Over the past three years, Ramadhan dining across the Gulf has quietly shifted from something simple into something planned, packaged, and often performative. Iftar is no longer just about breaking fast. It’s a booking. A calendar slot. A decision weighed against traffic, price, ambience, and whether the table will photograph well.
Across the region, hotels and restaurants have leaned heavily into the idea of Ramadhan as a “season”. Ticketed iftars, curated tents, themed menus, and set experiences have become the norm rather than the exception. Social media has played its part, amplifying beautifully laid spreads and softly lit majlis-style set-ups, turning what was once intimate into something increasingly public.
At the same time, there’s a noticeable shift in how people talk about food during Ramadhan. Overindulgence, once quietly accepted, is now openly questioned. Conversations around sustainability, moderation, and mindful eating have grown louder, particularly since the pandemic years. Some diners are deliberately choosing simpler meals or fewer outings, framing restraint as part of the spiritual discipline Ramadhan calls for.
Price has also become a defining factor. Rising food costs across the Gulf have made people more selective. Value is discussed openly — not just in terms of quantity, but quality and purpose. Is this iftar worth it? Does it feel meaningful, or just expensive? These are questions people now ask without embarrassment.
Another clear trend is delivery. Ordering iftar has evolved from a convenience into a strategy especially for families balancing work, long commutes, and hosting responsibilities. What was once seen as a shortcut is now simply part of how modern Ramadhan works.
In Oman, these regional shifts take on a slightly different texture. Muscat’s hotel suhoors, for example, have turned into late-night social spaces in their own right. They’re less about spectacle and more about atmosphere: lingering conversations, familiar faces, a slower pace. At the same time, there’s growing visibility around community-focused initiatives, from shared meals to quiet acts of giving that don’t ask for applause.
And this is where it’s worth pausing.
Because beyond the trends, the bookings, and the social chatter, Ramadhan is meant to centre on reflection. Its spirit lies in self-discipline, generosity, empathy, and awareness not only of hunger, but of others. Fasting is not about deprivation for its own sake; it’s about mindfulness, intention, and reconnecting with what actually matters.
So yes, enjoy the iftars. Support local restaurants. Gather with friends. But perhaps the real success of Ramadhan isn’t measured by how many places we try, but by how often we slow down, show restraint, and remember why this month exists in the first place.
Sometimes, the most meaningful table is the simplest one.
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