On my tiny screen in Brisbane, I hear the audio of my sister and mum belly laughing as they attempt to orally translate an old family recipe on the other side of the world. Their voices transport me to the tiny Cairo apartment where we spent our summers as children. I see Maryam and me gently waking, the last moments of our dreams accented by the smell of fresh bread (that Egyptian staple, ), the clicking of the ceiling fan and the faint memory of the carried on the early morning breeze.
On these sand-golden mornings, we sleepily followed our grandfather to the top floor of the ancient apartment, where we'd fall cross-legged in front of a pasta machine. Beside it was a flour and water dough he had already prepared. Back then, I didn't know what a pasta machine was, that it was Italian or that anyone – apart from Gedou Gadget, as he was called for his love of technology – had one.
The perfectly rested dough would soon become rashta, a traditional delicacy from his ancestral home in Al-Ṣaʿīd: . Though far humbler than iconic Egyptian desserts like , , or kunafa, rashta is a treat that the poor communities of Egypt’s agricultural centre make for celebrations (or breakfast with their grandchildren).
The ritual of making rashta was a legacy Gedou shared with us – a part of our identity to take back to the foreign climate of North Yorkshire, where we grew up. The dessert was impossibly sweet, prepared by my impossibly sweet-toothed Gedou, who always had a bag of sugar cubes within arm’s reach. Those same cubes, opaque with the promise of sugar-rush giggles, was a key ingredient to the dish.
Rashta is "far humbler" than basbousa. Source: Benito Martin
Once we were no longer tired, my sister and I would fight over who got to roll out the dough by hand, making sheets flat enough to pass through the machine until the familiar sound of the vendor shouting “LABAN!!! FUUUUUL!!” would draw our attention away from Gedou smoothing the lumpier sheets of dough, to the balcony where the smell of slow-cooked broad beans wafted up.
Our basket, secured by a long rope, would be thrown over and our order screamed down to the street below. The vendor would then plunge a ladle, longer than his arm, deep into a hole in his cart, expertly spooning ful into a plastic bag before tying it with one hand and flinging it into our basket, along with another bag of unhomogenised, ishta-topped milk. As we pulled the basket up, people crowded around the ful cart, tearing scoopable morsels of chewy aish and filling themselves with the energy-rich national dish.
By this time, the sheets of dough had rested enough to start the next stage. Gedou went first, steadily feeding them through the machine. Flat to begin with, the dough became thin strands gliding out of the device, which was then tossed generously in flour. These moments of quiet concentration were magic: my larger-than-life Gedou – with his booming laugh and enormous gnarled hands – catching paper-thin pasta on his palms like silk.
Back then, I didn't know what a pasta machine was, but, Gedou Gadget (as he was called for his love of technology) had one. Source: Supplied
Perhaps because it’s not instantly recognisable as Arabic food (falafel, hummus) or even Egyptian food (koshari, molokheya), rashta doesn’t appear on any ‘must eat’ lists. But like many dishes from the region, iterations are found all over. Libya makes rishda, a dry savoury version of steamed fresh pasta which replaces couscous. In Algeria, it’s rechta, a subtle nuance in the English phonetic translation reflecting the regional dialects of North Africa. In Iraq, sha’riyya is made with dried vermicelli, fried in clarified butter and sugar until nut brown (in Sudan, it's known as ). The Spanish is also arguably a distant cousin, evidence of the evolution of cuisine through time, trade and cultural influence.
At its very basic, there are just four ingredients in Egyptian rashta; flour, water, milk and sugar. But like all apparently simple things, rashta is a complex, multi-stepped work of culinary art. It's time-consuming, requires innate knowledge of flavour and texture, and multiple cooking techniques (none of which can be described in precise detail). When my mum was asked how long to steam it for, the answer emerged (with a laugh, the same as Gedou’s): "habibti, you’ll know when it feels ready."
At its very basic, there are just four ingredients in Egyptian rashta; flour, water, milk and sugar. Source: Supplied
In the old days in Al-Ṣaʿīd, the process would take place in batches, over a clay vessel on an open fire. At Gedou Gadget’s, we had a camp stove and steamer pots. Like our ancestors, we cooked on our haunches around the flame. Once the strands were steamed, we made a quick sugar syrup. Gedou’s was no-frills, just sugar and water; but elevated with orange, hibiscus or rosewater, rashta takes on a heady luxury. When he was satisfied with the syrup, he'd add the bag of milk and rashta and bring it to a boil, then simmer it for 10 minutes (or so, or less, by eye). We watched the pot impatiently until Gedou declared the rashta ready. Finally! We devoured it: slippery, unctuous straight from the pan, searing hot with no toppings – just a mess of sticky sweet flour, water, milk and sugar.
Rashta is a treat that the poor communities of Egypt’s agricultural centre make for celebrations (or breakfast with their grandchildren).
Now we take the time to dress it with any number of toppings: desiccated coconut, raisins, dried apricots, toasted almonds, pomegranate seeds, crumbled pistachio – the jewels of Arabic desserts. In England, my mum puts vanilla in the milk. In Australia, I’ve steeped it with cardamom. Maryam’s always looks as beautiful as it tastes. Wherever we are, we always eat it when it’s still too hot, so it leaves a burning memory. Gedou loved modernising and experimenting, he was our foundation. Long after he left us, he gave us space to add our personality, to imagine and create our own flavour – to his rashta recipe, and to ourselves.
The beauty of rashta comes from tradition, as well as the interpretation of our own journeys from a rural village in Upper Egypt, to a Cairo rooftop, to the Viking city of York and finally to urban Brisbane.
This story was longlisted in the SBS and Diversity In Food Media Australia' . You can find out more about the competition and the winning entrants .
Comfort cooking
Basbousa
