A traditional traction Ramadan gets a modern remake (but good luck to get it)

While the minutes approached the sunset, the crowd became more impatient, pressing against the glass showcase, shouting and pushing the bills to the young people who filled the order after the order of Ramadan’s sweet bread.

“If please“

“What is filling?“

“Sir, take my money!“

“Be just patient! “

The high pressure flight shot of query, pleas and requests for patience takes place every evening of Ramadan while the Syrians move to Marook, a sweet bread eaten here during the month of Muslim fasting. With the passage of the time of IFTAR, the breakdown of fasting, approaches, a day of dense hunger combine with the jockey among the customers who desperate to get their bakeries Moretti and run home before the call to prayer sounds from the mosque minarets.

There is a pinch of tension in the air, but the smell of cooked bread, sugar and chocolate is much more pronounced.

Marook, a simple sweetened bread sprinkled with sesame seeds, is part of the Syrian traditions of Ramadan for generations. Every year, while the bakeries – and the occasional pizzeria – dedicate their entire production during the Ramadan, new variants in Satiate in evolution emerge.

The Syrians are proud of their rich culinary traditions, but not precious in allowing them to evolve. Now there are olives in the de facto -shaped salad. Onions in the Shawarma. Parsley in hummus.

And then there is Marook, who arrives in so many different iterations that the bakeries publish long lists of all their offers, some unrecognizable from the original. Perhaps inevitably given the viral food tendency, a Dubai chocolate This year Marook appeared in some shops.

Prices differ from bakery to bakery. Small individuals often cost about 4,000 Syrian pounds, less than 50 cents, while large ones – depending on how fantastic they are – can rise to 45,000 pounds.

“To the elderly people like the classic for sure,” said Tareq Al-Abyad, owner of a bakery, at the Jouzeh, standing among the racks stacked with marook trays. “I am even surprised by the new ones. For me, I only like the simple one. But I don’t only sell what I like, I have to sell what customers want.”

On the other side of the glass counterattack, its customers were on the sidewalk by calling their orders over the horn of the road behind them. Occasionally they had to dodge a bicycle or a motorcycle by running on the sidewalk to avoid the traffic from bumpers to the road while everyone hastened to return home in time for Iftar.

“Please, is there the sparkling pistachio?” He asked Ayah Al-Homi, 27 years old, referring to a marook who is in a honeycomb form and is seasoned with the pistachio cream.

The oven was already outside the flavor. Instead he had one full of oreo.

“The first night we always eat, full of appointments and coconut,” said Mrs. Al-Homi, native of Damascus, of the food habits of her family’s Ramadan. “And then we start trying the other flavors.”

Apparently overwhelmed by the choices, a couple and their young daughter were discussing every flavor before leaving without any brand.

At Al Jouzeh, the cooking starts at 6 in the morning the bakers eat Suhoor, the predawn meal before fasting, at home, then they arrive for a grueling day of dough, filling, glass and sprinkled.

They work as a well -oiled assembly line. It is said little except for occasional ideas from a worker, Mahmoud Midani, 39 years old, to take the pace.

“Let’s go – Move this tray,” Muhammad Taboosh ordered every time another tray was filled.

Mr. Taboosh, 16, was almost covered with flour.

The bakery performs a mix of solar energy, a diesel generator and two hours a day of electricity provided by the government. The Syria electrical network is marked by long blackouts, following the 13 -year -old civil war.

Mohammad Hilwan, 20 years old, from the old town of Damascus, has worked in the bakery for more than a year.

“This is part of our Syrian inheritance and dates back to many generations,” he said. “This variety, we are changing with the times. It is not something bad – on the contrary, this is modernization.”

One by one he took a small Marook loaf from a tray and filled it with melted white chocolate using an automatic nozzle before raining more at the top and adding a sprinkling of crumbled chocolate biscuit. It is its favorite flavor.

“The simple ones that our grandparents ate,” he said.

The bakery has three locations and among them produce about 11,000 large and small marook loaves every day, Al-Ayster said. Those thousands of loaves disappear rapidly in the last hour of the fasting of the day and customers looking for specific flavors can leave empty -handed.

“My dear, only one with appointments,” said Salih Muhammad, 41 years old, while blocking his head behind the counter trying to maneuver beyond the crowd.

“There are no more appointments, uncle,” said the seventeen year old Muhammad Khawla-and then reiterated him for his colleagues. “Guys,” he said, “there are no more appointments.”

“Oh no, what will I do?” Mr. Muhammad wondered discouraging.

In his hand he held a bag from another bakery with three small margins, one simple for him and those of coconut for his two small children. His wife had requested a Marook appointment, and less than half an hour before Iftar, he was going from oven to the bakery looking for one.

At that point the varieties in the bakeries throughout the city had thinned out.

“We don’t know exactly what remains,” said Khawla, wearing an orange sweatshirt with a Syrian map and the date and time that marks the fall of the Assad regime in December. At that point the sweatshirt was smeared by their numerous flavors on offer: chocolate, pistachio and biscoff.

Among the burst of business, the young people behind the counter did not always have time to count all the Syrian bills that were delivered by customers. During the currency during the war it meant that even small daily purchases can request a thick pile of bills.

With only the remaining minutes before IFTAR, they can import a few seconds and some customers have not worried about waiting for their change.

Mr. Khawla delivered an order of five marooks of Coconut, five to the taste of biscoff and a sparkling for a normal customer, an older man and moved away to obtain his change. When he went back, keeping out a stack of 1,000 Syrian notes, he scrutinized the crowd derauding for him in vain.

“Where’s the Hajji?” Mr. Khawla asked, using an honorable for the elderly.

Then he laughed.

“Hajji rushed home,” he said.