariq explains that his relationship with Sudanese food revolves primarily around breakfast, which he tends to eat at midday. Sudanese Ta`miyyah topped with cheese, along with fūl (fava beans) are among his favorite sandwiches. In addition to his fondness for Agāshi and his reliance on Sudanese bread in most of his meals, he plans to try malah al-rūb—a dish made from yoghurt mixed with wīka (dried okra) or small pieces of meat. Rūb is especially popular among Sudanese people during Ramadan, much as yoghurt is with Egyptians—given that its fermentation soothes the stomach and quenches thirst. It is consumed after the pre-dawn suhūr meal and features in various dishes and salads in both culinary traditions, including in Sudanese cuisine.
Most Egyptian eateries in working-class neighborhoods that serve breakfast—which consists mainly of ta`miyyah and fūl—operate only from early morning until noon. Sudanese restaurants, by contrast, serve these items throughout the days and even into late hours. This offers many Egyptians in these areas, particularly those who begin their days late due to work schedules or other circumstances, the opportunity to obtain a fresh breakfast at any time of the day.
What struck Mohammed most about the interpersonal dynamics within Sudanese restaurants was the remarkable sense of parity among all members of the staff. The atmosphere was such that a customer could hardly distinguish the owner from the employees—a sign of a courteous mode of interaction imbued with familiarity and mutual warmth. This stands in stark contrast with many Egyptian restaurants (those owned by Egyptians), where relations tend to follow a hierarchical chain of command, and where, all too often, the owner deals with his staff through a supervisory logic that may carry class-laden overtones. This sense of ease and camaraderie, he suggests, may itself be part of what draws Egyptians towards Sudanese food.
Highlighting the contrast in “workplace culture” between Sudanese and Egyptian contexts, Mohammed further notes that what also caught his attention was the composure of the “Sudanese vendor,” who interacts with customers patiently and accommodates multiple or changing orders without irritation. This differs from the demeanor of many Egyptian workers, whose interactions often show proneness towards irritability—perhaps a consequence of economic pressures and heavy demands which have made financial exchange the overriding logic shaping most interactions. The prioritization of “money” as the sole means of economic agency in Egypt diverges markedly from the economic order in Sudan, where housing and daily living costs are significantly lower. As a result, many Sudanese restaurant owners in Egypt find themselves with greater latitude to invest in food quality and in cultivating humane, socially grounded relationship through their work. This may explain why many workers—Sudanese and Egyptian, alike—prefer employment in establishment owned and managed by Sudanese people.
Speaking about integration into the Egyptian work environment, Mortada explains that, given that Faissal district is home to many residents hailing from Upper Egypt, he has developed numerous friendships with them. They exchange visits on all occasions, forming a new sphere of social interaction facilitated by the presence of Sudanese restaurants—one that extends from the workplace into private homes. He recounts that he once travelled to Sohāg in southern Egypt, where he spent three days attending the wedding of his friends, and was struck by the profound similarities between Egyptian and Sudanese wedding customs, particularly those related to food. Mortada also recounts that one day, when one of his Egyptian customers noticed a Sudanese woman in the restaurant—herself a fellow customer—struggling to pay the rent for the apartment where she lived with her children, he insisted on paying three months’ rent to the landlord on her behalf until she was able to manage her affairs. He refused to accept a single pound from the Sudanese witnesses present who wished to share the cost.
Regarding price comparisons between Sudanese and Egyptian restaurants, Tariq—an Egyptian enthusiast of Sudanese cuisine—observes that, given the quantity and quality of food served in Sudanese establishments, they are, in fact, cheaper than their Egyptian counterparts. He attributes the stability of Sudanese food prices to the relatively small profit margins that most Sudanese restaurant owners—including some of his friends—are content to accept. Financial gain, he explains, in not pursued with the same intensity as it tends to be by Egyptian restaurant owners.
Speaking about the ethos that has impelled most Sudanese restaurant owners –many of whom have fled the war—to prioritize quality over material profit, Mortada, the owner of Bayt As-Samak (or, The Fish-House), explains: “the day-to-day life of the Sudanese citizen—whose housing and living requirements are not unduly burdensome—shapes his character, making him less predisposed to engage in conflicts or to pursue material ambition, especially when it comes to food—and this regardless of who the customer may be.”
Mostapha Mamdouh, another Sudanese cuisine fan owing to its strong presence in his neighborhood at Sayyidah Zaynab in Central Cairo, recounts the amusing beginnings of his relationship with Sudanese food. It began, he says, with his desire to learn and understand the Sudanese dialect. For that reason, he frequented Sudanese restaurants, bakeries, and shops. His growing familiarity with the dialect and its vocabulary made it easier for him to learn more about Sudanese culture—an experience that made him realize that much of what he has previously known, shaped as it was by television and cinema, had been quite inaccurate.
The Historical Roots of the Culinary Convergence between the Egyptians and the Sudanese
For thousands of years, the Nile Valley has been the theater of exchange and encounters among its peoples—encounters which have never been solely political, but rather culinary and cultural, par excellence. With every wave of migration or political transformation, the foodscape shifted accordingly, expanding or contracting, yet never disappearing.
A historical view of Egyptian-Sudanese relations reveals that food has long served as one of the most resilient and enduring bridges between the two people. Despite the differences between the Egyptian agrarian Nile Valley cuisine and Sudan’s food traditions, which have been more deeply influenced by East and West-African heritages, the points of convergence were far greater that is often assumed. These encounters have helped forge what might be termed a “shared Nile Valley palate,” which has evolved over the centuries and is today being reproduced in many Egyptian streets.
Since the time of ancient Egypt, trade between the southern and northern reaches of the Nile have constituted a constant factor in shaping local diets. Historical sources point to exchanges of agricultural and animal products between Egypt and the ancient Nubian kingdoms. Products included plants, seeds, and spices, all of which gradually made their way northward. Caravans also played a crucial role in the movement of food—not merely in terms of commodities, but also in terms of the transmission of culinary techniques and know-how. Travelers along the commercial routes stretching from Dongola to Asswān carried with them methods of preserving food by means of salting and drying. These techniques would later appear in popular Egyptian dishes that are quite common and widespread even today.
With the advent of Islam in Egypt and Sudan, a new layer of similarity emerged: food rituals and ceremonies became tied to shared religious occasions. This was further enhanced during the Mamluk and Ottoman eras, which added yet another level of intertwining and exchanges. New cooking methods traveled thanks to the movement of soldiers and merchants. Dishes like feseekh, mulūha, and Sudanese qeddīd found their Egyptian counterparts, many of which originating in the South before steadily spreading to the northern areas.
By the early twentieth century, culinary relations had begun to take on a more immediate social character. As a result of reciprocal migrations between the two countries—whether for seasonal or permanent resettlement—signs of a shared palate became prominent in cities such as Asswān, Halfa, and Wādi Halfa, where Egyptians and Sudanese lived within the same social fabric. They exchanged food during weddings, funerals, and communal events. This shared culture reached Cairo and Alexandria, as well, carried by Sudanese soldiers and students attending Egyptian universities, who prepared their traditional dishes in dormitories or clubs, inviting culturally-curious Egyptians to join them.
One of the most significant historical details of the twentieth century is the “colonial episode,” and its role in reshaping the food systems of Sudan and Egypt. Colonial rule introduced coercive food policies that left a deep and lasting imprint on agricultural production and on the very notion of food security. During the Second World War, in particular, colonial authorities mandated the conversion of vast tracts of agricultural land in both Sudan and Egypt to the cultivation of wheat and cotton, serving the needs of British armies as Europe was no longer able to supply them with these crops from its own fields. Local crops—which had hitherto been the backbone of the populations’ food systems—were thus displaced by commodities intended for the global markets and for the generation of financial returns, with little, if any, regard for the impact of these shifts on the actual needs of local communities. These economic priorities persisted even after the departure of colonial powers: successive governments continued thus to prioritize “exportable” crops at the expense of traditional stapes essential to food security. In Sudan especially, this dynamic reached an extreme form: wheat was harvested on Sudanese fields only to be shipped abroad, while large segments of the populations suffered from food shortages—a paradox that encapsulates a colonial legacy still evident on tables to this day.
Equally important are the various food ingredients that embody this centuries-long culinary interweaving: mulūkhiah nāshifah (dried jute leaves), `assidah, spices, and okra (or, wīka in Sudanese Arabic, meaning dried okra). Egyptians typically consume okra cooked in tomato sauce, using it fresh after harvest, whereas wīka is prepared differently: it is cooked after drying, along with broth, giving it a thicker texture and deeper flavor.
Indeed, these ingredients form some of the most enduring culinary bridges between Egyptians and Sudanese. Many Egyptians who try wīka today in a Sudanese restaurant believe it to be entirely new, when, in fact, it is an extension of an ancient Nubian recipe shared by the two peoples. For centuries wīka served as a means of preserving okra and making it available year-round in southern Egypt and northern Sudan, long before refrigerators or modern preservation techniques existed.
Prior to the era of social networking platforms, the media played a subtle yet meaningful role. Numerous Sudanese songs broadcast in Egypt during the 1970’s and the 1980’s contained references to Sudanese food, creating the beginnings of an associative link. But the pivotal moment arrived in the early 2000s with the opening of commercial borders, when simple Sudanese products such as dakkwa (or, peanut butter), shatta (or, hot sauce), and various spices began to circulate in popular markets all over Cairo.
Clearly, Sudanese food culture was never entirely foreign to Egyptians; rather, it remained somewhat latent within certain social strata or confined to specific areas, such as downtown Cairo or Alexandria. With the recent wave of Sudanese displacement on account of the outbreak of the war, this culture has become markedly more visible in several neighborhoods. Egyptians now encounter aspects of that culture not only during special occasions or in borderline regions, but also on a side street near their own homes. It is here then that the re-discovery of an ancient culinary relationship begins—albeit in an entirely new context shaped by economic pressures, social tensions, and changing public tastes.
This historic backdrop constitutes the foundation that has facilitated the rapid emergence of Sudanese food and foodways in Egypt—not merely as “refugee cuisine,” but as an opportunity to explore a culinary tradition that is geographically and culturally so close to Egyptians, yet sufficiently distinct to spark curiosity. Besides, meals pertaining to the tradition are priced in a way that make them attractive everyday options, especially in this inflation-ridden age.
The Political History of Egypt and Sudan and Its Impact on Cross-Cultural Perceptions
Contemporary Egyptian reception of Sudanese cuisine cannot be understood in isolation from the long and complex history binding the two countries. The table, however innocent it may seem, is never entirely detached from the political narratives that shape it, nor from the mental images formed through media, education, and public discourse. For at least a century, relations between Egypt and Sudam have oscillated between moments of closeness and moments of tension, while the two peoples have often lived and experienced forms of social harmony which often contrasted with the official mood governing the relationship.
The modern history in question begins with the Anglo-Egyptian Condominium (1899), a unique political arrangement under which Egypt appeared as a nominal partner in the governance of Sudan, while real authority rested with the British authorities. This configuration created a dual sensitivity: many Sudanese people viewed Egyptians as an extension of centralized power, while Egyptians often regarded Sudan as part of “Egypt’s natural sphere of influence.” Over time, divergent conceptions of identity, sovereignty, and belonging started to take root. In fact, some of these differences played a direct role in shaping the mental images formed on both sides, some of which persist even to this day.
Then came the moment of independence in 1956, marking a decisive turning point. Sudan’s independence was not simply a political event; it was also an emotionally charged moment of separation between two countries united by geography, yet divided by increasingly divergent political trajectories. In Egypt, much of the public discourse continued to treat and represent Sudan in these terms: “we were once one country,” implying Sudan’s subordination to Egypt, or as “the younger brother,” or “the closest neighbor.” The Sudanese, by contrast, sought to affirm their independence and assert their national identity. At times, this divergence created a chasm the depth of which is echoed even today in popular conversations across restaurants, cafés, and similar venues.
In the ensuing decades, water politics played a central role in shaping relations between the two states. As the Nile River became a focal point of competing development agenda, water shifted a shared resource to a space of tension. With the growing prominence of the grand Ethiopian Renaissance Dam in the last decade, sensitivities have increased in the Egyptian official discourse vis-à-vis any upstream Nile country, including Sudan, which Cairo has often perceived as “the hesitant neighbor,” in the dispute with Addis-Ababa. This political context may have indirectly shaped popular perceptions, leading some Egyptians to project their government’s grievances onto Sudanese individuals—issues that ordinary Sudanese citizens had little to do with.
Another persistent point of friction is the question of Halayeb and Shalateen, which has remained one of the most sensitive files in bilateral relations. Though it has never escalated into direct conflict, it still has created an additional layer or silent tension—re-surfacing in media discourse whenever political crises intensified. With each cycle of tension, familiar stereotypes were revived, and mutual misconceptions between the two people were revived.
This politically charged history, along with its lot of instability and complexity, has deeply influenced the representation of Sudanese people in Egyptian media. In the 1960’s, the dominant image was a romantic one shaped by the rhetoric of “the Unity of the Nile Valley.” However, during the 1980’s and 1990’s, other stereotypes emerged, including the docile Sudanese, the gentle Sudanese, the poor Sudanese who moved to Egypt to perform low wage labor. Later, amidst the disruptions of the past decade, a more mocking and condescending tone surfaced in certain television series, films, and media outputs—a tone that continues to this day—reinforcing feelings of discrimination and bullying directed against many Sudanese.
Yet, when we look at the current spread of Sudanese food in Egypt, we find a striking paradox: while politics has failed to produce a stable relationship, food culture has succeeded in dismantling certain barriers. Indeed, Sudanese restaurants, unlike political discourse, recognize no borders. An Egyptian who steps into a Sudanese eatery is unlikely to think about Halayeb and Shalateen, the Anglo-Egyptian Condominium, or Nile water agreements. What matters to him are taste, price, and the human warmth which imbues the premises.
Quite unexpectedly, then, the economic crisis has played a role in reshaping perceptions of food. As Egyptians discovered that Sudanese cuisine offers a hearty meal at a reasonable price, served with courtesy and kindness, the older derogatory stereotypes have started to crack. Some customers have even begun to regard Sudanese cooks as bearers of a distinct culinary tradition—an unprecedented and unfamiliar image for both two sides. In a rare moment, food has taken precedence over politics as a space for crafting a new narrative of relations between the two peoples.
This does not mean that all the residual elements of political history have vanished. Daily life still uncovers instances of discrimination or harassment targeting Sudanese individuals on Egyptian streets, especially with the rise of forcible migration after the war. Yet, the proliferation of Sudanese restaurants has created—perhaps for the first time—an immediate human space of interaction that works against negative stereotypes. When an Egyptian and a Sudanese sit at the same table, or when an Egyptian tastes a dish previously unknown to him, the path towards a deeper and genuine understanding of the other becomes markedly shorter.
We may thus say that food today performs the role that politics has failed to fulfill adequately: building a simple and sincere daily relation between Egyptians and Sudanese peoples. In the long term perhaps, this culinary affinity may serve as an entry point for reconfiguring mutual perceptions in ways that transcend official frictions, border disputes, and river politics. Cultural exchanges that begin at the table often extend far beyond it.
Migration and Integration through Food”: Cultural “Transformation,” or a Passing “Fad”?
Many sociologists view restaurants in large cities as “intermediate social spaces” that play an important role in fostering social relations outside the dynamics of home or workplace. This is precisely what has occurred in Sudanese restaurants and food shops in Egypt. Within these spaces, interaction between Egyptians and Sudanese has begun to assume a more natural form, giving rise to a kind of “mutual contemplation.” Each side observes the other in a simple human moment—the moment of eating—one of the most genuine forms of social interaction, grounded as it is more in human gesture than in mere words.
Meet Osman Al-Jadd, a history teacher who arrived in Egypt immediately after the outbreak of war and opened his restaurant at Haram district, last year—naming it Ar-Rūmi, after his neighborhood, Ar-Rūmi Station in Omdurma. Osman explains that conversations about food with his Egyptian customers often move naturally towards shared history and geography. Sudanese cuisine, as he points out, has managed to dismantle many of the psychological barriers that years of political separation between the two people had entrenched. Although he has not lived in Egypt for long, he already feels he has formed friendships through his work at the restaurant—relationships so warm and easy that he feels as though he has known his hosts/patrons for years.
Intermingling of Identities … and the Seeds of a Hybrid Cuisine
Just as many Sudanese restaurants have started adding Egyptian touches to their menus (in response to customer demand), Osman has chosen to take a further step by incorporating Egyptian dishes, such as Hawāwushy and Shish Tawūq, prepared with Sudanese flavors. These items have been well received by customers who tried them. He also plans to experiment with crepes, which have of late become popular in Egypt, and pies infused with agāshī seasoning.
What is happening here constitutes a form of culinary cross-fertilization—or what is often referred to as fusion cuisine—one of the most significant forms of cultural integration. Such experimentation may eventually produce a hybrid Egyptian-Sudanese cuisine, akin to what has emerged between Egyptians and Syrians over the past ten years. This is, at least, what is suggested by early indicators pertaining to the proliferation of Sudanese restaurants in many working-class neighborhoods in Egypt.
Alongside the economic challenges facing owners of Sudanese food businesses in Egypt—notably: galloping rents, service costs, and the prices of basic commodities—Osman points to another factor affecting the spread of these restaurants: what he calls “limited diversity.” By this he means that Sudanese cuisine, as it is currently presented in Egypt, relies on a narrow repertoire of inherited traditional dishes. Most restaurants focus on simpler, lower-cost meals, made from readily available ingredients with relatively stable prices. Osman adds that this constraint is not a cultural one; it is primarily material and logistical. Many essential Sudanese ingredients are difficult to find in Egyptian markets or are available at high costs, which discourages restaurateurs from proposing dishes that require complex processes or inaccessible intrants. Moreover, the scarcity of chefs specializing in regional Sudanese cuisine reinforces a conservative pattern in menu design. For this reason, Osman expects restaurants in the coming years to tap deeper into the rich popular culinary heritage of Sudan—reviving local dishes from Darfur, Eastern Sudan, or its norther regions—not only as a form of innovation but also as a means of competition and distinction among Sudanese restaurants themselves, which would, in turn, expand the Egyptian base of Sudanese cuisine enthusiasts.
Over the past two years, the culinary landscape in Egyptian cities has thus begun to move along an unfamiliar trajectory: Sudanese restaurants and bakeries opening in working class districts, Egyptian customers engaging with foods that were not part of their daily lives until recently, and economic shifts reshaping the very idea of Egyptian food culture.
Now if we were to trace some indicators to see whether these changes mark the beginning of a long-term cultural transformation or merely point to a temporary culinary wave that will eventually fade away as its conditions recede, we would find ourselves if front of several possible scenarios. The first is a scenario of “gradual stabilization,” in which Sudanese cuisine becomes an established part of Egypt’s food scene—as happened, for instance, with Syrian cuisine a decade ago. At that time, Egyptian adoption of Syrian food was not simply an exchange of recipes driven by different motivations; it evolved into a new pattern of consumption and social relations. A repetition of this process with Sudanese cuisine is plausible, especially as daily ties between Egyptians and Sudanese deepen through interactions at restaurants, streets, and markets. It is worth noting, however, that the Sudanese experience differs from the Syrian one, notwithstanding the existence of some superficial similarities. Syrians arrived in Egypt in a relatively organized wave and quickly succeeded in establishing a coherent economic model that shaped their restaurants and food businesses. Sudanese arrivals, by contrast, have come under far harsher circumstances and heavier pressures, making the task of building economic stability far more difficult. Despite these circumstances, Sudanese cuisine has managed to gain a foothold and to persist even under challenging conditions.
The second scenario is that the phenomenon remains limited in scope and strongly tied to current economic conditions. If prices fall or market circumstances change, Sudanese culinary presence may decline—without disappearing from the landscape altogether—remaining available as a “distinctive option” rather than a widely adopted alternative. This scenario assumes that Egyptian interest in Sudanese cuisine is the result of a temporary economic situation rather than the outcome of full cultural acceptance.
A third scenario, more complex than the previous two, posits that what is unfolding today goes beyond food and touches on something deeper: a reshaping of popular relations between two nations long overburdened by misunderstanding and political tensions. Despite their simplicity, Sudanese restaurants and food shops have succeeded in offering a daily space in which Egyptians and Sudanese people share experiences away from the discourse of incitement and harassment that often appear on social media. In these small spaces, where a dish is served to a first-time customer or shared with clients, narratives may emerge that differ from those conveyed or promoted by politics.
From an indirectly political standpoint, cuisine may even be able to perform a role that official discourse has long failed to achieve - creating a daily, intimate, non-ideological form of contact between the two peoples. This type of interaction, though unmediated by diplomatic channels, leave a longer lasting imprint because it is built on human encounters rather than on formal agreements. This transformation may carry echoes of what happened with Syrian cuisine after 2011, when food became a gateway for redefining the image of Syrians in the Egyptian imagination and for building an economic and social network that persists to this day.
The difference, however, is that Sudanese communities do not rely solely on cuisine. In their food preparation they draw on a long history of geographic and cultural proximity which allows food to revive what political pressures had muted. If this current wave is to exercise a lasting impact, it will not be because it coincided with an economic crisis, but rather because it has uncovered the fragility of boundaries between the two cultures and demonstrated the quiet power that food exerts to redraw them.
In the final analysis, the deeper question perhaps is this one: can a dish served on a simple wooden table reconnect the multiple ties that have been severed between the two countries? While there is no definitive answer to the question, what is certain is that these restaurants—with their daily rhythms, their transient crowds, and their food, which crosses the borders without a passport—open a new window onto the meanings of neighborliness. Migration imposes close contact and economic crisis the search for affordable alternatives, but food alone has the capacity to forge a lasting relationship, because it speaks to the most primary human needs: warmth, salt (which is symbolic of bonds), and tranquility.
Thus, while politicians argue over maps and borders, ordinary people redraw their own maps with spoons more so than by negotiations. And it seems that the impact of these new maps—even if they begin modestly with a small restaurant at Faissal district—may well extend father than we could imagine.
References
كتاب "مياة النيل في السياسة المصرية..ثلاثية التنمية والسياسية والميراث التاريخي"، أيمن السيد عبدالوهاب.
كتاب "الحكم المصري في غرب السودان من 1899 :1821م "، د.تحية محمد أبو شعيشع.
ACAPS. (2025). Country Analysis: Egypt. Available at:
https://www.acaps.org/en/countries/egypt?utm_source=chatgpt.com.