Inside a former bodega in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, two immortal rivals — falcon-headed Horus, lord of the sky, and long-snouted Set, bringer of storms and disorder — pause in their war to bestow blessings on the pharaoh.

The original bas-relief of the tableau lies across the sea, in a temple at Abu Simbel in Egypt. Here in Brooklyn, at King Tut Pie, the surroundings are humbler: a few sidewalk tables tucked under an awning and a room of efficient tile, with pale gold cushions on a lone banquette and burlap shades bearing the ghostly imprint of King Tut’s funerary mask.

But there is a glimpse of divinity behind the counter in the making of feteer meshaltet, whose origins are said to date back to the pharaohs. Dough, extra wet and clingy, is slapped down on marble and patted flat with butter, then rolled and tugged into a gossamer pane, see-through and thinner than skin.

This is folded and placed inside another pane of dough, which in turn is folded and placed inside another, and again, four, five, six times, like a series of Chinese boxes. Each is painted with margarine, a stand-in for Egyptian samna, pure butterfat.