Top image: Talal Albannai / Flickr. All images by Alfieyah Abdullah for RICE Media unless stated otherwise.
An amalgamation of sweet and savoury smells fills the air as I enter Tarboush, a Middle-Eastern restaurant on Arab Street. Large serving dishes laden with lamb shanks and other appetisers line the pass, waiting to be picked up.
As tempting as they look, I’m on a mission to try the real kunafa.
I don’t mean the Nutella-laden versions of the Middle Eastern dessert that started popping up at our local pasar malams in 2023. Rather, I’m referring to the version that stays true to the pastry’s Palestinian roots. Traditional kunafa is made with kataifi pastry dough, filled or layered with cheese, and sprinkled with pistachios. The type of cheese and topping varies by region, but you’re definitely not going to find crumbled Oreos or Biscoff spread at any authentic kunafa joint.
A glorious golden kunafa lands on my table.
I pour the syrup and cream over the piping hot kunafa. I dig in, and I’m greeted with a satisfying crackling sound. Crunch? Check. Salty cheese pull? Check. Flavour? Check. Overall verdict? Chef’s kiss.
Each kunafa that leaves Tarboush’s kitchen is made-to-order. Fresh out of the oven, it’s served with simple accompaniments of scented syrup and Tarboush’s homemade cream. Chef Ammar Ali tells me that nothing is prepped in advance or pre-made. Apparently, the restaurant also uses a special cheese that he can’t disclose. The mystery of it all is delicious. So is the kunafa.
“Once everything is layered, it’ll go straight into the oven. Not the microwave,” Chef Ammar, who’s in his sixties, adds with a wink.
I gather that it’s Chef Ammar’s way of subtly dissing the reheating instructions found on the containers of the viral pasar malam kunafas. I don’t blame him.
For centuries, traditional kunafa has been an intricately balanced dish. The crispy baked outer shell, soft cheese filling, aromatic syrup, and crushed pistachios—it’s all meant to come together in a harmonious symphony of flavours and textures.
The new-age kunafa—also called kunafe or knafeh—is almost unrecognisable to the Middle Eastern eye. Simple syrup is replaced with Nutella, white chocolate, or other cloying sauces. Pistachios are swapped out for cereal or crushed Speculoos. Savoury versions like Salted Egg Yolk Charcoal kunafa have popped up, while others have been given fancy monikers like Blue Paddle Pop.
Surprisingly, the viral kunafa has managed to hold its own for almost two years. You can still get it from the odd pasar malam. But, like every viral fad, the snaking queues have gradually petered out. And so has the hype.
At the risk of sounding like a purist, I can’t help but wonder, was it all worth it, turning someone else’s culture into a fleeting fad? Or is this reinvention inevitable?
The Allure of Novelty Snacks
In recent years, there’s been discourse over the shifting landscape of pasar malams and Ramadan bazaars. Why does everything need to be rainbow-coloured? And does it really need to come with a heaping serving of nacho cheese? Whatever happened to the stalls selling traditional snacks?
And yet, when it’s the new-age snacks like rainbow bagels that draw long queues and earn big bucks, can we really blame vendors for chasing viral trends?
Hussin Said of MangoBossKu holds the honour of being the first to introduce kunafa to the Singapore market at the Geylang Serai Bazaar in 2023.
The Godfather of Kunafa (that’s what some followers call him) tells me that he made over half a million in sales from the Ramadan bazaar alone. The 40-year-old’s social media numbers also catapulted to over 150,000 followers.
The spread of Kunafa fever also had to do with TikTok. Kunafa fans, mostly Malay consumers, would camp on TikTok Live give up their weekends to queue for long hours in unpredictable weather.
Hussin says that after visiting pasar malams across Malaysia and Singapore, he realised that Singaporeans and Malaysians alike were craving something fun and sweet to balance out the savoury dishes at pasar malams.
At the time, a few pasar malams in Malaysia were already selling the reinvented kunafa, but they had little flavour variety, and weren’t freshly baked. This meant that most customers couldn’t enjoy hot kunafa on the spot.
It was a business opportunity he could not pass up—and his instincts were right. After Hussin launched his kunafa brand in Singapore, the dessert quickly became the main attraction at pasar malams, social media vlogs and food review blogs.
This, in turn, inspired individuals like 32-year-old Farhan Shahmat to jump on the kunafa hype train. The businessman mainly sells snacks and household products imported from Batam. In a bid to up the fluctuating sales from his Batam products, he began selling kunafa during Ramadan 2023.
He has spent the past two Ramadans pushing kunafa sales on TikTok Live. Prior to being a reseller for Kunafa Eden, he had never tried the original kunafa—or even knew what it was. Funnily enough, neither had most of his customers.
“Most of my customers feedback that the reason they like Kunafa Eden so much is because of the flavour variation, and it caters to the Asian palette. I think I had so many customers at the time because they didn’t want to wait in the long queues, but still wanted to see what the overall hype was about,” Farhan explains.
During peak Ramadan period, Farhan’s dedication to kunafa sales paid off. On top of ordering kunafa from him, his customers would also buy his other products.
In one weekend, he could sell over 130 orders of kunafa. There were also multiple requests for him to open preorders on weekdays, and any extra kunafa he had would be gone in seconds whenever he auctioned them on TikTok Live.
But as of late November last year, Farhan’s kunafa sales have dwindled to barely 50 orders in one weekend.
One True Kunafa
I suppose the slow death of the viral kunafa trend must feel like vindication for a traditionalist like Chef Ammar.
Tarboush still sells approximately 300 orders of kunafa a day. Business hasn’t really been affected by the rise and fall of its viral, new-age counterpart, Chef Ammar says.
Understandably, Chef Ammar is all for the authentic version. He left Jordan, Palestine and put down roots in Malaysia at 19. Despite living there for over 25 years, he hasn’t forgotten the image of his grandfather teaching his mum how to cook Palestinian food.
The proof is in the pudding. Most of Chef Ammar’s customers are Middle-Eastern or Malay-Muslims who’ve tried the original kunafa on their trips to Dubai or Turkey.
“I live by the ethics and principle that everything I make or do has to be authentic, and the best version it can possibly be. Keeping my food true to my heritage is important because it carries dear memories for me. It’s a part of home wherever I go,” he says.
Similarly, 36-year-old Dalia Dawood grew up on traditional kunafa. Born of Iraqi and Lebanese descent, she recalls the sweetness wafting through the air as she walked through street markets. Vendors would display big round dishes of fresh, golden kunafa, ready to be cut into generous portions.
“I couldn’t look at that [viral version] and call it kunafa. Aside from trying to make money, what’s their intention? I’d assume they’d want to spread some sort of Palestinian culture,” Dalia rants.
“These are people whose culture is being erased. Maybe they should be creating their own sweet dish instead of appropriating someone else’s.”
For individuals like Dalia and Chef Ammar, the kunafa is not just another dessert. It’s an invisible thread connecting them to their culture and heritage. Coming from birthplaces heavily tied to conflict, the humble kunafa carries a deeply rooted representation of resilience and belonging.
“Though simple, the kunafa has always been a symbol of unyielding nature of identity, even during the chaos. Maintaining culinary traditions are a way for us to preserve our culture and a reminder to continue holding on to our roots, no matter the adversity.” Dalia adds.
When Viral Hype Wears Off
Does it have to be one or the other, though? For 38-year-old Mediterranean chef Karim Zorlu, the answer is no.
As someone of Turkish-Egyptian descent, Chef Karim says he grew up eating multiple versions of kunafa—the man even welcomes the sickeningly sweet Singaporean versions of the dessert. Though his customers gush to him how much they love the sauces and toppings in the modern rendition, they appreciate the original just as much.
“It’s a creative idea that shows how the various cultures combine. The first few people to create fusion kunafas are Asians. Seeing how Singaporeans work to create a version for the local tongue is pretty amazingm,” Chef Karim asserts.
“It’s harmless experimentation, what’s wrong with it?”
To be honest, now that I’ve tried almost my body weight in kunafa, the initial novelty of the viral versions has worn off. There’s only so much Nutella one can stomach, after all.
Sure, there might be a select number of people who still buy the new-age kunafa, albeit not as regularly. But it’s just another sweet concoction you’d find at the pasar malam.
Does new-age kunafa really hold the same appeal as the Middle-Eastern versions? I’d say no. The original transcends individual ingredients. It carries the weight of history, family traditions, and communal bonds.
Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against reinventions, but food without history is just empty calories. At the end of the day, we need to go beyond appreciating the kunafa solely for its taste, or view it purely as sustenance. We need to recognise its role in shaping identities, communities, and cultures.
And if we really want to see a resurgence of traditional foods in our bazaars, we should be putting our money where our mouths are.
