We flew into central Anatolia, Turkey’s rural heartland, on a bright clear morning. The plane from Istanbul had taken us over a wilderness of craggy mountains, darkly hidden lakes and a vast, icy plateau.
We flew into central Anatolia, Turkey’s rural heartland, on a bright clear morning. The plane from Istanbul had taken us over a wilderness of craggy mountains, darkly hidden lakes and a vast, icy plateau. Gazing down, it was easy to imagine that grey wolves still roamed the rugged landscape. Easy, too, to picture the rampaging hordes of Turkic warriors, who rode into Anatolia a thousand years ago from their own windswept steppe-lands further east.
And now we were making our descent into Kayseri, an ancient trading city situated almost slap-bang in the middle of Turkey. Leaving the city’s charms for another day, we jumped into a hire car and sped off towards our destination: the famously strange and twisted topography of Cappadocia.
The forty-minute drive took us through remote, dun-coloured plains, dotted here and there with little huddles of black-eared goats. Above us the sky was a brilliant blue and in the distance the snow-capped peak of Mount Erciyes was clearly visible. It was called the White Mountain by the Hittites, who occupied the region from 1800-1200 BC, and the rose-pink ash from this still-active volcano formed the region’s fantastical rock formations.
As we sped further on, the bare broad landscape began to change, erupting into folds and furrows, winding hills and plunging valleys. The fertile volcanic earth was a deep cocoa brown and in the shadows small patches of ice still clung to the ground. In summer this region is transformed into a lush market garden, but now, in the early spring, the land was bleak and bare. Small tidy fields were as yet un-cropped with wheat, potatoes and pumpkins. Gnarled black vines striped the hillsides, and little orchards of fruit trees were spiky against the blue sky, but in the summer their branches would be laden with cherries, peaches and plums.
Formed by centuries of erosion of the soft volcanic tuff, these knobbed pillars burst priapically from the corrugated hillsides and deep ravines.
Our first stop was in the village of Ürgüp, to check into our tiny hotel, the Sacred House. It had been lovingly created in a refurbished medieval mansion, and, like other dwellings in the area, many of the rooms were carved deep into the soft volcanic rock. All were delightfully decorated with antique furniture, textiles and knick-knacks; it was all we could do to drag ourselves away from the sun-splashed courtyard and welcoming glasses of homemade cherry wine – but we still had fairy chimneys and cave churches to explore before bedtime.
‘Fairy chimneys’, we agreed, is a coy euphemism for what must surely be the gods’ idea of a dirty joke. Formed by centuries of erosion of the soft volcanic tuff, these knobbed pillars burst priapically from the corrugated hillsides and deep ravines. But as we hurtled through the eccentric-looking countryside the snigger factor quickly subsided. We wound down the car windows and gazed out at the play of light across the cliffs and curves. What seemed from a distance to be uniformly dull grey rock was, close up, a riot of soft pinks, chestnut browns and mustard-yellow striations. In places, the foreground flattened out before a vast Wild West backdrop. Around another corner we plunged back into a mad profusion of cones, turrets and valleys, where pigeons swooped around myriad carved dovecotes.
The highlight of Cappadocia is near Göreme, where settlements of early Christians hid in the hillsides, hollowing a cluster of thirty or more monastic cells and chapels, bedchambers, refectories and wine cellars into the steep valley. Apart from a coachload of Korean tourists the place was deserted, and we wandered lazily from church to tiny church, ducking inside to admire the superb frescos. Untouched by sunlight, many still retain their gorgeous glowing colours. They’ve fared less well at the hand of humans, though, and many of the faces of Christ, the disciples and saints have had their eyes roughly scratched away by superstitious religious vandals.
Around another corner we plunged back into a mad profusion of cones, turrets and valleys, where pigeons swooped around myriad carved dovecotes.
Despite the desecration, the power of Göreme is undeniable. It’s impossible not to be moved by the thought of these early communities hiding from persecution and holed up against the elements in their damp, dark caves in the depths of snowy winter. They must surely have been a gentle, spiritual people, creating images of exquisite beauty and simplicity from the deep reds and ochre and brilliant blues of their paintbox.
We ate that evening at Sömine, reputed to be Ürgüp’s best restaurant. A fire blazed in the central stone fireplace and the room was cosy and welcoming after a chilly walk to the restaurant. Our long day of sightseeing had left us ravenous and we scoffed down a succession of delicious mezze dishes with puffs of golden bread, hot from the wood-fired oven. There were stuffed vine leaves as skinny as my finger and a spiral-shaped oversized fried manti (dumpling). A grilled vegetable salad was tangy with pekmez (grape molasses) made from Cappadocian grapes. Greg watched the chefs in the kitchen making pilav from the locally grown burgul wheat, which we ate with the house speciality testi kebab – a casserole of lamb and vegetables, slow-cooked in a sealed clay pot. This, it seemed, was the touch of theatre that all tourist-restaurants seem to embrace: a chosen diner at each table gets to smash the top off the pot and release the fragrant steam. But the meal was none the worse for it and the dish itself was tender and tasty. A few glasses of pale, melon-scented local white wine had washed it all down nicely, and we ambled back to the Sacred House through the snow-streaked streets in a glow of good humour.
A little while later, as I lay between crisp cotton sheets, snuggled up in the antique four-poster bed, a small lump of rock fell from the ceiling onto my pillow in a sprinkling of cave dust. I switched off the bedside light and the room was plunged into a blackness that was almost palpable. Outside in the icy night I heard the wind blowing up and my mind wandered back to those monks, huddled into their bleak cave bedrooms, with the wolves howling in the mountains beyond. A fleeting sense of panic shivered down my spine, and I lay awake in the dark listening to the sound of my beating heart.
Our long day of sightseeing had left us ravenous and we scoffed down a succession of delicious mezze dishes with puffs of golden bread, hot from the wood-fired oven.
Everyday orzo pilav
The idea of cooking rice with little broken bits of vermicelli noodles is commonplace in the Middle East. On our travels around Turkey, we were fascinated to see this method used frequently to make pilav, mainly using rice-shaped orzo pasta instead of the noodles. At Sömine restaurant in Cappadocia I spent some time watching the specialist pilav chef at work. The first part of the process involved heating a substantial amount of butter to a foaming nut-brown. The orzo pasta was tossed in the butter, and stirred all the time, until it began to colour. Now I’ve tried it myself at home, I understand it’s a fine line between achieving the desired toasty, nutty flavour and burning the butter. You need to turn and toss the pasta continuously, and move the pan on and off the heat to control the temperature. But it’s worth the effort!
This buttery, fragrant pilav is a good everyday accompaniment to all sorts of grilled meats, casseroles and vegetable dishes.
250 g long-grain or basmati rice 500 ml Chicken Stock or water
40 g butter
1 teaspoon extra-virgin olive oil
¼ cup orzo pasta
pinch of sea salt
Put the rice into a large bowl and rinse well under cold running water, working your fingers through it to loosen the starch. Drain off the milky water and repeat until the water runs clear. Cover the rice with cold water and leave to soak for 10 minutes. Drain the rice and rinse a final time.
Bring the stock to the boil, then lower the heat and keep at a simmer.
Melt the butter and oil in a heavy-based saucepan. Add the orzo pasta and sauté over a medium heat, stirring continuously, until the butter foams and the orzo starts to colour. You may need to move the pan away from the direct heat from time to time to ensure the butter doesn’t burn.
Add the drained rice to the pan and stir it gently for a minute, so that all the grains are coated with butter. Stir in the simmering stock and salt. Bring to the boil, then cover with a tight-fitting lid and cook over a very low heat for 15–17 minutes. The grains should all look plump and separate and the surface will be dented with little holes. Remove the pan from the heat, then slide a clean, folded tea towel under the lid and leave it to stand for 15–20 minutes.
To serve, tip the rice onto a serving platter and fluff the grains up with a fork.
SERVES 4–6
Tomato pilav
This is another favourite home-style Turkish pilav, although its success does depend on using really tasty tomatoes. Please do not use tinned tomatoes, as the dish will taste salty and metallic.
200 g long-grain or basmati rice
350 g vine-ripened tomatoes, skinned and roughly chopped
Chicken Stock or vegetable stock
60 g butter
1 shallot, finely diced
1 teaspoon tomato paste
1 teaspoon grated lemon zest
1 sprig thyme
sea salt
freshly ground black pepper
Put the rice into a large bowl and rinse well under cold running water, working your fingers through it to loosen the starch. Drain off the milky water and repeat until the water runs clear. Cover the rice with cold water and leave to soak for 10 minutes. Drain the rice and rinse a final time.
Blitz the tomatoes to a rough purée in a food processor. Measure the volume and add enough stock to make it up to 400 ml. Tip the tomato stock into a saucepan and bring to the boil. Lower the heat and keep at a simmer.
Melt the butter in a heavy-based saucepan. Add the shallot and sauté over a low– medium heat, stirring continuously, until it starts to soften. Add the tomato paste, zest and thyme and stir for another minute.
Add the rice to the pan, season with salt and pepper and pour in the simmering tomato stock. Return to the boil, stir briefly, then cover with a tight-fitting lid and cook over a very low heat for 15 minutes. The grains should all look plump and separate and the surface will be dented with little holes. Remove the pan from the heat, then slide a clean, folded tea towel under the lid and leave it to stand for 15–20 minutes.
To serve, tip the rice onto a serving platter and fluff the grains up with a fork.
SERVES 4–6
Pistachio pilav with spinach and herbs
This is a lovely vibrant-green pilav, full of herbs and crunchy pistachios. It makes a particularly good accompaniment to grilled fish or chicken dishes – and I would always serve it with yoghurt on the side.
200 g long-grain or basmati rice
400 ml Chicken Stock or water
80 g butter
1 onion, finely diced
550 g spinach leaves, washed and shredded
sea salt
freshly ground black pepper
80 g unsalted shelled pistachios, roughly chopped
½ cup shredded mint leaves
½ cup shredded flat-leaf parsley leaves
½ cup chopped dill
Put the rice into a large bowl and rinse well under cold running water, working your fingers through it to loosen the starch. Drain off the milky water and repeat until the water runs clear. Cover the rice with cold water and leave to soak for 10 minutes. Drain the rice and rinse a final time.
Bring the stock to the boil, then lower the heat and keep at a simmer.
Melt half the butter in a heavy-based saucepan. Add the onion and sauté over a low–medium heat, stirring continuously until it starts to soften. Increase the heat, then add the spinach and stir well until any moisture has evaporated. Add the rice to the pan, then season with salt and pepper and pour in the simmering stock. Return to the boil, stir briefly, then cover with a tight-fitting lid and cook over a very low heat for 12 minutes.
In a small saucepan, melt the remaining butter. Add the pistachios and sauté over a medium heat, stirring continuously until the butter foams and the nuts start to colour. Tip the browned nuts into the pan of rice with the herbs. Don’t stir! Replace the lid and return the pan to a very low heat for 5 minutes.
Remove the pan from the heat and use a fork to fluff up the grains and stir through the herbs and nuts. Taste and adjust the seasoning. Cover the pan with a clean, folded tea towel, then replace the lid and leave it to stand for 15–20 minutes. To serve, tip the rice onto a serving platter and fluff the grains up with a fork.
SERVES 4–6
[From left] Tomato Pilav, Pistachio Pilav with Spinach and Herbs
Sticky date pilav with golden pine nuts and almonds
The chefs at Topkapi Palace used to vie to see who could create the most luxurious pilav, cramming in nuts, spices and fruit as well as meat, seafood or poultry. I think the sultans would have loved this rich, fragrant pilav: the sweetness of the dates is balanced by the exotic mix of spices, and the fried pine nuts and almonds add plenty of crunch.
250 g long-grain or basmati rice
500 ml Chicken Stock
40 g butter
6 fresh medjool dates, pitted and diced
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
½ teaspoon ground allspice
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
pinch of hot paprika
pinch of sea salt
long strip of peel from ½ orange
2 tablespoons shredded flat-leaf parsley leaves
NUT GARNISH
2 tablespoons olive oil
½ cup flaked almonds, roughly chopped
cup pine nuts, roughly chopped
¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon
pinch of sea salt
Put the rice into a large bowl and rinse well under cold running water, working your fingers through it to loosen the starch. Drain off the milky water and repeat until the water runs clear. Cover the rice with cold water and leave to soak for 10 minutes. Drain the rice and rinse a final time.
Bring the stock to the boil, then lower the heat and keep at a simmer.
Melt the butter in a heavy-based saucepan. Add the dates, pepper and spices and stir briefly. Gently stir in the rice, so that all the grains are coated with the spiced butter. Pour on the simmering stock and add the salt. Stir, then bring to the boil and add the peel. Cover with a tight-fitting lid and cook over a very low heat for 15–17 minutes. The grains should all look plump and separate and the surface will be dented with little holes. Remove the pan from the heat, then slide a clean, folded tea towel under the lid and leave it to stand for 15–20 minutes.
To make the nut garnish, heat the oil in a small frying pan and sauté the nuts for a few minutes until evenly coloured, then tip into a sieve to drain. Sprinkle on the cinnamon and salt and shake the sieve so the nuts are evenly coated.
When ready to serve, remove the peel from the pilav and stir through the parsley, using a fork to fluff up the grains. Tip the rice onto a serving platter and scatter on the nuts.
SERVES 4–6
Rice and grains
Turkey is unquestionably a wheat-oriented cuisine. Wheat crops comprise the major portion of the country’s agricultural production, and its cultivation and use in food production date back many centuries to the Central Asian steppes, in the period before Turkic tribes migrated west into Anatolia. And yet one of the most famous Turkish dishes around the world is the rice pilav.
Rice is an ancient crop, and it’s generally thought that it originated in the hot, humid foothills of the mountainous region between China and India. Around 2000 years ago, rice had spread through India to ancient Persia, where it was cultivated with great success. From Persia it was spread by the Arabs to Spain, while migrating Turkic tribes took it with them into Anatolia.
For many centuries in Anatolia, the bulk of the population consumed wheat as their staple grain, either made into bread or in the form of bulgur – cracked wheat. Rice was generally considered to be food of the wealthy, eaten on celebratory occasions. It was during the Ottoman period that pilav reached its zenith, as chefs competed to create ever more luxurious versions: laden with dried fruits and nuts, enriched with butter, tinted with saffron and scented with exotic spices or flower waters, or made more substantial with the addition of meats, offal, shellfish, game or vegetables.
The word pilav is of Persian origin and encompasses a variety of dishes made of cooked grains or pulses. Although rice pilav is eaten all around Turkey, rice is still largely an imported product. Most rural Turks, especially in parts of central and eastern Anatolia, still favour locally grown bulgur wheat for making their pilavs. With its nutty flavour and slightly chewy texture, bulgur pilav is as delicious as its more sophisticated rice cousin.
Whether made from rice or bulgur wheat, Turks take the business of making pilav very seriously. As often seems to be the case with Turkish cooking, there are a number of ‘rules’ associated with making pilav, which frequently differ, depending on who you talk to. But one thing is a given: to make pilav you need to invest time in learning about the basic ingredient. Bulgur wheat is a sturdier, more forgiving grain than rice, and merely needs to be soaked briefly and rinsed before cooking. When it comes to rice, though, it’s another story, as the grain behaves differently depending on the variety. Some types – short-grain in particular – are naturally starchier, while older rices tend to be more absorbent. Turks tend to favour long-grain rice for making pilavs (we find basmati to be ideal), and use short-grain rice for making stuffings, soups and puddings; pilavs served hot are usually made with butter, if served lukewarm or cold they will be made with olive oil.
During our experimenting we found two steps that were critical to making a good rice pilav. First, you do need to wash the rice before cooking it – this is especially true if you make pilav using short-grain rice. All Turkish housewives devote considerable time to soaking and washing the grains to remove as much excess starch as possible. Next, don’t skimp on the steaming time. After the rice has finished cooking, we always slip a tea towel under the lid of the saucepan and leave it to steam for a good fifteen minutes or so. The tea towel absorbs the steam and leaves you with delectably fluffy grains of rice.
Pilav pie
Known as perdeli or ‘veiled’ pilav because of its pastry covering, this elegantly domed pie makes a good dinner party dish, ideally served with a green salad and Cacik. It requires a fair amount of time and patience to assemble, although most of the work can be done ahead of time.
The classic recipe uses chicken with a buttery nut pilav, but you can vary this by adding herbs, pine nuts, currants or other dried fruit. And, of course, if you happen to have some leftover pilav – of any variety – you could always turn it into a pilav pie.
500 g puff pastry
1 egg yolk, beaten with a splash of water
POACHED CHICKEN
1 × 1 kg chicken
1 small onion, cut into quarters
1 stick celery
1 sprig thyme
2 bay leaves
1 small cinnamon stick
½ lemon
½ teaspoon white peppercorns
PILAV
500 ml chicken stock (reserved from the poached chicken)
250 g long-grain or basmati rice
50 g butter
1 large shallot, finely diced
2 tablespoons barberries or currants
sea salt
freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons olive oil
75 g blanched almonds, roughly chopped
50 g unsalted shelled pistachios, roughly chopped
¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon
pinch of sea salt
To poach the chicken, put the bird and all the aromatics into a heavy-based saucepan and pour on enough water to cover. Bring to the boil, skimming away any fat and impurities that rise to the surface, then lower the heat immediately. Cover the pan and simmer very gently for 20 minutes. Turn off the heat and leave the chicken to cool in the stock. Remove the chicken from the stock and reserve for later. Strain the stock, measuring 500 ml for the pilav.
Put the rice into a large bowl and rinse well under cold running water, working your fingers through it to loosen the starch. Drain off the milky water and repeat until the water runs clear. Cover the rice with cold water and leave to soak for 10 minutes. Drain the rice and rinse a final time.
Bring the stock to the boil, then lower the heat and keep at a simmer. Melt the butter in a heavy-based saucepan. Add the shallot and barberries and sauté over a low–medium heat until they soften. Add the rice and stir well. Season with salt and pepper and pour in the simmering stock. Return to the boil, stir briefly, then cover with a tight-fitting lid and cook over a very low heat for 15 minutes. The grains should all look plump and separate and the surface will be dented with little holes. Remove the pan from the heat, then slide a clean, folded tea towel under the lid and leave it to stand for 15–20 minutes. The pilav can be prepared to this point ahead of time.
When ready to assemble the pie, preheat the oven to 200°C and grease a baking tray.
To finish the pilav, remove the meat from the chicken, discarding the skin and bones. Shred the meat by hand into chunks and add to the rice. Heat the oil in a small frying pan and sauté the nuts for a few minutes until evenly coloured, then tip into a sieve to drain. Sprinkle on the cinnamon and salt and shake the sieve so the nuts are evenly coated, then add to the pilav and fork well so all the ingredients are evenly distributed.
On a floured work surface, roll out the pastry to form a 40–45 cm square. Lift carefully onto the baking tray. Tip the pilav into the centre of the square and shape into a neat dome. Bring the four corners of the pastry square up over the dome of rice and pinch them together at the top. Pinch the excess pastry together tightly and trim as close to the surface of the pie as you can to make four secure ‘seams’. (You may need to seal the edges with a little of the egg glaze before you pinch the sides together.) From the pastry trimmings, cut a small disc of pastry and use it to cover the join at the top of the pie.
Brush the pie all over with the egg glaze and bake for 30–40 minutes, or until the pastry is crisp and golden.
SERVES 6–8
Golden seafood pilav
This dish makes a luxurious main course, the ground fennel and fresh mint giving it a distinctive Turkish edge. Serve with Hot Red Pepper Paste for a wonderful chilli hit.
250 g long-grain or basmati rice
500 ml Chicken Stock
30 ml olive oil
1 large shallot, finely diced
15 strands saffron
½ teaspoon ground fennel seeds
pinch of sea salt
12 mussels, scrubbed and bearded
6 red mullet fillets, halved crosswise
6 raw king prawns, split and cleaned
generous pinch of freshly ground black pepper
1 large vine-ripened tomato, seeded and diced
2 tablespoons chopped dill
2 tablespoons chopped mint leaves
50 g butter
Put the rice into a large bowl and rinse well under cold running water, working your fingers through it to loosen the starch. Drain off the milky water and repeat until the water runs clear. Cover the rice with cold water and leave to soak for 10 minutes. Drain the rice and rinse a final time.
Bring the stock to the boil, then lower the heat and keep at a simmer.
Heat the oil in a heavy-based saucepan. Add the shallot, saffron and fennel and sauté over a low–medium heat until the shallot softens. Gently stir in the rice, so that all the grains are coated with the oil. Pour on the simmering stock and season lightly with salt. Stir, bring to the boil, then cover with a tight-fitting lid and cook over a very low heat for 10 minutes.
Remove the lid and add the mussels, pushing them down into the rice. Distribute the fish and prawns evenly over and between the mussels. Season lightly with salt, then add the pepper, scatter on the tomatoes and herbs, and dot with pieces of butter.
Replace the lid and steam for 5 minutes. Remove the pan from the heat, then slide a clean, folded tea towel under the lid and leave it for 10 minutes.
To serve, tip the rice onto a serving platter. Stir gently so that the seafood and herbs are evenly distributed.
SERVES 4–6
Artichoke and barberry bulgur pilav with fried mussels
Pilavs made with bulgur wheat are especially popular in south-eastern Turkey. We enjoyed many different versions during our stay in Gaziantep – although none with seafood. But I think the delicate nutty flavour and slight chewiness of the grain work beautifully with these crunchy fried mussels. Just make sure you use coarse bulgur and not the fine variety, which is better used for salads and köfte.
3 artichokes
200 g coarse bulgur
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 large shallot, finely diced
1 clove garlic, finely chopped
1 long red chilli, seeded and shredded
2 tablespoons barberries or currants
½ teaspoon paprika
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 vine-ripened tomato, seeded and diced
¼ cup chopped dill
1 teaspoon dried mint
300 ml Chicken Stock
generous pinch of sea salt
FRIED MUSSELS
35 mussels, scrubbed and bearded
100 ml Chicken Stock
3 cloves garlic
vegetable oil for deep-frying
200 ml beer
⅔ cup self-raising flour
pinch of bicarbonate of soda
pinch of sweet paprika
½ teaspoon dried mint
2–3 ice cubes
plain flour
Trim the outer hard leaves from the artichokes and cut in half lengthwise through the stalk. Use a sharp knife to remove the choke, then drop the trimmed artichokes into acidulated water.
To make the pilav, soak the bulgur in cold water for 5 minutes. While it’s soaking, heat the oil in a heavy-based saucepan. Add the shallot, garlic, chilli, barberries, paprika and pepper and sauté over medium heat for a few minutes until the shallot softens. Slice the artichokes thinly and add them to the pan. Sauté for 3–4 minutes, then add the tomato and herbs.
Bring the stock to the boil, then lower the heat and keep at a simmer. Drain the bulgur and squeeze it to remove any excess water. Add to the pan with the salt. Stir in the simmering stock, then bring to the boil, cover with a tight-fitting lid and cook over a low heat for 12 minutes. Remove the lid, increase the heat and cook until the liquid has been completely absorbed. Taste and adjust the seasoning if necessary.
While the pilav is cooking, prepare the fried mussels. Put the mussels into a large saucepan with the stock and garlic. Cover the pan and bring to the boil, then cook over a high heat for about 4 minutes, shaking the pan from time to time, until the mussels open. Discard any that refuse to open.
To fry the mussels, heat the oil to 200°C in a large saucepan or deep-fryer. Whisk the beer, self-raising flour, bicarbonate of soda, paprika and mint to make a light batter. Add the ice cubes, which keep the batter cold and help make it really crisp. In batches of six, dust the mussels lightly with plain flour, then dip them into the batter and fry for 2–3 minutes, or until golden brown. Be careful as the oil will splutter and spit a lot. Using a slotted spoon, remove the mussels to drain on kitchen paper – keep them warm while you fry the remaining mussels.
To serve, tip the pilav onto a serving platter, then stack the fried mussels on top.
SERVES 4–6
Freekeh pilav with lamb, wild greens, chickpeas and sweet spices
Freekeh is a relative newcomer to Western kitchens, although it has been used in Turkey and around the Middle East for millennia. Freekeh is made from whole wheat grains that are harvested while still immature and green. They are fire-roasted, which burns the chaff but leaves the young kernels intact and imparts a rich, smoky flavour.
You do need to spend a bit of time sorting through and cleaning freekeh wheat, as there are often bits of debris and tiny stones lurking. You’ll probably have to soak and rinse it several times to ensure you get rid of any foreign matter. It may seem like too much effort, but its smoky, almost meaty flavour is unique and worth it.
Serve this dish with a bowl of creamy yoghurt alongside.
200 g freekeh
50 ml olive oil
1 large purple onion, diced
2 cloves garlic, chopped
2 long green chillies, seeded and shredded
½ teaspoon hot paprika
2 teaspoons sweet paprika
1 heaped teaspoon ground cumin
1 tablespoon pomegranate molasses
400 g lamb (from the leg), cut into 2 cm cubes
long strip of peel from ½ lemon
few sprigs thyme
400 g can chopped tomatoes
800 ml Chicken Stock
pinch of salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 bunch chicory, leaves only, roughly sliced
350 g cooked chickpeas
juice of ½ lemon
¼ cup shredded flat-leaf parsley leaves
Pick through the freekeh to remove any debris and grit, then rinse it thoroughly under running water and leave to drain.
Heat the oil in a heavy-based casserole dish. Add the onion, garlic, chillies and spices and sauté over a medium heat until the onion starts to soften. Add the molasses and then the lamb and increase the heat. Sauté for a few minutes until the lamb starts to colour and any moisture evaporates.
Stir in the freekeh, peel, thyme, tomatoes and stock, then season. Bring to the boil, skimming away any fat and impurities that rise to the surface, then lower the heat immediately. Cover the pan and simmer very gently for 45 minutes, skimming from time to time. Add the chicory and the chickpeas and cook for another 15 minutes, stirring from time to time to ensure nothing catches. If the lamb isn’t really tender by this time, continue cooking for up to another 30 minutes, again stirring from time to time.
When the lamb is tender, remove the pan from the heat and add the lemon juice and parsley. Serve straight away.
SERVES 6
Spicy kisir salad
In Lebanon and Syria they have tabbouleh; in Turkey they have kisir. The ingredients in kisir vary from town to town, but in the south-east of the country it is usually enlivened with spicy red pepper paste and pomegranate molasses. While Arabic tabbouleh is, in essence, a herb salad flecked with bulgur, Turkish kisir is staunchly grain-based. Both salads, though, make a great addition to a mezze table, and are best eaten scooped up in little lettuce leaves.
Don’t be tempted to increase the amount of boiling water here: it doesn’t look like a lot of liquid, but the bulgur will soften further in the juice from the tomatoes and the dressing.
You’ll find the red pepper paste used here in Middle Eastern food stores.
200 g fine bulgur
125 ml boiling water
1 tablespoon tomato paste
1 teaspoon hot Turkish red pepper paste
juice of 1 lemon
1 teaspoon pomegranate molasses
60 ml extra-virgin olive oil
1 long green chilli, seeded and finely chopped
3 large vine-ripened tomatoes, chopped
5 spring onions, finely chopped
1 cup flat-leaf parsley leaves, chopped
1 cup mint leaves, chopped
sea salt
freshly ground white pepper
baby lettuce leaves to serve
Soak the bulgur in the boiling water for 15 minutes, then tip into a large bowl.
Add the pastes, lemon juice, pomegranate molasses and oil to the bulgur. Use clean hands to work the grains so that the pastes and liquid are evenly distributed and the bulgur is tinted a pretty pale pink. Add the chilli, tomatoes, spring onions and herbs and mix well. Taste and adjust the seasoning by adding salt and pepper and more lemon juice or pomegranate molasses if required.
Mound the salad onto a serving platter and garnish with baby lettuce leaves. Alternatively, use wet hands to form the mixture into walnut-sized balls and serve them nestled in the lettuce leaves.
SERVES 6–8
Spiced pumpkin köfte with walnut and fetta stuffing
Köfte are a large and varied group of dishes that are probably best described as ‘minced’. They can be made with minced meat or vegetables and flavoured with different spices. Some include bulgur or breadcrumbs or rice. They come in myriad shapes and forms and can be moulded around skewers or shaped into patties or ovals, large or small. Some köfte are stuffed, others are eaten wrapped in lettuce or vine leaves. Some köfte are eaten raw, others are fried or baked.
These are loosely based on the Turkish stuffed köfte or içli köfta, but are made with lightly spiced pumpkin rather than the traditional minced lamb, so they are softer and more delicate. The sharp fetta stuffing is the perfect counterpoint to the sweet pumpkin.
You’ll find the red pepper paste used here in Middle Eastern food stores.
1 small butternut pumpkin (about 1 kg)
50 ml olive oil
1 purple onion, finely diced
1 tablespoon hot Turkish red pepper paste
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon sweet paprika
250 g fine bulgur
generous pinch of salt
2 eggs, lightly beaten
vegetable oil for deep-frying
WALNUT AND FETTA STUFFING
⅔ cup walnuts
180 g fetta
2 tablespoons chopped flat-leaf parsley leaves
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
Preheat the oven to 200°C. Use a large heavy knife to trim the ends from the pumpkin and quarter it lengthwise. Scoop out the seeds and discard them. Rub the pumpkin pieces lightly with a little of the oil, then roast them on a baking tray for 30–40 minutes, or until tender.
Heat the remaining oil in a large heavy-based saucepan. Stir in the onion, pepper paste, cumin and paprika and sweat over a low heat for 15–20 minutes.
When the pumpkin is cooked, scrape the flesh into a food processor and blitz to a fine purée. Stir the pumpkin purée into the sautéed onion mixture and bring to a simmer.
Rinse the bulgur, then add it to the pumpkin purée and season with salt. Remove the pan from the heat and leave to stand for 10 minutes, then tip the mixture into a bowl and leave to cool in the refrigerator.
While the pumpkin mixture is chilling, make the walnut and fetta stuffing. Preheat the oven to 180°C. Scatter the walnuts onto a baking tray and roast for 5–10 minutes until a deep golden brown. Tip the nuts into a tea towel and rub well to remove as much skin as possible. Chop the walnuts coarsely and toss in a sieve to remove any remaining skin and dust. Combine the stuffing ingredients in a bowl and use a fork to mash everything together.
When ready to make the köfte, mix the eggs into the chilled pumpkin mixture. Take a small lump of the mixture and mould it in your hand to make a smooth ball. Use a finger to make an indentation in the mixture and work it to hollow out the middle. Stuff a generous teaspoon of the stuffing into the hollowed-out köfte, then pinch the edges together to seal. Arrange the prepared köfte on a tray, and refrigerate until ready to cook.
To fry the köfte, heat the oil to 200°C in a large saucepan or deep-fryer. Fry four köfte at a time for 2–3 minutes, or until a deep golden brown. Be careful as the oil will splutter and spit a lot. Using a slotted spoon, remove the köfte to drain on kitchen paper – keep them warm while you fry the remaining köfte. Serve immediately.
MAKES 24
Little köfte dumplings in minted yoghurt sauce
Köfte dumplings are a firm Turkish favourite and we ate countless versions on our travels. Sometimes they were served like meatballs, smothered in sauce or in a soup. Sometimes they were as tiny as chickpeas, and served as a garnish to a thick yoghurt dip. These babies are the latter kind, and the secret to their success is to blend the mixture to a smooth, homogeneous paste.
Pekmez, or grape molasses, is available from Turkish food stores.
KÖFTE DUMPLINGS
100 g fine bulgur
300 g chilled lean lamb, cubed
1 small onion
½ teaspoon ground allspice
¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon
¼ teaspoon chilli powder
1 tablespoon pekmez
sea salt
freshly ground black pepper
YOGHURT SAUCE
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 onion, finely chopped
1 clove garlic, finely chopped
500 g silverbeet leaves, roughly chopped
1 red bullet chilli, seeded, scraped and finely chopped
½ teaspoon ground allspice
250 ml Chicken Stock
juice of 1 lemon
500 g thick natural yoghurt
½ teaspoon cornflour
50 ml water
1 egg, lightly beaten
40 g butter
½ teaspoon sweet paprika
½ teaspoon dried mint
To make the dumplings, soak the bulgur in plenty of cold water for 15 minutes to soften it. Use your hands to squeeze out as much water as you can.
Pulse the chilled lamb in a food processor until it comes together as a smooth, homogeneous paste, then tip into a bowl. Whiz the onion to a purée in the food processor and add to the lamb with the bulgur, spices and pekmez, then season with salt and pepper. Use clean hands to mix everything to a soft smooth paste. You may need to add a little cold water to help bind everything together. Refrigerate the bowl for 30 minutes to make the paste easier to work with.
Take a grape-sized lump of the paste and roll it between your hands to make as smooth a ball as you can (wet hands will make this easier). Arrange the prepared dumplings on a tray, and refrigerate until ready to cook.
Bring a large saucepan of water to the boil and poach the dumplings, ten at a time, for 10 minutes. Use a slotted spoon to remove the dumplings and drain on kitchen paper.
To make the sauce, heat the oil in a large saucepan and sauté the onion and garlic until they soften. Add the silverbeet, chilli, allspice, stock and lemon juice and cook over a gentle heat for about 20 minutes, or until the silverbeet is tender.
To stabilise the yoghurt, beat it in a large bowl until smooth. Mix the cornflour with the water and add to the yoghurt with the egg. Stir well, then tip this into the hot silverbeet mixture. Lower the heat and cook, stirring in one direction only, for about 10 minutes, or until the sauce has thickened. Add the dumplings and simmer gently for a further 5 minutes, or until they are warmed through.
When ready to serve, melt the butter in a small frying pan. Add the paprika and mint and heat until foaming. Ladle the hot sauce into warmed serving bowls and swirl on the foaming butter. Serve straight away.
SERVES 8
Crunchy red lentil köfte with fresh mint
The inspiration for these little köfte comes from Yorem Mutfak, a lovely home-style restaurant in Gaziantep. Rather unusually, the owner and chef is a woman, the charming and friendly Hatice Yildirim, who told us she’d been cooking for twenty-five years. We fell in love with these patties immediately; they are spicy with a lovely crunch from the bulgur. Hatice served them on baby lettuce leaves with wedges of lemon and spring onions as part of a mezze selection. You’ll find the red pepper paste used here in Middle Eastern food stores.
40 g butter
1 small purple onion, finely chopped
1 tablespoon tomato paste
1 tablespoon mild Turkish red pepper paste
1 heaped teaspoon ground cumin
100 g red lentils
350 ml water
½ cup fine bulgur
2 tablespoons shredded mint leaves
1 heaped teaspoon dried mint
sea salt
freshly ground black pepper
juice of 1 lemon
100 ml extra-virgin olive oil
1 baby cos lettuce, washed
6 baby salad onions
Melt the butter in a heavy-based saucepan over a medium heat and add the onion, tomato paste, pepper paste and cumin. Sauté for a few minutes until the onion starts to soften, then add the lentils and water and bring to the boil. Lower the heat and simmer gently for 10 minutes, or until the lentils are tender and have absorbed two-thirds of the water. Stir in the bulgur and fresh and dried mint and season to taste with salt and pepper. Remove the pan from the heat and leave to stand for 5 minutes, then stir in half the lemon juice and 2 tablespoons of the oil. Tip the mixture onto a tray to cool.
When ready to serve, whisk the remaining lemon juice and oil to make a dressing and season with salt and pepper. Form the cooled lentil mixture into little patties and use your thumb to make an indentation in the surface of each. Arrange the köfte on a platter with the lettuce leaves and onions, then drizzle over the dressing.
SERVES 4–6
