There are few things more stressful in Cairo than trying to book a dinner reservation. And I say that knowing full well that this is a city where crossing the street feels like a game of chance, traffic is an uninvited companion on every journey and “on my way” can mean anything from five minutes to never.
But somehow, the simple act of reserving a table, the first, most basic step in what should be a relaxing meal, is riddled with complications that make you wonder if dining out is even worth it.
If you are lucky, your restaurant of choice will have an online reservation system that works. And by “works,” I mean you pick a time, it shows availability, and you get a confirmation. Instantly. No phone calls, no back-and-forth. Ratio’s Underground in Maadi is a rare example of this. Newly opened, they’ve set the bar (or perhaps the table) with a basic but functional reservation process that takes mere minutes.
But that seems to be the exception in Egypt. Not the rule.
Are Reservations a Construct or Reality?
More often, booking a table at a mid or high-end restaurant in Egypt means entering a game of “Who Wants to Be Ignored?” Take Em Sherif, for instance. The food may be divine, but trying to get someone to answer the phone? That’s a test of willpower. You’ll call, redial, call again. Sometimes the line’s busy. Sometimes it rings endlessly. Sometimes it just doesn’t go through. And when someone does answer, you have to go through the gymnastics of trying to figure out what alternative times are available.
Then there’s the “request” model, a fancy way of saying “we may or may not acknowledge your existence.” You fill out a form online, click submit, and then silence. Are you in? Out? Should you follow up? Should you just show up and hope for the best?
And just when you think it can’t get worse, places like Brass Monkeys enters the chat. Not only do you need to submit a request, but they also ask for your social media profiles. It feels less like a restaurant reservation and more like a visa application. Will they judge you based on your follower count? Will a photo of you with your hair a little messy disqualify you? No one knows. And frankly, no one should have to find out.
It doesn’t have to be this way. In the UAE and Saudi Arabia, for example, booking a restaurant feels seamless and intuitive. In most cases, reservations are made online within seconds. – you can even make some of them through Google. And when phone calls are required, they’re handled respectfully and efficiently. You speak to someone polite, who actually answers the phone, confirms your reservation, and follows up with an SMS or email. It’s professional, predictable, and natural. The way it should be.
Meanwhile, here in Egypt, you’re often left guessing. Worse still is the creeping sense of discrimination that taints the entire experience. On more than one occasion, someone has called a “higher end” restaurant speaking Arabic and been told there are no tables available. Minutes later, the same restaurant is magically open for business when called from a different number in English pretending to be a foreigner. It’s insulting. Add to that the ongoing issues of women in hijab being turned away or judged for their dress, and you begin to understand how “exclusive” dining in Cairo has taken on a whole other meaning. Not in atmosphere, but in attitude.
And in Egypt, where walk-ins are often challenging (particularly on certain days) because of chaotic urban planning, traffic, and a lack of accessible alternatives nearby, your entire evening hinges on whether or not someone responds to your booking attempt.
So yes, dining out in Egypt can be delicious and even memorable. But it comes at a cost, not just financial but emotional. Because the most exhausting part of the meal isn’t the drive or the parking or the noise. It’s the reservation.
Maybe one day, Egypt’s restaurant scene will realize that the dining experience starts before the food arrives. Until then, we’ll have to keep refreshing our phones, redialing the same number, and wondering if our accent, follower count, or headscarf is the reason we’re still waiting.
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