They Took Me To The Sweets Factory

01 October '13

There’s sweetness at the heart of everything. This Autumn’s edition is a reflection of where we’ve spent the last few months. With a philosophy of owning the city we’re in we went out digging deeper – down to the nucleus of what makes a city – without underestimating the substance in an open conversation over breakfast. To have eggs in our culture is synonymous with having cojones. We’re rooters of the fact that being ballsy is far from being in opposition. Got eggs? Let’s start on a sweet note.

The Carton magazine_Issue N.7_Autumn 2013_COVER copyThey Took me to the Sweets Factory is an article taken from The Carton’sSaudi Arabia special Palm Reads.

Desert Designs funded the Saudi Arabian content in the issue in order to secure content from their hometown.

This particular section reproduced here, was lead by two talented project managers in Khobar for The Carton: Ahmed Al Majid, who’s photography is featured in this piece (Instagram @ahmedomajid) and Bushra Al-Hinai (Instagram @bsomething).

The article was written by Saleh Al Amer (Twitter @SAAlAmer).

THEY TOOK ME TO THE SWEETS FACTORY

WORDS SALEH AL AMER

PHOTOGRAPHY AHMED AL MAJID

I was sipping coffee one lazy afternoon in the company of my recently widowed 70-something Aunt Munirah. She had to be entertained: confined to her home for four months and 10 days mourning her late husband, a mandatory mourning period for widows in Saudi Arabia. Whether that’s out of tradition or a strictly religious requirement, no one knows, as it is common for religion and tradition to comingle in a country like ours.

But I digress. Aunt Munirah insisted I try what seemed to be a red, thick and flubbery blob presented in a metal tray and decorated with pistachios: “Yomah, try some Halwa. It’s fresh. Ahmed [her son] bought it just today. Look at you! You need to eat.” I was suspicious. It looked nothing like the nut-heavy, thick Halwa I’m used to buying from Bahrain or Oman in endearing metal containers. But of course, I was obliged. It tasted different. Not necessarily bad, just different and fresh. Piping hot fresh.

Inquiring about it made me sound like I wasn’t a true Hassawi (a native of Al-Hassa, an oasis on the east coast of Saudi Arabia). After giving me the usual tsk-tsk-ing, she informed her ignorant nephew, i.e. me, that Halwa – amongst many other delicious delicatessens I’m accustomed to buying from neighbouring Bahrain – is a Hassawi culinary tradition. Apparently there are special Hassawi versions to many sweets that are popular in the region. However, due to lack of proper branding, packaging and marketing, the Hassawi versions are confined to Al-Hassa to a point where people who are originally from Al-Hassa but live somewhere else (me again) are not aware of their existence.

The neighbourhood at dawn

According to my aunt, there’s one family in the oasis that has kept the tradition alive and is the main supplier of such goodies in the area: Al-Shuaiheen. As I inquired further, my cousin Ahmed made his entrance and my inquiries were dismissed by Aunt Munirah: “The grandchildren have arrived.” I became a second priority – feeding them Halwa was of a paramount importance now.

Ahmed teased me for being from the social media generation and accused me of being interested in this topic only for an Instagram photo opportunity (which was partially true). Once he was done teasing, he agreed to provide me with what was – according to him – the complex directions to the factory that I would struggle to locate by myself. I hate to admit it, but he was right. We got shamefully lost getting there. I had to send over one of my friends who knew the factory in order to text me his location via Google Maps to follow.

Halwa, amongst other local desserts, has been the Al-Shwaiheen’s trade for the past three generations. The current owner, 50-year-old Adel, has been making sweets for 30 years. He learnt it from his father who learnt it from his father. Very few things have changed (mainly the industrial oven), but the recipes, the basic tools, the layout of the store/factory and the routine have not been altered since the grandfather’s time.

Every morning, Adel along with whoever is awake from his sons make their 10-metre walk from their house to the store (they’re actually behind two doors in the same building). He oversees the sweet-making process and ensures that the right amount is produced for the day (on average between 60 to 90 kilograms of the different kinds per day – an amount that is normally doubled in Ramadan).

Halwa making

Once we arrived, the owner informed us that the production process takes place at 4am to avoid combining the heat generated from the various ovens and frying pans in the factory with the mostly brutal Saudi heat.

With some time on our hand, we went around and explored Al-Hassa. I use the word “explore” intentionally. We were a troop of four allegedly Hassawi natives, none of whom was born in Al-Hassa. We only visited when we absolutely had to: funerals, some weddings (not all), Eids (for half a day) and grudgefully attending a dinner gathering for one occasion or the other.

We went to the old/new souk, Alqaisariah. The old one burned down a few years ago. The local municipality tried to rebuild it utilising the same overall architectural elements. The result was more Disney than original, sans the touristy cafés and restaurants.

We prayed the fajir (morning prayer) in a nearby masjid and headed straight to the sweets factory. We wanted to witness the creation process from the start. The factory was located one small street behind Alqaisariah in a residential neighbourhood. Calling it a factory is quite an exaggeration, hence having it in a residential district is a nonissue. A few steps lead to a nondescript small storefront and a door in the back of the store leads to “the factory”, which consists of four small rooms: the main room where the Halwa-making and frying takes place, a room designated for baking, the oven room and the supplies room (stacked to the roof with sugar, flour, eggs and barrels of butter). Four men – three Indians and a Pakistani – in white outfits were buzzing between the three rooms, each with a designated task. It’s ironic that the most traditional of local sweets is made exclusively by nonlocal experts. But, in Saudi, that makes perfect sense. It is in line with the recent local tradition.

Halwa

There was Ahsan, who has been working there for the past 18 years and now manages the front store. He was walking between the three rooms with a sense of authority. It was safe to guess that he was the designated foreman. He doubled as the frying man. Basheer, who started working there the same time Ahsan did, is the Halwa guy. He stood in front of a massive copper bowl, the mirjnl – which sits on an industrial furnace – holding a wooden spatula with a copper head and behind him was a set of complex ingredients. My first impression was that he worked like a chemist. But after watching him closely, I realised that he worked more like my mother in the kitchen. I headed to him first as I was fascinated by the copper bowl and started bugging him with questions: How do you make it? What’s this? What’s that? Why haven’t you added the saffron yet? And just like my mother in the kitchen, he gave me the get-out-of-my face look. I pretended to be oblivious to it. I also found out precision is not one of his traits – just like my mother.

There are basic ingredients when it comes to Halwa: starch, water, sugar, saffron, butter and natural colours. How much of each? No one knows. Not even Basheer. More ingredients are added based on how the mixture feels, smells, tastes or looks. And that’s exactly the way my mother cooks. Her recipes sound like this:

Mum: You sauté the onions until they look nice then add the spices, salt and freshly ground pepper.

Me: Mum! What do you mean until they look nice? What kind of spices? How much salt? A teaspoon? Half a tablespoon?

Mum: You feel it, smell it… measure with your eyes.

And then there was Kareem and Inaiat: the baking crew. They’ve been working there for only three years yet work in perfect harmony. Kareem makes the different types of dough (my favourites are the saffron-rosewater and the dates infused ones), cuts them in different shapes or pours them in various moulds, then hands them to Inaiat in the oven room. Inaiat, who three years ago was working as a computer engineer in India, pops the trays in the oven. This assembly line of two continues until multiple trays of at least 12 different kinds and shapes of cookies and mini-cakes (Hassawi cupcakes) fill the glass cases in the storefront.

The bowl

The four men were running around between the different rooms in a robotic manner, while the four of us oohed and aahed as if in Willy Wonka’s Hassawi Sweets Factory. They could not understand the source of our complete fascination and the reason behind our ignorant questions, to a point where they started giggling every time we snapped a picture or asked a question. This is with the exception of Basheer. The Halwa-making process requires complete attention. He could not afford any distraction and was hence annoyed by my investigation. Our inquiring and their giggling continued as we moved to the storefront to observe the stocking process. Stacks of sweets made with dates, saffron, coconut, rosewater, ginger, cardamom, sesame and different kinds of nuts were on display. Ahsan kept smiling as we fired one question after the other asking about the amazingly looking, colourful ensemble of rectangles, squares, balls and syrups being displayed before our eyes.

Aunt Munirah would not have been pleased. Four young men who claimed to be Hassawis were not able to recognise some basic native sweets. But were they? There was the Hassawi klija (a popular sweet in Qassim in the country’s centre), Hassawi rahash (a sesame paste popular in Kuwait), and the Hassawi Halwa. Which version came first?

Were the Hassawis the original ones but lagged behind in popularity due to complete lack of branding? No one knows. The only thing I know is that I went back home with boxes and boxes of sweets one should never consume alone. But I did. Sharing is way overrated.

 

 

The Arab British Centre would like to thank The Carton for allowing us to reproduce this article on to our website. Below is more information about the publication:

In a nutshell
?
?Greetings! This is Jade George and Rawan Gebran and we’re the founders of The Carton, an independent quarterly publication that tells the story of Middle Eastern culture through its food. Work on The Carton began in Lebanon in July of 2011 when we established Art And Then Some, a happy ideas factory and independent publishing house.

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