Shiraz — city of flowers, poetry and sweetness

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Shiraz is a city whose very name is sweet. If you set your finger anywhere on Iran's cultural map, it lands among roses, among Hafez's verses, and finally settles into a bowl of faloodeh. This city has been breathing sweetness for centuries — and Homeyda is just a new chapter in that long story.

This note is an invitation to think of sweetness as a Shirazi tradition — not merely a product, but a language.

Poetry, roses and a steady flavour

It is said that every Shirazi, even those who never read poetry, holds one couplet of Hafez somewhere in their mind. These verses are usually about flowers, wine, the beloved, or time — and all of them carry a hidden sweetness. Shirazis have long known how to make a bitter life bearable with a spoon of rosewater, a slice of faloodeh, a piece of bazaar koloocheh.

The rose, in this city, is both literature and food. Shirazi rosewater, drawn from the Damask rose gardens of Meymand and Qamsar, lives in the bid-mesk drink, in faloodeh, in cream rolls, and now in Homeyda's modern cakes too — a quiet pulse. We sometimes fold rosewater into the filling — a soft perfume that, on the tongue, recites Shiraz aloud.

"A Shirazi confectioner knows the poem, recognises the flower, and reads flavour as precisely as a musician reads a note."

From sohan and koloocheh to bento

The region's traditional sweets — Qom sohan, Fuman koloocheh, Esfahan gaz, Shirazi basloq — are all built on the same logic: precise texture, balanced flavour, the delicacy that comes only with years of repetition. When Homeyda began, I knew I did not want to cut myself off from this tradition. I wanted to converse with it.

That is why our bento cakes sometimes carry rosewater, sometimes pistachio, sometimes that "flavour of memory" you still keep from an aunt or a grandmother. To a non-Shirazi it is simply a good cake. To a Shirazi, it is a quiet reminder of home.

Why Shiraz, why Homeyda

I could have started Homeyda in Tehran or Esfahan. But Shiraz, for me, is not just a place to live — it is a place to work. Khaldebarin, the neighbourhood where Homeyda is built, sits close to old gardens, close to Hafezieh, close to streets that still carry the scent of orange blossom. Every morning when I walk into my kitchen, I know where in the world I am standing.

Perhaps that is why our cakes, even when their design is modern and Pinterest-leaning, carry a softness only Shirazis seem to notice. That softness comes from the city. From the wind, from the rose, from a tradition that travels all the way to the last swipe of cream on top.

For those who have never been to Shiraz

If you have never been here, here's a suggestion. Order a rosewater-pistachio bento from Homeyda (yes — we ship to Tehran and Karaj in dedicated boxes). When you take the first bite, close your eyes. If we did our job well, you'll hear the pigeons of Hafezieh.

And if one day you do come to Shiraz, please visit. Khaldebarin — the address sits right next to a poem.