My grandfather: صوت العرب and sweet ibrik

My grandfather’s mornings revolved around two essentials: coffee and the radio, and not just any station; it had to be صوت العرب (The Voice of the Arabs), broadcast across Cairo in sonorous, dignified tones. He always set the volume a little too high, as if the nation’s news deserved to echo beyond the modest walls of his home.

Resplendent in his blue silk and satin robe, he would sit with a fly swatter resting on the edge of a small wooden table, a handmade cup of sweetened ibrik coffee steaming in the morning air. The stovetop ibrik was never far from hand, always prepared slowly and deliberately, with pauses that conveyed that it was not something to be rushed, but savoured ‘with the rhythm of the morning’. And he meant it literally. For him, coffee anchored the day, serving as the moment before all others: before errands, before conversations, before the day began. Coffee buffered time.

The qahwa he frequented nearby the Voice of the Arabs station was more than just a cafe; it was a newsroom, a parliament, a chess club, where men in straight fit jeans, plain T-shirts, and leather loafers clustered around newspapers and hunched over backgammon boards. Orders were placed verbally, with no menu in sight. It was home, where the qahwa boy knew your order by heart and prepared it as soon as he spotted you from afar. The coffee was thick and sludgy, spiced with cardamom or left bitter, and poured from a kanaka into tiny glasses. It was a temple to the simplicities of life and communion, where coffee was never rushed but taken at great, meandering length, punctuated by the odd cheer or collective groan in response to the football match playing in the background, sipped at a slow cadence. It was where the chief currency was a good story, as richly embellished as the coffee was sugared. ‘That,’ my grandfather would say, ‘is the magic and the pleasure of a good qahwa.’

For that generation, coffee was not merely a product. It was a way of being: how you held the cup, how long you stirred it, how you observed others before taking the first sip.

My Father: cappuccinos & mall culture

Fast forward to the late 1990s. Egypt was undergoing economic liberalization, and so were its taste buds. Global brands began to emerge, and mall culture flourished. Suddenly, ‘going for coffee’ no longer meant visiting your local qahwa; it meant air conditioning, imported beans, and drinks with Italian names that your cousin had tried in Europe.

My father recalls his very first cappuccino clearly. It was at Greco Café in Maadi, a stylish spot that felt impossibly continental at the time. He sipped it slowly, unsure whether he liked the foam or if he was even supposed to. He had never encountered coffee so frothy, delicate, and sweet—as if it were dressed for an occasion.

This led to a decade-long romance with international-style cafes, abundant cappuccinos and cigarettes, immaculate tiled floors, and glass windows. It became more than just coffee; it was a symbol of social mobility. Drinking coffee transformed into a way to be seen as ‘cosmopolitan’.

And yet, a tension remained. While mornings began to feature American-style coffee and evening hangouts shifted from the qahwa—with its tall ceilings, wide-open doors connecting inside and outside, wooden chairs scattered about slim metal tables, and plentiful shisha—to cafe chains, the Turkish coffee tradition that characterized my grandfather’s morning news broadcast and backgammon tussles was not abandoned—only displaced. Many homes, including ours, had both: the ibrik and the instant coffee tin, the espresso machine and the cappuccino cup. Two eras, two worlds coexisting on the same kitchen shelf.

My present: drip bags, the third wave, & slowing down

My own coffee journey has taken a different route. I didn’t fall in love with coffee for its caffeine; I fell for the process. The grind size, the water temperature, the aroma bloom—it was the ritual that captivated me over the taste. I soon became the person who travelled with a coffee scale, smilingly fielding my friends’ playful ribbings at my pulling out a V60 at the beach. Even now, I keep one tucked in my rucksack like a talisman. And among this litany of gear, brew ratios, and pour-over techniques, a recent addition to my brewing is drip bags. Developed by local brand ReQaf, they offer a way of brewing clean, consistent coffee that is approachable and calming—a moment to be treasured in a world that often feels reminiscent of the pace and chaos of Cairo traffic. What I observe now across my generation is a yearning not just for quality coffee, but for meaningful routines. In an era of hyper-distraction, many Egyptians are rediscovering the allure of quiet rituals. Brewing coffee at home has become a small act of rebellion or self-expression—a way to anchor the day. Cafes, once symbols of status, are evolving into spaces of intent. We visit to discover new origins, meet roasters, and take brewing workshops. Coffee has shifted from being about image to becoming a matter of inquiry.

The new wave: Egypt’s specialty coffee moment

In recent years, Egypt has joined the global specialty coffee movement with real momentum. Roasters are popping up in Cairo, Alexandria, and along the Mediterranean and Red Sea coasts, driven by a growing interest in traceability, sustainability, and sensory exploration.

What's fascinating is how each brand brings its own philosophy to the table.

Brown Nose Coffee, for example, pushes flavour boundaries with scientific precision. Co-founder Medhat Hassanein states, ‘Brown Nose began with a real passion for roasting and brewing great coffee. Early on, we understood that being serious about coffee also meant being honest about how people—especially a younger, curious generation—actually drink it. So we grew in that direction: staying true to the craft while building a playful, approachable brand that never compromises on quality.’

Source Green Coffee, one of the few green coffee importers in the country, prioritizes transparency in the supply chain. Founder Abdallah Abdelhamid believes that ‘We want to build a bridge, not just between farmer and roaster, but between global standards and local access. Specialty shouldn’t be exclusive.’

Ritual Coffee, a roaster and cafe in New Cairo, approaches coffee as a form of education. Founder Hussein Bahgat explains: ‘We’re not trying to impress anyone with rare and exotic beans. The focus is on helping people understand coffee and discover what they genuinely enjoy—not what’s trending online.’

At ReQaf, we are exploring a different question: how can we make specialty coffee convenient and accessible without compromising quality? Drip bags, tasting boxes, and localized storytelling are part of our answer, as is listening to what Egyptians already understand about rhythm, patience, and coffee as ritual.

What comes next: inheritance and reinvention

What’s beautiful—and what gives me hope—is that Egypt’s coffee evolution isn’t a clean break from the past. It’s a layering, a blend.

My grandfather’s slow mornings with صوت العرب, my father’s cappuccino revelation at Greco Café, and my own brewing habits today are not disconnected. It’s not about which cup tastes better; it’s about the quality time we share and the conversations our coffees inspire. They are chapters in the same book. Each generation has adapted coffee to its moment without losing sight of the core idea: that coffee is not just fuel. It’s a pause, a presence, an act of creating time where none exists.

Egypt’s coffee culture is not a tale of replacing the old with the new; it’s a narrative of coexistence. The cafe scene in Egypt will continue to evolve. More cafes will open, and new trends will emerge. But if we’re lucky, we won’t lose the small gestures—the slow pour, the sugar stirred three times clockwise, the steam curling from an ibrik or kanaka. For those are the rituals that connect us, that allow us to transcend the confines of the temporal spaces we occupy to remain conversant with the ways of those who came before us, who knew things we may have forgotten, but can remember through the simple act of making a cup of coffee. Because those rituals are not just about coffee; they are about us.