Laila Gohar’s night at the Egyptian Museum

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I left Cairo, the city where I was born, when I was 19 years old to go to university in the US in Florida. At the time, the world was a lot less connected, and it was still possible to go somewhere and truly know no one. Most of my friends and family were back in Egypt. The next chapter of my life was a leap into the unknown. 

For the next two decades I put my head down and worked as hard as I could on a career combining food and visual storytelling that I essentially invented. Still today I find it hard to describe exactly what I do. I prefer to instead describe what I’ve made: life-size chairs constructed from brioche, fountains flowing with chocolate, 6m-long cakes… I’ve worked for fashion brands from Hermès to Comme des Garçons. My work has been shown at auction houses, galleries and museums. But at the end of the day, at least in my eyes, what I’m known for is not a collaboration, or a recipe, or a brioche chair. It’s a feeling that I can convey through my work. It’s an invitation to wonder, and to dream, like a child.

My career has happened outside Egypt (I made a name for myself in New York City), and until a few weeks ago I had never done a project there. Although I have been offered opportunities over the years, they never were quite right. I needed to wait for the right moment – one that could be a true homecoming. 

It has taken us Egyptians many years to come to appreciate what is ours

I was approached by Goya Gallagher, a longtime expat living in Egypt, and creative director Cruz María Wyndham, about a project at the Egyptian Museum in Cairo. They were launching Anūt Cairo, a platform that engages with local craftspeople and artisans. For the launch, 200 people were invited for dinner at the museum, which I was asked to bring to life and create an installation for, in one of the galleries. The Egyptian Museum houses 6,000 years of history and over 100,000 ancient artefacts. I grew up visiting it on school trips, but it took me many years away to really understand the magnitude of its richness. 

After some time researching at my studio in New York, things started taking shape. In Ancient Egypt, bread was at the centre of life – it was a measure of abundance, a gesture of devotion, an offering. It was represented in art that appeared in temples and tombs. I ended up making five towering sculptural forms, symbolising emmer wheat, water, fermentation, kneading and baking. I worked with glassblowers, metal workers and potters in Cairo to bring the sculptures to life. Along with my pieces, the museum’s curatorial team showed ancient grains, cakes and bread from the museum’s permanent collection – actual bread that was more than 3,000 years old. The statue of the goddess Nut was placed in the middle of the room. And in the room opposite lay the Mask of Tutankhamun. It was the greatest honour of my career.

To celebrate the evening, we planned a dinner in the museum gardens with two long communal tables, each seating 100 guests. I wanted to serve Egyptian food that is mostly eaten at home and a part of everyday life. Egyptian cuisine features lots of plant-based foods like stewed vegetables, beans, grains, and legumes. Like many former colonies, it has taken us Egyptians many years to come to appreciate what is ours. For years, French food was deemed the only worthy cuisine to serve at high-society events but this is thankfully changing. I called on a schoolfriend with a popular chain of Egyptian restaurants called Zooba to help with the catering. We served classic Egyptian dishes – things like stuffed vine leaves, beetroot salad, classic Egyptian koshary, freekeh (an Ancient Egyptian grain) and bessara (stewed fava with coriander). Many of the dishes were things my grandmother Nabila, a brilliant home cook, had taught me growing up. And the best part was she was there to try them for herself. As I served her a plate of food, she said, “I never thought I’d live to see the day where our food is served at a museum.”

A fountain of rubies

Once dinner was served, people made their way to the dancefloor, which was dotted with giant displays of baklavas and kunafa neatly stacked tall. There were also two plaster fountains filled with bright ruby-like pomegranate seeds and husk cherries. When I was growing up, my mother deseeded pomegranates for me as an after-school snack. I’d open the fridge to a bowl of cold seeds ready to be devoured. Sometimes when no one was looking I’d reach into the fridge and toss the cold, crunchy seeds into my mouth. Anyone that’s deseeded pomegranate is aware of the labour of love that goes into the process. To me it’s always felt like the most luxurious snack. Literally like eating rubies. And to have a fountain flowing with pomegranate seeds felt like an offering from the heart, to a place that has given me an invitation to wonder and to dream.

@lailacooks