I don’t like shopping much but I love wandering in the souks, both to soak up the hectic atmosphere when they’re open and to enjoy the near emptiness and eerie silence when they’re closed, when all the doors to the stalls are shuttered, and stray cats and the occasional street food cart are the only sign of life.

In fact, street food is one of the reasons I like souks, from when I was very young. I still remember nagging my mother to take me along whenever she went to the old souks of Beirut. In those days, most of the city centre was taken up by souks, each specialising in a type or class of merchandise. If my mother wanted to buy ready-to-wear clothes, we went to souk el-Tawileh, the Bond Street of pre-civil war Beirut. If, on the other hand, she wanted to sew casual clothes, we would head to souk el W’qiyeh (in Arabic the souk of 200 grams) where fabrics were sold by the weight; and for my father’s new suits, we went to souk el-Joukh (the souk of woollens) to buy fabrics to give his tailor.

As for food shopping, we had two options. For exotic, early or out-of-season produce, we went to souk el-Franj (the souk of the French or foreigners). Such produce was too expensive for ambulant sellers to have on their carts and my mother, like most Lebanese people then, considered it very chic to serve out-of-season fruit and vegetables – it showed sophistication and wealth, hence the trip to the souk instead of stepping out onto the balcony or up to the window to call to street vendors for seasonal, local produce from their carts. And unlike the street vendors who had piled the produce high on their carts, as if they had just tipped it out of the harvesting baskets without any semblance of order or sense of display except for the abundance, I was convinced that the shop-holders in souk el-Franj spent their days picking their fruit or vegetables one by one, polishing them then arranging them in neat displays.

If my mother wanted to make stuffed tripe, a great Lebanese delicacy, we would head to a rather humble, ramshackle market, souk el-Nuriyeh (the gypsy souk), to a butcher whom she trusted to clean the innards well. We always had to be careful with our shoes as we entered his shop. The water ran constantly through the shop and out onto the pavement as his boys washed the innards. In fact, we had to be careful wherever we stepped. The vendors trimmed their produce and just chucked the skins, trimmings, or any other rejects right onto the road outside their shops or stalls.

I really didn’t mind the dirt. I loved Souk el-Nuriyeh because of the street food vendors even if all I could do was to look longingly at their carts, knowing that no amount of pleading was going to sway my mother to let me buy anything to eat, neither grilled corn, nor roasted nuts, nor sesame galettes. I was simply not allowed to eat on the street. Just not what well brought-up girls did, as she kept repeating to my great frustration. I am sure that my fascination with street food dates back to those maddening shopping trips when I hoped that my mother would one day relent and let me buy something. But no, her resolve that I should behave like a proper young girl never wavered. As a result, it is almost impossible for me now to pass a street vendor without wanting to buy something. Unless, that is, I am in Cairo where the lack of hygiene brings my mother’s exhortations right back and I find myself thinking like her!

There was one place, though, where my mother did allow me to eat on the street, and that was at the Birkeh (fountain), a small stall right by a lovely nineteenth-century marble fountain (hence the name) where they made the most luscious Lebanese puddings. One was thickened with rice flour and spiced with caraway and cinnamon (meghli) and the other was made with milk and flavoured with rose water (muhallabiyeh). They also sold wonderfully refreshing drinks such as jellab, a smoked drink made with date syrup and packed with crushed ice, plump pine nuts and raisins – soaking the nuts rehydrates them and makes them taste as if they are fresh.

The Birkeh was in Souk Ayass, which was neither chic nor downmarket; and we always made a detour to go there. I am still not sure why my mother relented and broke her strict rule of no street food at the Birkeh. Perhaps because it felt more like a café, with the fountain’s edge serving as both seats and tables. Or perhaps because it was spotless and there were elegant ladies amongst the customers – there were none at the carts.

Still, when I think back to those days, I wonder why I never paid attention to the lovely Ottoman buildings that lined the souks’ busy streets instead of concentrating on street food. Admittedly, the buildings were grimy and run down, but the arched windows, the iron work and the graceful proportions were beautiful. It was only when the whole area was devastated during the civil war that I, and many others, realised what lovely architecture had been lost.

The war is long over now and much of downtown Beirut has been rebuilt, although more like an Ottoman theme park for luxury brands, fancy restaurants and cafés rather than the way it was. I guess it would be unrealistic to expect the magical, bustling souks of my youth to come back to life; although there is at present an attempt at rebuilding the souks of Beirut, the contemporary version is a huge, modern shopping complex that could be anywhere in the world from Los Angeles to Singapore, with the same brands, rather non-descript architecture (except for isolated gems such as Zaha Hadid’s design for Aishti, the Lebanese Bergdorf Goodman) and that same soulless quality that they all share.

Fortunately, Beirut is the only city in Lebanon to have lost its old souks. Sidon to the south and Tripoli to the north have kept theirs, fairly intact, despite the encroachment of modern life.

Whenever I walk through the vaulted stone alleyways of the souks in Sidon, I feel as if I have been transported back in time, especially if it is after dark when muscular moustachioed bakers in shirtsleeves throw menacing shadows as they remove baked loaves from their wood-fired ovens while street vendors peddle boiled giant fava beans and other specialities on carts fitted with flickering lights, adding to the nostalgic atmosphere and mystery.

As for the souks of Tripoli, they are less fascinating, later in date and without much architectural merit. Still, they are organised like proper souks, with each trade grouped in its own section. The coppersmiths in one corner, beating trays or shaping large cooking pots, which they then line with tin, while a little further on, woodworkers carve spoons and cookie moulds and a little further still, I can revel in a world of alternative fashion stopping at stalls crammed with glittery little girls’ clothes right next to others selling sober veils and coats for when they become women and need to hide their charms from any male that is not family, right next to cobblers making men’s pointy shoes – Arab men love these shoes regardless of them having gone out of fashion.

The bazaars of Turkey and Iran as well as the souks of Syria are all organised in the same way as the souks that I describe above, a labyrinth of narrow alleyways where the trades are grouped in speciality with the spices in one corner, the meat in another, the vegetables and fruits in another, the nuts and sweets in another and so on. And throughout you will find street food vendors. People go to the souks both to sell their produce to the traders and to buy what they need.

Noodle Soup

ASH-E RESHTEH

Tajrish is my favourite market in Tehran, not only because of the hustle and bustle of the narrow alleyways bursting with seasonal produce (both familiar and unusual) and local specialities, but also because of the cafés – like the one where they serve only ash-e reshteh soup and halim. I went there with the late Minou Saberi, a lovely woman whom I took to immediately when we cooked together for an article on Iranian food that I was writing, but who sadly died only a few days later.

Persian noodles are made with just flour and water and you can buy them from any specialist shop selling Middle Eastern foodstuffs. If you don’t have one near you, however, you can replace them with linguine or other similar pasta. As for kashk, it is basically dried buttermilk (see ‘dried yoghurt’), sold in the shape of tennis balls, which you mix with a little water to reconstitute, or in jars already reconstituted into a creamy paste. You can use sour cream as a substitute but it is not the same thing and its taste is nowhere near as sour as that of kashk. The texture is also different – kashk thickens the soup differently. My suggestion would be to try to find some kashk with a very long shelf life.

Serves 4–6

3 tbsp vegetable oil

1 medium-sized onion, peeled and thinly sliced

½ tsp turmeric

¼ tsp finely ground black pepper

60g (2oz) dried kidney beans, soaked overnight in cold water (enough to cover the beans by 2–3 fingers) and ½ tsp bicarbonate of soda

60g (2oz) dried chickpeas, soaked overnight in cold water (enough to cover the chickpeas by 2–3 fingers) and ½ tsp bicarbonate of soda

60g (2oz) dried mung beans, soaked in cold water for 30 minutes (enough to cover the beans by 2–3 fingers)

60g (2oz) brown lentils, soaked in cold water for 30 minutes (enough to cover the lentils by 2–3 fingers)

Juice of 1 lemon

½ tsp dried dill or a few sprigs of dill, coarsely chopped

½ tsp dried oregano

150g (5oz) flat-leaf parsley, most of the stalk discarded, coarsely chopped

150g (5oz) fresh coriander, most of the stalk discarded, coarsely chopped

60g (2oz) spring onions, trimmed and thinly sliced

60g (2oz) spinach, shredded

Pinch of dried chilli flakes

Sea salt

100g (3½oz) Persian noodles or linguine or tagliatelle

1–2 tbsp kashk or sour cream, plus extra to serve

To garnish

2 tsp dried mint fried in 2 tbsp vegetable oil (na’nâ dâgh)

Pinch of saffron threads

Put the oil and onions in a large saucepan and place over a medium heat. Fry the onions until golden brown, then add the turmeric and pepper.

Drain and rinse the kidney beans and chickpeas and add to the onions. Add 1.5 litres (2½ pints) of water and bring to the boil. Reduce the heat to medium-low, cover the pan with a lid and simmer for 45 minutes.

Drain and rinse the mung beans and lentils, and add to the soup with the lemon juice, dill and oregano. Simmer for another 45 minutes, stirring every now and then and checking on the water – adding a little more if the soup becomes too thick.

Add the fresh herbs, spring onions, spinach, chilli flakes and some salt, and simmer for another 20 minutes. Then add the noodles (or linguine or tagliatelle), which you can break in half or in smaller pieces, and simmer for 5 minutes or until the noodles are soft but not mushy. Stir in the kashk (or sour cream), then taste and adjust the seasoning if necessary.

Transfer to a soup tureen, making swirls with more creamy kashk (or sour cream) and drizzling the fried dried mint and its oil all over. Sprinkle the saffron threads over the white tracks of kashk and serve immediately.

Wheat and Meat Porridge

HALIM

I had this for breakfast in a lovely café by the market of Rasht in Gilan Province in northern Iran. The café was painted pink with pink tablecloths and plastic pink tulips; and it was on the ground floor of a 1920s building with very high ceilings and large windows giving onto a courtyard where one of the cooks was using a big wooden mallet to beat the halim in a large cauldron. He must have been at it for hours but the resulting porridge was all the better for his exertions, with a smooth, stretchy texture. Much nicer than the halim I had in the ash-e reshteh restaurant in Tajrish, which was rather watery. You find the same porridge with slight variations and under different names (h’riss, harisa or h’risseh) throughout the Arab world, but it is only in Iran that I had it for breakfast, and as street food. Everywhere else, it is served as an alms dish or to commemorate Ramadan or other religious occasions. The other difference is that Iranians cook the meat and wheat separately, whereas elsewhere they cook both ingredients together. You can make your life easier by using a hand-held blender to pulverise the wheat, instead of stirring it all the time and eventually beating it. The texture will not be quite the same – probably something to do with how the gluten is broken up – but the taste will be just as good.

Serves 4–6

250g (9oz) wheat, soaked overnight in cold water (enough to cover the wheat by 2–3 fingers)

Sea salt

500g (1lb 1oz) lean lamb, from the shoulder or neck

1 medium-sized onion, peeled and coarsely chopped

½ tsp turmeric

¼ tsp finely ground black pepper

To serve

90g (3oz) ghee or clarified butter, melted

Ground cinnamon

Golden caster sugar

Drain the wheat and rinse it under cold water, then put in a large saucepan. Pour in enough water to cover by about two fingers, add some salt and place over a medium heat. Bring to the boil then reduce the heat to low and simmer for 2 hours. As the wheat begins to soften, start stirring it and cook for another hour, stirring more or less all the time.

Put the meat, onion and spices in another pan. Cover with water and place over a medium heat. As the water comes to the boil, skim away any scum that rises to the surface, then lower the heat to medium-low and simmer until the meat is very tender. Strain, reserving the stock, and place the meat in a food processor. Process until finely shredded.

Add some of the wheat to the meat and process until well blended. Add this mixture to the remaining wheat and simmer, stirring constantly, until you have a homogeneous porridge with a somewhat stretchy texture.

Pour the porridge into a soup tureen, drizzle the melted ghee (or clarified butter) all over, then sprinkle with cinnamon and sugar. Serve immediately with extra cinnamon and sugar for those who want it.

Omelette Sandwiches

SANDWICH EJJEH

There is a marvellous old man in the souk of Aleppo who spends his days making nothing but omelette sandwiches. Though he’s pretty old, his movements are those of an agile young man and the way he beats the eggs, which he does for each omelette, is quite mesmerising as he works with great speed. Once he’s beaten them, he adds a little chopped parsley and spring onion, then he throws the mixture into a large pan full of very hot oil and, unlike any omelette I have seen made before, the egg mixture puffs up as it cooks. As the bubbles form, he presses on them with a spoon. The omelette cooks in minutes and when he takes it out, he holds it over the pan for a while to drain away the excess oil, then he lays it on pita bread and sprinkles it with a little more parsley and onion before rolling the bread around it. But as much as I love the idea of a herb omelette, and enjoy seeing the old man in action, I can never bring myself to sample his sandwiches. His stall is filthy, as are his clothes and the bowls in which he beats the eggs and keeps the chopped herbs and onion. But I often remember him when I recreate his omelette sandwiches in my kitchen, even more so now with the souks having been destroyed wondering where he is making his omelettes, that is if he is still alive. Mine never puffs up like his, but it is delicious all the same.

Makes 4 sandwiches

6 medium-sized organic eggs

50g (2oz) spring onions (about ½ bunch), trimmed and thinly sliced, plus extra to garnish

50g (2oz) flat-leaf parsley (about ¼ bunch), most of the stalk discarded, finely chopped, plus extra to garnish

2 garlic cloves, peeled and crushed

1 tbsp unbleached plain flour

¼ tsp ground cinnamon

¼ tsp ground allspice

⅛ tsp finely ground black pepper

Sea salt

Vegetable oil for frying

2 medium-sized round pita breads

Break the eggs into a mixing bowl and beat well before stirring in the chopped spring onion and parsley and crushed garlic. Add 2 tablespoons of water along with the flour, spices and some salt, and mix well.

Pour enough vegetable oil into a large frying pan to shallow-fry the omelettes, and place over a medium heat. When the oil is hot, drop in one-quarter of the egg mixture and spread into a medium-thin circle. Fry until golden on both sides, remove with a slotted spatula and put to drain on several layers of kitchen paper. Make the remaining omelettes in the same way.

Open the pita breads at the seams and break apart to make four discs. Lay an omelette over the rough side of each disc of bread. Sprinkle with a little spring onion and parsley and roll the pita around the omelette. Wrap the lower half of each sandwich in a paper napkin and serve immediately.

Kibbeh Sandwiches

The souks of Aleppo were the best preserved and most enchanting of the Levant, until the regime saw fit to bomb the rebels hiding in its narrow alleyways, resulting in a good section burning down. These souks form an extensive labyrinth where traders have their stalls in medieval vaulted alleyways not far from where residents live in narrow streets lined with beautiful stone walls which hide lush courtyards and in some cases palatial homes. I used to love getting lost in the less familiar parts before finding my way back to the main artery between Bab Antaki (Antioch Gate) and the ancient citadel, where Souk el-’Attarine (’attarine means ‘perfumers’ in Arabic, although the souk also sells spices) and the street food vendors are. Across the road from Bab Antaki was a lively open-air market where seasonal vegetables and fruit are piled high, sometimes right on the pavement on rough pieces of cloth. I often checked out what was in season there before entering the souk through Bab Antaki and stopping at a kibbeh stall just outside the ancient gate.

Kibbeh, covered in detail in the first chapter, ‘En Famille’, is an elegant dish and not normally sold on the street. It comes in all shapes and sizes and can be fried, grilled or baked, or cooked in a variety of sauces, not to mention eaten raw. I am not sure why this vendor has chosen to sell it on the street. His are shaped into flat discs, filled with spiced tail fat and fried. He gives them a street-food twist by rolling them inside pita bread, together with fresh herbs, tomatoes and onion. Rather unusual but very popular, judging by the crowds around his cart who grab at the fabulous mound of fresh mint he has on his table, picking it up by the handful and stuffing it into their mouths with each bite of their sandwich – no other stall I have seen has fresh mint on offer like this. I like to think of these sandwiches as a somewhat more stylish and healthier version of a standard hamburger.

Makes 4 sandwiches

1 quantity of uncooked kibbeh

For the kibbeh filling

100g (3½oz) unsalted butter, softened, plus melted butter for brushing

1 tsp Aleppo pepper

For the sandwiches

4 medium-sized round pita breads

2 medium-sized tomatoes, cut in half and thinly sliced

1 small onion, peeled and thinly sliced

Fresh mint leaves

Divide the kibbeh into eight equal-sized balls. Lightly moisten your hands in salted water (dipping them in the bowl of water used during the preparation of the kibbeh) and flatten each meatball between the palms of your hands until you have a thin disc measuring about 15cm (6in) in diameter.

Preheat the oven to 220ºC (425°F), gas mark 7.

To make the kibbeh filling, place the softened butter and Aleppo pepper in a bowl and mix together until they are well blended.

Spread a quarter of the spiced butter over one disc of kibbeh and cover with another disc. Press on the edges to seal and lay on a non-stick baking sheet. Fill and mould together the remaining discs in the same way, then brush with melted butter and bake in the oven for 10–15 minutes or until done to your liking.

Open the pita breads along the seams and lay one half over another, rough side up. Place one filled kibbeh disc over each double layer of bread. Divide the tomato and onion slices equally between the sandwiches, arranging them down the middle of each. Scatter the mint leaves over the tomatoes and onions if you want them in your sandwich (unless you prefer to serve them on the side) and roll the bread around the kibbeh to create a fat wrap. Serve immediately.

Camel Kebabs

KABAB JAMAL

There is one stall in the souks of Aleppo that I return to again and again, transfixed by the furry camel’s head the butcher hangs up as a shop sign. One day the head will be covered with dark fur and another day it will be honey coloured, depending on the camel he has slaughtered on the day. Even the expression of the head changes, as does the length of the neck. The hanging head indicates that the butcher specialises in camel meat. The place holds a terrifying appeal for me, from the camel’s head that looks very much alive despite being severed from its body, to the upper part of the skeleton on display, with its enormous ribcage. I have been inside to taste the meat, which the butcher minced for me, saying that it was too tough to eat grilled in pieces. It was not too bad – closer to beef than lamb and drier than both. The butcher also told me that all good Muslim men had to eat camel at least once a year. The reason? They are among the few animals that are monogamous. As a result their meat is desirable, again only for men. Women’s liberation has yet to arrive in the souks of Aleppo.

The recipe below can be made with camel meat, if you can find it, lamb or beef, although I never use beef myself – I find lamb juicier and more flavoursome. As for the name, the Syrians have a strange habit of switching the names of dishes. Kabab in Syria means minced meat, while in Lebanon it means diced grilled meat and minced meat is known as kafta. The Syrians also prepare their minced-meat brochettes differently, simply seasoning the minced meat with salt, pepper and allspice, while the Lebanese add onions and herbs to the mince. I am giving the Lebanese version below. To make it Syrian, all you have to do is omit the onions, herbs and cinnamon, and use allspice rather than the seven-spice mixture.

Serves 4

2 medium-sized onions, peeled and quartered

100g (3½oz) flat-leaf parsley (about ½ bunch), most of the stalk discarded

600g (1lb 5oz) freshly minced lean lamb, from the shoulder or leg (either ask your butcher to mince the lamb or do it yourself using the fine attachment on a meat grinder)

½ tsp ground cinnamon

½ tsp ground allspice or Lebanese seven-spice mixture

¼ tsp finely ground black pepper

Sea salt

4 medium-sized round pita breads

For the garnish

2 medium-sized onions, peeled and thinly sliced

Few sprigs of flat-leaf parsley, coarsely chopped

2 tbsp ground sumac

1 tbsp lemon juice

1 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil

12 metal skewers (preferably flat)

Put the onions and parsley in a food processor and process until finely chopped. Transfer to a mixing bowl, add the minced lamb, spices and some salt and mix with your hand until well blended. Pinch off a little of the mixture and sear in a hot pan to taste, adjusting the seasoning if necessary. Then divide the meat into 12 equal-sized portions.

Preheat the grill to high or start a charcoal fire on a barbecue.

Roll each portion of meat into a ball. Put one in the palm of your hand, take a long skewer, preferably a flat one to help the meat stay on better, and start wrapping the meat around it, squeezing the mixture upwards, then downwards to bind it around the skewer in the shape of a long sausage. Taper the ends and place on a rack ready to grill or barbecue. Shape the remaining balls of meat around the skewers in the same way.

Quickly prepare the onion and parsley garnish by tossing all the ingredients together, seasoning with salt and pepper. Spread the mixture on the pita breads.

Cook the meat for 2–3 minutes on each side or until the meat is done to your liking. Slide onto the pita breads, on top of the onion and parsley garnish, and serve hot.

Iranian Minced Meat Kebabs

KABAB KOUBIDEH

Here is the Iranian take on a hamburger, and like the kibbeh sandwiches, it is healthier and fresher. It is always served with sangak (a flatbread baked over pebbles that is quite exceptional) together with sharp pickles (see here), sumac and fresh herbs. Iranians have marvellous flat metal skewers, which they keep in their own round metal case as if they were fishing rods. Flat skewers make it easier to wrap minced meat around them as the minced meat does not hold very well on normal round thin skewers. If you can’t find flat skewers, just make patties and cook as if they were hamburgers.

Serves 4–6

500g (1lb 1oz) freshly minced lamb, from the shoulder that has been skinned and trimmed of most of the fat (either ask your butcher to mince the lamb or do it yourself using the fine attachment on a meat grinder)

1 medium-sized onion, peeled and finely grated

1 tsp breadcrumbs

¼ tsp turmeric

¼ tsp baking powder

Sea salt

Finely ground black pepper

2 sangak or other Iranian flatbread (see ‘bread’)

For the garnish

Iranian pickles (see here and here)

Selection of fresh herbs (mint, tarragon, dill or coriander), coarsely chopped

4 metal skewers (preferably flat)

Put the minced meat and grated onion in a large mixing bowl. Add the breadcrumbs, turmeric and baking powder and season with salt and pepper. With your hand, mix all the ingredients together until well blended. Then knead the meat mixture for a few minutes to bind the meat and make it easier to wrap around the skewers.

Preheat the grill to high or start a charcoal fire on a barbecue.

Fill a small bowl with cold, lightly salted water and wet your hand before pinching off a quarter of the meat to wrap around a skewer, pressing the mixture up then down to cover two-thirds of the skewer. Squeeze lightly with your fingers to make indentations at regular intervals along the mixture. Repeat with the remaining skewers, then grill or barbecue the kebabs for 2–3 minutes on each side or until done to your liking.

Slip the meat off each skewer onto half a flatbread, the meat running along the length of the bread. Scatter a few pickles and fresh herbs on top, then roll the bread tightly over the meat and garnish. Wrap the lower half of each sandwich in a paper napkin and serve immediately with more pickles and fresh herbs for those who would like them.

Couscous Sandwiches

SANDWICH MOGHRABBIYEH

It seems rather odd to think of pasta as a filling for a sandwich but in one stall, on the edge of the spice section in the souks of Tripoli in northern Lebanon, they serve just that. The stall belongs to a burly man with the bushiest beard I have ever seen. He never seems to change position, always standing behind a big hot plate on which he has a mound of fresh moghrabbiyeh (a large-grain couscous) mixed with boiled chickpeas and caramelised onion. Whenever a customer arrives, the Hajj, as everyone calls him because he went on pilgrimage to Mecca, tears open a large pita bread, arranges the two layers one on top of the other and spoons a generous amount of the couscous mixture onto the bread, arranging it in a line down the middle. He then rolls the bread tightly around the filling to make a fat wrap that is surprisingly tasty despite it being starch on starch. It is definitely not a sandwich for those watching their figures. In Lebanon, you can buy the pasta freshly made, but it is only available dried in the West.

Serves 4–6

75g (2½oz) unsalted butter

16 baby onions, peeled

150g (5oz) dried chickpeas, soaked overnight in cold water (enough to cover the chickpeas by 2–3 fingers) and ½ tsp bicarbonate of soda

500ml (18fl oz) chicken stock

1 cinnamon stick

½ tsp ground caraway

1 tsp ground allspice or Lebanese seven-spice mixture

¼ tsp finely ground black pepper

250g (9oz) dried moghrabbiyeh

Sea salt

¼ tsp ground cinnamon

4–6 medium-sized round pita breads

Melt 2 tablespoons of the butter in a large saucepan and sauté the onions until lightly golden. Remove to a plate and set aside.

Drain and rinse the chickpeas and add them to the pan with the chicken stock. Bring to the boil, skimming away any scum that rises to the surface, then add the cinnamon stick, ground caraway, allspice (or seven-spice mixture) and black pepper. Reduce the heat to medium-low and simmer, covered with a lid, for 45–60 minutes or until the chickpeas are tender. Add the fried onions and simmer for another 10–15 minutes.

While the chickpeas are cooking, put the moghrabbiyeh in a bowl, cover it with boiling water, stirring well so that the pellets do not stick together, and let it sit for 15 minutes. Drain and stir in the rest of the butter, then put the moghrabbiyeh in a steamer and steam, covered, for 20 minutes.

When the chickpeas are ready, add salt to taste. Then tip the moghrabbiyeh into a large frying pan. Using a slotted spoon, remove the onions and chickpeas from the stock and add them to the moghrabbiyeh. Add the ground cinnamon and about 250ml (9fl oz) of the stock and place over a medium-high heat. Sauté for about 5 minutes, adding more stock if the mixture seems too dry. Taste and adjust the seasoning if necessary.

Open out a pita bread at the seams, breaking it into two and putting the two layers one on top of the other, rough side up, then arrange as much moghrabbiyeh as you like down the middle. Roll the bread tightly around the filling, wrap the lower half of the sandwich with a paper napkin and serve immediately.

Falafel Sandwiches

Falafel, together with tabbuleh and hommus, are now part of the global menu, but they are originally from Egypt where they are known as ta’miyah. Egyptian ta’miyah is rather different from Lebanese/Syrian falafel – softer and starchier. The sandwiches are also made differently. Egyptian pita is smaller and thicker and when made with wholewheat, it is called aysh baladi. The bread is cut in half across the middle and the pocket opened and filled with the ta’miyah and garnish. Lebanese/Syrian pita is large, round and very thin. It is opened at the seam and the two layers placed one on top of the other, rough side up. The filling is then arranged down the middle and the bread rolled around it. As for the garnish, in Egypt you might have crisps or French fries, shredded lettuce or tomatoes, radishes or pickles. In Lebanon and Syria the choice is generally herbs, tomatoes and pickles. Only the tahini sauce is a constant in all three countries, although its name differs – tahina in Egypt and tarator in Lebanon and Syria.

Serves 4–6

110g (4oz) dried chickpeas, soaked overnight in cold water (enough to cover the chickpeas by 2–3 fingers) and ½ tsp bicarbonate of soda

175g (6oz) peeled split dried fava beans, soaked overnight in cold water (enough to cover the beans by 2–3 fingers) and ½ tsp bicarbonate of soda

5 large garlic cloves, peeled

1 medium onion, peeled and quartered

1 small leek, trimmed and cut into 2–3 pieces

Large handful of coriander leaves

1 tsp ground cumin

1 tsp ground allspice or Lebanese seven-spice mixture

¼ tsp finely ground black pepper

⅛ tsp cayenne pepper

Sea salt

½ tsp bicarbonate of soda

Vegetable oil for frying

4–6 medium-sized round or oval pita breads

For the tahini sauce

125ml (4½fl oz) tahini

Juice of 1 lemon or to taste

2 garlic cloves, peeled and crushed

For the garnish

1–2 firm ripe tomatoes, diced

2–3 pickled cucumbers, quartered lengthways

4–6 sweet chilli pickles, cut in half lengthways

2 pickled turnips, thinly sliced

Drain the chickpeas and fava beans and rinse under cold water. Put in a blender together with the garlic, onion, leek, coriander, spices and a little salt, and process into a smooth paste. If your blender is too small, process in batches. Transfer to a mixing bowl and taste, adjusting the seasoning if necessary. Add the bicarbonate of soda and mix well. Cover and leave to rest for 30 minutes in the fridge.

Meanwhile, make the tahini sauce. Put the tahini in a mixing bowl and gradually whisk in the lemon juice, alternating it with 90ml (3fl oz) of water. Taste from time to time to make sure that you get the right balance of tartness while keeping the consistency like that of creamy yoghurt. The tahini will first thicken to a purée-like consistency before starting to dilute again. If you decide to use less lemon juice, make up for the loss of liquid by adding a little more water or vice versa. Add the crushed garlic and a little salt. Taste and adjust the seasoning if necessary.

Pinch off a handful of the falafel mixture and shape between the palms of your hands into a fat round patty with tapering sides, about 5cm (2in) in diameter. Place on a plate and continue making the patties until you have finished the mixture. You should end up with about 16 falafel, depending on how fat you have made them.

Heat enough vegetable oil in a large, deep-sided frying pan to deep-fry the falafel. To test whether the oil is hot enough, add a small piece of bread; if the oil bubbles around it, it is ready. Drop in as many falafel as will fit comfortably in the pan, and fry until golden – about 2 minutes on each side. Remove with a slotted spoon and drain on several layers of kitchen paper. Lay another wad of kitchen paper on top and pat the falafel to absorb as much oil as you can. Continue frying and draining until all the falafel are cooked.

If using round pita bread, open each one at the seams and break it apart, laying the two pieces one on top of the other, rough side up. Spread 3–4 falafel down the middle and crush them open a little. Divide the garnish ingredients equally between the sandwiches and drizzle over as much tahini sauce as you would like, bearing in mind that too much will make the bread soggy and hence eating the sandwiches rather messy. Better to dip the sandwich into the sauce than have it seep out of the wrap. Roll up the bread tightly and wrap the lower half of each sandwich in a paper napkin to serve immediately.

If using oval pita breads, open each along one seam to create a large pocket, and fill with the falafel and equal amounts of garnish. Drizzle with tahini sauce to taste and serve at once.

Lamb Shawarma

SHAWARMA LAHMEH

You find shawarma (derived from the Turkish word çevirme, which means to turn or rotate) on every street corner in Lebanon and Syria as well as in many Western countries. Shawarma is a very large, fat kebab, once made only with lamb but now also with chicken. The meat is sliced into wide, thin pieces, marinated overnight and threaded onto a long skewer. Interspersed between the layers of meat are slices of fat, or skin if chicken has been used. The skewer is fixed in front of a vertical grill and left to rotate over a moderate heat for 2–3 hours or until the meat is cooked through. During cooking, the fat melts down the whole length of the kebab, basting it and keeping it moist. A souvlaki is the Greek version, made with pork. The Turkish version, made with lamb or beef, is called doner kebab. Even before the meat is cooked all the way through, the shawarma seller starts slicing the outer, cooked layer to order and piles the thin slivers of meat onto pita bread. On top of the meat go sliced tomatoes, onions, pickles, herbs and tahini sauce if the meat is lamb or garlic sauce if it is chicken. The bread is rolled tightly over the filling, half wrapped in paper and handed to the customer for him/her to eat on the go. Shawarma is not usually prepared at home, but here is a delectable adaptation taught to me by my Lebanese butcher in London who has now returned to Lebanon, to my great sadness, although he is delighted to be back home.

Serves 4–6

800g (1¾lb) lamb meat, from the shoulder, skinned and most of the fat removed, thinly sliced

2 medium-sized onions, peeled and thinly sliced

Juice of 1 lemon or to taste

4 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil

½ tsp ground cinnamon

½ tsp ground allspice or Lebanese seven-spice mixture

Leaves from a few sprigs of fresh thyme

Sea salt

Finely ground black pepper

2–3 medium-sized round pita breads or 4–6 oval ones

For the tahini sauce

125ml (4½fl oz) tahini

Juice of 1 lemon or to taste

2 garlic cloves, peeled and crushed

For the garnish

4–6 small tomatoes, thinly sliced

½ medium-sized red onion, peeled and very thinly sliced

4–6 gherkins, thinly sliced lengthways

½ tsp finely chopped mint

½ tsp finely chopped flat-leaf parsley

Put the meat in a large mixing bowl, add the onions, lemon juice, olive oil, spices, and thyme, then season with salt and pepper and mix well. Place in the fridge and leave to marinate for 2–4 hours, stirring occasionally.

Meanwhile, make the tahini sauce. Put the tahini in a mixing bowl and gradually whisk in the lemon juice, alternating it with 90ml (3fl oz) of water. Taste from time to time to make sure that you get the right balance of tartness while keeping the consistency like that of creamy yoghurt. The tahini will first thicken to a purée-like consistency before starting to dilute again. If you decide to use less lemon juice, make up for the loss of liquid by adding a little more water or vice versa. Add the crushed garlic and a little salt. Taste and adjust the seasoning if necessary.

After the meat has finished marinating, place a large frying pan over a medium-high heat. When it is very hot, add the meat and sauté for a couple of minutes or until done to your liking.

If you are using round pita breads, tear them open at the seams to make 4–6 circles of bread. Laying these rough side up, arrange equal quantities of meat down the middle of each. Divide the garnish ingredients between the pita pieces and drizzle over as much tahini sauce as you would like, bearing in mind that too much could make the bread soggy. Roll each sandwich tightly, wrap the bottom half in a paper napkin and serve immediately.

If you are using oval pita breads, open at one seam to create a large pocket. Spread one side of the bread inside with tahini sauce, then fill each pita with equal amounts of sandwich ingredients before serving immediately.

Chicken Shawarma

SHAWARMA DJAJ

Often the shawarma stalls have one lamb and one chicken version grilling side by side. The main difference is not so much in the seasoning, nor in the garnish, but in the sauce. Lamb shawarma is moistened with tahini sauce while chicken shawarma is flavoured with an eggless garlic mayonnaise or tûm as it is known in Arabic. Before the Syrian revolution, Midan was a popular street food area in Damascus, particularly fun to visit during Ramadan. It was there that I had chicken shawarma with a difference – the chicken sandwiched inside kibbeh balls instead of bread. Even the marinade used for the chicken was different: a blend of tomato paste and crushed garlic, seasoned with cayenne pepper, Syrian seven-spice mixture and salt. The vendor rolled the kibbeh balls into the fat dripping from the shawarma and stood them against the bottom part of the grill to heat up while he spread garlic mayonnaise and pomegranate syrup over a paper platter. He then arranged a few slices of pickles, tomato and cucumber along one half and lined the halved kibbeh balls on the other. Into these, he stuffed a generous amount of chicken shawarma. But he never gave me his recipe for the marinade, so I’ve included the Lebanese version here.

Serves 4

3 medium-sized organic or free-range chicken breasts (about 500g/1lb 2oz in total), with the skin left on

1 medium-sized onion, peeled and thinly sliced

Juice of 1 lemon

115ml (3½fl oz) extra-virgin olive oil

¼ tsp ground cinnamon

¼ tsp ground allspice or Lebanese seven-spice mixture

¼ tsp finely ground black pepper

Leaves from a few sprigs of thyme

Sea salt

2 medium-sized round pita breads or 4 oval ones

For the garlic sauce

10 large garlic cloves, peeled

170ml (6fl oz) extra-virgin olive oil

Juice of ¼ lemon

3–4 tbsp labneh(optional)

For the garnish

2 small tomatoes, thinly sliced

1 small red onion, peeled and very thinly sliced

4 gherkins, thinly sliced lengthways

Handful of fresh mint leaves, coarsely chopped

Few sprigs of flat-leaf parsley, most of the stalk discarded, coarsely chopped

Put the chicken breasts in a mixing bowl with the onion, lemon juice, olive oil, spices and thyme, season with salt and mix well. Place in the fridge and leave to marinate for 2–4 hours.

Meanwhile, make the garlic sauce. Put the garlic cloves and a little salt in a mortar and pound with a pestle until reduced to a very fine paste. Drizzle in the olive oil very slowly, stirring constantly as if you were making mayonnaise. Stir in the lemon juice and labneh (if using) to take the edge off the garlic flavour.

Preheat the oven to 180ºC (350°F), gas mark 4.

Transfer the chicken to a roasting tin and roast in the oven for 25–30 minutes or until cooked through. Remove from the oven, then discard the skin from the chicken pieces and shred the meat into thin slivers.

If you are using round pita breads, tear the bread open at the seams and break apart to make four circles of bread. Laying the pieces rough side up, spread as much garlic sauce as you like down the middle of each without making the bread too soggy and arrange equal quantities of chicken on top. Divide the garnish ingredients between the pita pieces and roll each tightly around the filling. Wrap the lower half of each sandwich in a paper napkin to serve immediately.

If you are using oval pita bread, open at one seam to create a large pocket. Spread one side of the bread inside with garlic sauce, then fill each pita with equal amounts of sandwich ingredients and serve immediately.

Turkish ‘Andouillette’

KOKOREÇ

I was fascinated by the bazaars of Eminönü, at the heart of Istanbul, on my first trip to Turkey back in the 1970s and again when I returned in the 1980s, but I hardly ever go there now. They have become a little too touristy. Instead, I prefer to walk through the narrow lanes behind, looking at kitchen equipment, or clothes or plastic jewellery, and I naturally stop whenever I come across a cart selling street food. Many have a glass box mounted on them with the food dumped inside. I rarely buy anything to eat, but I like to watch the action. One vendor could be touting a pile of Albanian liver (cut into cubes and fried with different spices, a dish probably brought into Turkey by Albanians – hence the name), while another may extol the tastiness of his bland chickpea pilaf, topped with two or three pieces of chicken to indicate that the rice has been cooked in chicken stock. And if the vendor is touting çiğ köfte, a mass of raw meat mixed with fine burghul and reddened with pepper paste, he will make sure to tell his clients that he mixed the köfte that morning with meat from a freshly slaughtered lamb. I am not sure I would believe these assurances, but I’ve never suffered any ill-effects the few times I have had çiğ köfte as a street food.

Every now and then, I buy a portion of pilaf and watch the vendor cut the tiniest piece of chicken to put on the rice, wondering why he even bothers. I am also not sure why I bother either. Possibly in the hope that one day I will find one that tastes good. It never does. It looks bland and it tastes just as bland, which is not the case with kokoreç, a large fat sausage made of lamb intestines – a kind of Turkish andouillette. The sausage is threaded onto a skewer that is put to rotate horizontally in front of a fire, often charcoal, until it is cooked through. The vendor then slices a piece of the sausage, puts it on his wooden board and proceeds to chop it very finely. He places the minced kokoreç on a hot plate and stirs it for a minute or so, adding more seasonings, to crisp the meat further and heat it up before stuffing it into the ubiquitous fat baguette-like bread that the Turks seem to favour for their sandwiches. Şampiyon is the undisputed master of kokoreç, but they have now expanded everywhere and I much prefer to buy my kokoreç sandwich from individual stallholders like the one I discovered on my last visit to Istanbul, tucked away in a narrow lane not far from the spice bazaar, near the cheese sellers.

His stall is tiny, with just enough space for the charcoal rotisserie placed over a cabinet containing all he needs to make the sandwiches. He also has two low tables where customers can sit to eat their kokoreç and where he has jars of tiny pickled peppers. I didn’t have the courage to try them. They looked pretty lethal, and as I spoke no Turkish and he no English, I couldn’t find out if they were mild. So I decided not to take the risk.

I also decided against giving a recipe for kokoreç as it is very difficult to get hold of lamb intestines in the West. Even if you are lucky enough to know a farmer who would give you some, you will still need to clean them, which is no easy feat. You are better off trying this dish when you are in Turkey, and you will enjoy it all the more knowing how and with what it is made.

Stuffed Mussels

MIDYE DOLMASI

If there were one street food I could take with me to a desert island, it would have to be stuffed mussels. In the old days, before I was conscious of pollution or perhaps because it was not so widespread, I ate stuffed mussels anywhere. I remember the first time I visited Istanbul in the mid 1970s. I stayed at the Pera Palace, still in its faded glory, spending my mornings in mosques and museums – I worked in the art world in those days – and my afternoons and early evenings in the bazaars. Apart from enjoying the hustle and bustle of these markets, and being generally curious about all the unfamiliar foods, I was on a mission to find the ultimate stuffed mussels. I had never eaten them before and had fallen in love with this elaborate delicacy that was sold so cheaply on the street when it could have been on the menu of a Michelin-starred restaurant. My hotel was just down the road from Çiçek Passajı (Flower Passage), a lovely small market leading into a maze of narrow streets full of charming restaurants. Every afternoon, I walked up to the market to sample stuffed mussels. At that time, there were many stalls selling them, while today only one remains. I went from one vendor to the next, tasting the mussels. If they were good, I would linger, gesturing to the vendor to give me one more, then another and another until I had eaten half a dozen extra mussels. Once I’d finished feasting on mussels, I would buy a fat slice of kaymak (very thick clotted cream that is rolled up like a Swiss roll), which I ate on my balcony drizzled with honey. I loved that first visit to Istanbul, and what is wonderful is that more than 30 years later I can still stroll up to Çiçek Passajı, albeit not from the Pera Palace (now fully restored and way beyond my budget), to find the same scene and some of the same shops. And fortunately the last remaining stuffed-mussels vendor is one of the best in town. He also sells midye tava – mussels that are threaded onto skewers and dipped in flour and then water several times to build up a coating which crisps up when fried. The fried mussels are stuffed into half a fat baguette-like loaf and drizzled with a walnut sauce to produce an irresistible sandwich (reproduced on here).

It is not that easy to find mussels that are large enough for stuffing. If you can’t find any, simply change the dish to a pilaf by preparing 2–3 times the amount of rice stuffing and cooking it completely. Steam the mussels separately and arrange them, on the half shell, on top of the cooked rice.

Serves 4

4 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil

1 tbsp pine nuts

2 small onions, peeled and finely chopped

110g (4oz) paella or other white short-grain white rice (bomba, Calasparra or Egyptian), soaked in warm water

1 tbsp raisins

1½ tbsp tomato paste

¼ tsp ground cinnamon

¼ tsp ground allspice

¼ tsp paprika

Pinch of cayenne pepper

Pinch of ground cloves

Sea salt

Finely ground black pepper

About 40 medium-to-large mussels in their shells

1 tbsp chopped flat-leaf parsley

1 tbsp minced dill

Lemon wedges, to serve

Put the olive oil, pine nuts and onions in a saucepan and sauté, stirring regularly, until lightly golden. Drain the rice and add to the pan. Add the raisins, tomato paste and spices, and some salt and pepper, then pour in just enough water to cover – about 250ml (9fl oz). Bring to the boil, reduce the heat to low and simmer, covered with a lid, for 8–10 minutes or until the water is absorbed and the rice barely done. Take off the heat, wrap the lid in a clean tea towel and place back over the pan before setting it aside to cool down.

Preparing the mussels is a lengthy and rather difficult process, so allow time and be patient. First pull off and discard the beards, if there are any, and rinse the mussels under cold water – don’t let them soak or they will die. Lay one mussel on a tea towel on your work surface and insert the tip of a small sharp knife in between the two shells at the slanted end. Slide the knife downward and all around the shell until you cut into the muscle – the mussel will open easily with the two halves remaining attached. Prepare the rest of the mussels in the same way. Take your time and don’t rush this part of the preparation or you will either break the shells or hurt yourself with the knife.

Once you have opened all the mussels, stir the fresh herbs into the rice and fill each mussel with a teaspoon or more of the rice mixture, depending on how large it is. Close both halves of the shell together, wipe away any rice grains sticking to the outside and arrange in 2–3 layers in the top part of a steamer. Weigh down the filled mussels with a plate and steam for 20–25 minutes. Remove the steamer section and let the mussels cool. Serve at room temperature with the lemon wedges.

Fried Mussels

MIDYE TAVA

There are two ways of eating mussels on the street in Turkey: stuffed and steamed, or threaded onto skewers and fried. In Anadolu Kavağı, a fishing village north of Istanbul on the Asian side, I have seen them prepare fresh anchovies in the same way. Frying skewered mussels or anchovies is not so easily done at home unless you have a very large frying pan to accommodate the skewers. But you can fry them individually, which the Turks also do. I sometimes use batter instead of caking them in flour and dipping them in water, as they do in Turkey. The fritters end up much lighter. If you prefer to use anchovies for this dish, make sure they are small and very fresh, for which you’ll need either a good fishmonger or a place by the sea!

For the tarator, you can use walnuts, almonds or pine nuts instead of hazelnuts. Ideally any unblanched nuts should be peeled after being soaked. Though you can make the sauce without going to the trouble of soaking and peeling the nuts, the texture won’t be as soft and the tarator will taste slightly different. You can pound the ingredients using a pestle and mortar for an even finer-textured sauce, but only if you have the patience and energy.

Serves 6

45 large mussels in their shells or 36 fresh anchovies

Plain flour for dusting

Freshly ground black pepper

Vegetable oil for frying

3 baguettes, cut in half widthways, each half split open lengthways

Salad garnish (lettuce leaves, trimmed spring onions, sliced tomatoes, fresh flat-leaf parsley leaves)

Lemon wedges, to serve

For the Turkish tarator

300g (11oz) skinned hazelnuts

3–4 slices soft white bread, crusts removed

1 large garlic clove, peeled

170ml (6fl oz) extra-virgin olive oil

Juice of 1½ lemons or to taste

Sea salt

12 wooden skewers, soaked in water for at least 30 minutes

First make the tarator. Put the hazelnuts in a deep bowl, cover with boiling water and let them soak for 1 hour. Drain the nuts and put in a food processor together with the bread, garlic clove and 1 tablespoon of water. Blend until smooth, then slowly add the olive oil while still blending. When the oil is completely absorbed, add the lemon juice and salt to taste. If the mixture seems too thick, thin with a little more water or with lemon juice if the sauce could do with being more tart. Taste and adjust the seasoning if necessary.

If using mussels, first pull off and discard the beards, if there are any, and rinse the mussels under cold water. Place in a steamer and steam for 3 minutes or until all the shells have opened, discarding any that remain shut. Remove the mussels from the shells and place on a plate.

Pour some flour into a dish long enough to hold the skewers and season with salt and pepper. Pour a little water into a similar-sized dish. Thread equal amounts of the cooked mussels onto each skewer.

Pour enough vegetable oil into a large, deep-sided frying pan to deep-fry the mussels. To test whether the oil is hot enough, add a small piece of bread; if the oil bubbles around it, it is ready. Quickly dip one of the skewers in the flour, then in the water and again in the flour, repeating a few times until the mussels have a nice coating that will act like a batter. Drop the skewer in the hot oil and do the same with the remaining skewers, frying them in batches until crisp and golden all over.

Remove the skewers with a slotted spoon and leave to drain on several layers of kitchen paper, sprinkling with more salt if necessary. It is a good idea to skim the oil clean in between each batch so that you don’t end up with burning bits of batter clinging to the mussels.

Make sandwiches by sliding the mussels off the skewers and into the split-open baguette halves, adding your choice of salad ingredients as a garnish and tarator to taste. Serve immediately with the lemon wedges and more tarator for those who want it.

Stuffed Tripe

GHAMMEH

One of my favourite stalls in the souks of Tripoli in northern Lebanon is one that is a little off the beaten track. I always have a hard time finding it but when I finally get there, I can never resist a giggle at how unappetising the stuffed tripe (krûsh) and intestines (fawaregh) look inside the steaming glass cabinet where they are displayed. I don’t let this put me off, though, because they are almost as good as those made at home, with the advantage that the stallholders do all the hard work that I am about to describe in the recipe below. I have omitted the instructions for the intestines, usually included in this dish, because they are hard to find in the West, and even more time-consuming to make.

Serves 6–8

4 sheep’s trotters

1 medium-sized sheep’s stomach

2 cinnamon sticks

For the stuffing

100g (3½oz) dried chickpeas, soaked overnight in cold water (enough to cover the chickpeas by 2–3 fingers) and ½ tsp bicarbonate of soda

1 tsp bicarbonate of soda

200g (7oz) short-grain white rice (bomba, Calasparra or Egyptian), rinsed under cold water and drained

2 × 400g cans of Italian tomatoes, drained, deseeded and coarsely chopped

250g (9oz) peeled and chopped onion (about 1 large one)

250g (9oz) freshly minced lamb neck fillets (either ask your butcher to mince the lamb or do it yourself using the fine attachment on a meat grinder)

1 tsp ground allspice or Lebanese seven-spice mixture

¼ tsp finely ground black pepper

¼ tsp ground cinnamon

Sea salt

To serve (optional)

6–8 garlic cloves, peeled and crushed

Lemon juice to taste

Singe the sheep’s trotters over a gas fire until there are no hairs left on them, then wash in soapy water a couple of times. Rinse well under cold water. Wash the sheep’s stomach thoroughly in several changes of water, adding soap if necessary, and rinse well. Cut the cleaned stomach into 6–7 pieces, each measuring about 15 × 20cm (6 × 8in).

Next make the stuffing. Drain and rinse the chickpeas, then add the teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda and stir in well to coat the chickpeas. Leave for 15–20 minutes and rinse well. The purpose of this operation is to soften the chickpeas further and hence shorten their cooking time.

Put the rice in a large mixing bowl, add the remaining ingredients and some salt, and mix well.

Put the trotters in a large saucepan, pour in enough water to cover by 2–3 fingers and place over medium-high heat. Bring to the boil, skimming away any scum that rises to the surface. Add the cinnamon sticks, then reduce the heat, cover with a lid and simmer for 30 minutes.

Fold a piece of tripe in half and sew up the long side and one of the short sides. Repeat with the remaining pieces of tripe, then fill these with the stuffing, making sure they are only three-quarters full to allow space for the rice to expand during cooking. Sew the pouches shut.

Add the stuffed tripe to the trotters, pouring in more water to cover, if necessary, and seasoning with salt. Bring back up to the boil, then reduce the heat and simmer, with the lid on, for 1½–2 hours or until tender. Serve very hot with some of the cooking liquid on the side. You can, if you want, season the accompanying broth with a little crushed garlic and lemon juice.

Sesame Galettes

Sesame galettes are a street staple throughout the Levant, although they vary in shape from one country to another. In Lebanon, for instance, they are made in the shape of handbags. The vendor tears the fat ‘bag’ part open to sprinkle the inside with a little za’tar. In Tripoli, in the north of Lebanon, and in Syria the galettes are shaped into flat, round discs and are often sold filled with halloumi cheese seasoned with sumac. It would be too repetitive for me to supply recipes for all the variations, so I am giving just two recipes here – the one below for Turkish simit and the one on here for Lebanese ka’keh.

Turkish Sesame Galettes

SIMIT

I don’t think you can go through the bazaars of Turkey, or through any street for that matter, without coming across a simit (sesame galette) seller. The ones sold here, and in Egypt, are ring-shaped – as in the recipe below.

Makes 4 galettes

150g (5oz) unbleached plain flour, plus extra for dusting

1 tsp (½ × 7g sachet) fast-action yeast

¼ tsp sea salt

Unsalted butter for greasing

125ml (4½fl oz) pekmez

100g (3½oz) sesame seeds

Mix the flour, yeast and salt in a large mixing bowl and make a well in the centre. Add 125ml (4½fl oz) and 2 tablespoons of water and mix until you have a rough dough.

Transfer the dough onto a lightly floured work surface and knead for 3 minutes. Shape into a ball, then invert the bowl over the dough and leave to sit for 15 minutes. Remove the bowl and knead for 3 more minutes until you have a smooth dough, then shape into a ball once again. Grease a separate mixing bowl with a little butter and transfer the dough into it. Cover with cling film and leave in a warm, draught-free place for 1¾ hours to let it rise.

Lightly dust your work surface with flour and knead the dough again for a minute or so. Roll it into a thick sausage and divide into four equal-sized pieces. Roll each piece into a ball, cover with a clean damp tea towel and let it rest for another 30 minutes.

Roll each piece of dough into a long sausage measuring about 35cm (14in) long. Holding one end of the dough, twist it a few times. Bring the other end round to join the ends together and form a ring. Place on a lightly floured worktop and prepare the other pieces of dough in the same way.

Mix the pekmez with 125ml (4½fl oz) of water in a large bowl and spread the sesame seeds on a flat plate. Dip each galette in the pekmez water and then roll in the sesame seeds. Place on a non-stick baking sheet (or one lined with baking parchment or a silicone mat) and repeat the process with the three remaining galettes. Set aside for another 20–30 minutes to rise a little more.

Meanwhile, preheat the oven to its highest setting.

Bake the galettes for 20–25 minutes or until crisp and golden brown. Serve hot straight out of the oven or reheated later in the day. Simit do not keep but, like all bread, they freeze very well. All you will have to do is defrost them before reheating.

Lebanese Sesame Galettes

KA’KEH

I use a slightly different dough here from the classic one that I was given by the same baker who gave me the recipe for mishtah. The dough is made with three different types of flour – plain, wholewheat and cornmeal – before being coated in sesame seeds, and makes a more interesting alternative to the pita bread dough.

Makes 6 galettes

500g (1lb 1oz) unbleached plain flour, plus extra for dusting

100g (3½oz) wholewheat flour

100g (3½oz) fine cornmeal

2¼ tsp (1 × 7g sachet) fast-action yeast

2 tsp fine sea salt

Toasted sesame seeds (to toast them yourself), for sprinkling

7.5cm (3in) diameter pastry cutter

Mix the flours, yeast and salt together in a large mixing bowl and make a well in the centre. Gradually add 400ml (14fl oz) of warm water, incorporating the flour as you go. Knead in the bowl until you have a rough ball of dough.

Transfer the dough onto a lightly floured work surface and knead for 3 minutes. Invert the bowl over the dough and leave to rest for 15 minutes. Remove the bowl and knead the dough for a further 3 minutes or until it is smooth and elastic. Roll into a ball and place in a clean, lightly floured bowl. Cover with cling film and let it rise in a warm, draught-free place for 2 hours.

Fold after the first hour to strengthen the dough and make it rise better. The best way to do this is to first dust your hands and work surface with flour, then invert the bowl over one hand to let the dough drop onto your palm. Gently slide it onto the work surface and pat it into a thick flat circle. Fold one-third of the dough over from your right. Fold the left third over, then fold the top third over and the bottom one over it. Return to the bowl, with the folded sides down, and leave to finish rising.

When it is ready, transfer the dough to your work surface. Divide into six equal-sized pieces and roll each piece into a ball. Place on a lightly floured tray, cover with a tea towel that is wet but not dripping and let the dough rise for 45 minutes.

Line a large baking sheet with baking parchment or a silicone mat, or use a non-stick baking sheet, and sprinkle over the sesame seeds in an even layer.

Roll out each ball of dough to a disc about 25cm (10in) in diameter. Using the pastry cutter, cut an opening near the top of each disc before gently stretching the opening to create a handbag-like shape. Transfer onto the baking sheet lined with sesame seeds. Cover with a floured baker’s couche or tea towel and let the discs rest for about 15 minutes.

Preheat the oven to its highest setting.

Brush the galettes with water and sprinkle with sesame seeds to cover. Bake in the oven for 6–8 minutes or until puffed up and very lightly golden. The baking time may vary, depending on how hot your oven is. As with pita bread, I suggest you check the galettes after 5 minutes. Like simit, these are best served immediately or still warm. Alternatively, you can let them cool on a wire rack and freeze them for later use.

Stuffed Pancakes

QATAYEF

If ice cream at Dimashq was one of my routine afternoon stops in Damascus (see here), Ramadan Brothers who make qatayef (stuffed pancakes) at the western end of Straight Street – a main artery of the souks running parallel to Souk el-Hamidiyeh – was where I went to for a sweet evening snack, and this almost daily despite the calorie count. There are two Ramadan Bros stalls, right next to each other, and both make qatayef. I prefer the first one as you come from Souk Madhat Basha, where the qatayef are the most scrumptious I have ever tasted. They use sheep’s milk qashtah (clotted cream) to fill the pancakes, whereas most other stallholders use cream made with powdered milk. I love watching them make the pancakes, first stirring the batter by hand, then putting it into a hand-held funnel and pouring the batter in spurts onto a hot griddle. While one person makes the pancakes, another fills them with walnuts or clotted cream and fries them. They are then dropped into a large pot full of sugar syrup. You can also have them unfried – topped with clotted cream, pinched into a cone and drizzled with fragrant sugar syrup. I like the fried version and always ask for mine to be fried on the spot so that they are very crisp, with the soft cream inside (Arab clotted cream does not melt during cooking), offering a luscious melting contrast. The walnut pancakes, on the other hand, can sit for an hour or longer after being fried without softening. Still, I prefer to have both types of pancake fried on the spot and the Ramadan Brothers always oblige. I have been going to them for over 20 years and as soon as they see me, whether I have been there only the day before, or a few months previously, one of the brothers immediately instructs his young worker to fry some qatayef for me. It was during a visit to Damascus that I finally managed to break my mother’s resistance to street food. I insisted that she tasted my cream qatayef; she gingerly took a bite, still unsure about eating on the street, but she had to agree that it was excellent and finally gave in and accepted a pancake of her own.

Makes 12 small pancakes to serve 4–6

125g (4½oz) unbleached plain flour

½ tsp (¼ × 7g sachet) fast-action yeast

Pinch of sea salt

Vegetable oil for frying

175g (6oz) qashtah (clotted cream)

For the walnut filling

75g (2½oz) ground walnuts

1 tbsp golden granulated sugar

¼ tsp ground cinnamon

1 tbsp orange blossom water

For the sugar syrup

525g (1lb 2oz) golden caster sugar

1½ tsp lemon juice

1½ tbsp rose water

1½ tbsp orange blossom water

Mix the flour, yeast and salt in a mixing bowl and add 175ml (6fl oz) of water. Whisk together until you have a smooth batter, then cover with a clean tea towel and let the batter rest for 1 hour or until it has risen and its surface is bubbly.

Meanwhile, combine the ingredients for the walnut filling in a bowl and set aside.

Next make the syrup. Put the sugar and 225ml (8fl oz) of water in a saucepan. Add the lemon juice and place over a medium heat. Bring to the boil, occasionally stirring the mixture. Boil for 3 minutes then add the rose and orange blossom water and boil for a few seconds more. Take off the heat and set aside to cool.

Shortly before the batter is ready, grease a shallow frying pan with a little vegetable oil and place over a medium heat. When the pan is very hot, measure a heaped tablespoon of batter and pour it into the pan, to make a disc 7cm (2¾in) in diameter and about 1cm (½in) thick. It is best to spread the batter as you are pouring it into the pan; the mixture is too thick to spread by tilting the pan.

Cook on one side for 2–3 minutes or until the bottom of the pancake is barely coloured and the top is dry and pockmarked all over with tiny holes. Remove to a plate lined with baking parchment and finish making the remaining pancakes in the same way. Allow the pancakes to cool.

Lay one pancake on your palm, smooth side down, and spread 1 tablespoon of either the walnut filling or the clotted cream in a line down the middle, leaving the edges clear. Fold the pancake in half, aligning the edges and pinching them tightly shut with your fingers – you don’t want them to open during frying. Place each stuffed pancake on a plate and continue filling the rest so that you have six pancakes filled with cream and six with the walnut mixture.

Pour enough vegetable oil into a large, deep-sided frying pan to deep-fry the filled pancakes and place over a medium heat. To test whether the oil is hot enough, dip the corner of one pancake in it; if the oil bubbles around it, it is ready. Slide in as many pancakes as will fit comfortably in the pan and fry for 2–3 minutes on each side or until golden all over.

Remove each pancake with a slotted spoon and drop in the sugar syrup, turning in the syrup until well coated, then transfer to a serving platter. Serve tepid or at room temperature the same day. They are really best eaten soon after they are made as they quickly become soggy.

Milk Pudding

MUHALLABIYEH

Whenever I make this dish, I always remember the birkeh or stall where I used to stop with my mother, either for muhallabiyeh or meghli. They never changed their recipe, but I like to experiment with the classic one and I often flavour my milk pudding with saffron to give it a beautiful yellow colour and an exotic taste of the One Thousand and One Nights. At other times, I might grind cardamom seeds and add them to the milk for an Arabian touch. You can make your own variation provided you keep the taste subtle so as not to overwhelm the rose and orange blossom water. On the other hand, some people don’t find this flavour so appealing as it reminds them of perfume. If you belong to that camp, simply reduce the amounts given below or omit them altogether, although this will make the muhallabiyeh rather boring. As for the texture, I use cornflour to thicken the milk and not too much of it so that it stays soft and silky. You can use ground rice instead, but there will be a noticeable difference in texture, with the cornflour producing a finer dish.

Serves 4–6

1 litre (1¾ pints) full-cream organic milk

4½ tbsp cornflour

150g (5oz) golden caster sugar

¼ tsp ground mastic

2 tsp orange blossom water

2 tsp rose water

60g (2oz) raw shelled pistachios, soaked in cold water for about 1 hour and then peeled if you have the patience

Put the milk and cornflour in a saucepan. Place over a medium-high heat and bring to the boil, whisking all the time. Reduce the heat to low, add the sugar and ground mastic and continue whisking for 7–10 minutes or until the milk has thickened.

Add the orange blossom and rose water and simmer, still whisking, for a further 2 minutes. Take off the heat and pour into one large shallow bowl or into 4–6 individual ones, depending on their size. Let the milk pudding cool, then garnish with the pistachios and serve at room temperature or slightly chilled.

Caraway and Cinnamon Pudding

MEGHLI

My mother had three girls before she finally produced the boy she, my father and the rest of the family really wanted, mainly because he would carry the family name to the next generation. And to celebrate his birth, she, like all other Lebanese mothers, made an industrial amount of meghli, keeping some at home to serve those who came to congratulate her on the happy occasion and sending out the rest to family and friends for them to share in the happiness. I doubt she made the meghli herself. She would have been too weak so soon after delivery to stir the pudding for the requisite amount of time. Meghli means ‘boiled’ in Arabic, and it does indeed need to boil, for a minimum of an hour, before it reaches the right consistency. Some people boil it for less time, but the resulting pudding is bland and watery. Ready-made meghli is an acceptable alternative, but it is well worth your while spending the time stirring the mixture until it thickens into the velvety fragrant custard-like mixture that is one of my favourite puddings. It’s traditional to sprinkle shredded coconut over the pudding, although I’m not so fond of it myself. If you would like to include it, however, simply sprinkle a little over the pudding before adding the nuts.

Serves 4

100g (3½oz) ground rice

2½ tbsp ground caraway

1½ tbsp ground anise

1½ tsp ground cinnamon

200g (7oz) golden caster sugar

To garnish

60g (2oz) pine nuts

60g (2oz) shelled walnuts

60g (2oz) blanched almond halves

Place the nuts for garnishing in a deep bowl and cover with boiling water, letting them soak for 1 hour. Ideally the walnuts should be peeled after soaking, but only if you have the patience. If so, you may prefer to leave them to soak in a separate bowl.

Put the ground rice in a large saucepan with 2.5 litres (4⅓ pints) of water. Add the ground caraway and anise and place over a high heat. Bring to the boil, whisking constantly, and boil for 25 minutes, still whisking all the time. Reduce the heat to medium and cook for another 5 minutes, whisking as you go.

Add the cinnamon and whisk for another 20 minutes, then reduce the heat to medium-low, add the sugar and whisk for a further 10 minutes. Remove from the heat and pour into a single shallow serving bowl or into 4–6 individual ones, depending on their size. Let the pudding cool before garnishing with the drained nuts. Serve chilled or at room temperature.

Syrian Ice Cream

BUZA BIL-QASHTAH

Souk el-Hamidiyeh, in the heart of Damascus, is a long, wide, vaulted alley that starts at a busy main road and finishes by the Roman archway that leads to the Omayyad mosque. As you near the archway, you can stop at Bekdash, the most famous ice-cream shop in the whole Middle East. And if you happen to be there on a Friday or a holiday, you will not be able to move for the number of people. The souk will be deserted, with all the shops and stalls shut except for the throng outside and inside Bekdash, all clamouring for their celebrated ice cream. I do not share the general enthusiasm for Bekdash. The ice cream there has long ceased to be as good as its reputation. Instead, I prefer the cleaner and quieter Dimashq (Arabic for ‘Damascus’), on the same side of the alley but higher up nearer the main road. The selection is the same but made with greater care. I always order their qashtah (clotted cream) ice cream, which is creamier than the regular kind, with more body. Both have a surprising chewy texture because of the salep that thickens the ice cream when boiled with it while giving it its stretchy consistency. Because Dimashq is never mobbed, I can sit quietly and watch the clientele at leisure: a fascinating mix of regular Damascene shoppers and rural folk who are in the city to shop or visit relatives. Unfailingly, there will be a docile child-bride led by the hand by her husband. Sometimes he will be good-looking, other times not so. The sight of such a couple always fills me with sadness as I imagine how dreadful the young girl’s life must be, unless of course the husband and his family are kind to her. Even then, having to bear children at such a tender age as well as having to cook and clean can’t be much fun, however natural it seems to them. It is still fairly traditional in Syria, at least in rural areas, to marry soon after puberty.

A more cheerful sight is that of the strong men making the ice cream by the cashier’s desk. Their method is totally different from that of any Western ice-cream maker and the entire process is manual. The mixture is poured into deep, round, metal containers that have been frozen. There are four in a line and depending on how busy the shop is, either all four are used or just one or two. The men use a large spatula to scoop up the ice-cream mixture and hold it against the walls of the container to freeze it. Once the mixture has frozen against the metal, they scrape it off and let it fall to the bottom. They then grab a massive wooden pestle and start pounding the frozen mixture into a smooth, homogeneous mass, which they sprinkle with coarsely ground pistachios on both sides before rolling it into a cylinder – the ice cream is served in slices as if it were a Swiss roll. Going to Dimashq for a qashtah ice cream is a daily routine when I am in the city. Here is a recipe that is pretty close to theirs but using crème fraîche instead of qashtah.

Makes 1.2 litres (2 pints)

1 litre (1¾ pints) full-cream organic milk

1 tbsp salep

200g (7oz) golden caster sugar

300g (11oz) crème fraîche

3 tbsp rose water

½ tsp ground mastic

2 tbsp coarsely chopped pistachios, to garnish (optional)

Put the milk in a saucepan, reserving a tablespoon or two to mix with the ground mastic, and place over a medium heat. Add the salep little by little while whisking the milk all the time until it boils. (If you add the powder too quickly, it will form lumps.) Add the sugar and carry on whisking the mixture for another 7–10 minutes or until it has thickened.

Remove from the heat and pour into a large jug. Add the crème fraîche and rose water. Stir the mastic into the reserved milk before adding it to the ice-cream mixture – because it is a resin, it will turn into a sticky gum if you add it to a very hot liquid, especially if you do it quickly. Whisk until the mastic is well blended into the mixture and let it cool.

Pour into an ice-cream maker and churn the mixture following the manufacturer’s instructions. Transfer to a freezerproof container and freeze until you are ready to serve it. Serve sprinkled with pistachios, if you wish.

Iranian Saffron Ice Cream

BASTANI SA’LABI

One of the things I had to taste when I visited Iran was their famous saffron ice cream. But when I got to Tehran, I realised it was not so easy to track down the real thing, made with proper saffron and shavings of frozen cream inside the mix. Still, I persisted until I found a friend who knew a specialist ice-cream maker in Tajrish market where they made it the old-fashioned way. I have adapted the recipe below from one in Margaret Shaida’s Legendary Cuisine of Persia. The interesting thing is that, unlike Syrian ice cream, the milk isn’t boiled with the salep. As a result, the ice cream is thinner, without any of the stretchy texture of the Syrian one. It is also a lot sweeter.

Makes about 600ml (1 pint)

Good pinch of saffron threads

1 tbsp rose water

500ml (18fl oz) full-cream organic milk (preferably goat’s)

250g (9oz) golden caster sugar

200ml (7fl oz) double cream, poured into a shallow dish and frozen

1 tsp salep

2 tbsp coarsely ground pistachios (optional)

Put the saffron to soak in the rose water and leave to infuse for 15 minutes at least, preferably half an hour.

Put the milk, sugar and saffron-infused rose water in a mixing bowl and whisk together until the sugar is completely dissolved. Slowly add the salep while whisking all the time. (If you add the powder too quickly, it will form lumps.)

When the salep is fully incorporated, pour the mixture into the ice-cream maker and churn following the manufacturer’s instructions. Just before the churning has finished, chop up the frozen cream and add to the mixture. Transfer to a freezer-proof container and freeze until you are ready to serve it. Serve sprinkled with pistachios, if you wish.

Jellab

If you look up jellab, you will find many different recipes, all suggesting a different type of syrup or dibs. Some say to make it with grape syrup, others suggest carob. However, traditional jellab is made with date molasses. Even more important than this, however, is the smoking of the ingredients (or the syrup) with essences (bakhur in Arabic). I have yet to understand the full process and even my friends Youmna and Leila, at Mymouné, who make the best commercial preserves in Lebanon, have not been able to produce a good jellab. In the recipe below I haven’t attempted to make the drink from scratch, therefore, but use ready-made syrup – just make sure you read the ingredients list and buy one that has date syrup in it. The drink is not only very refreshing on account of the crushed ice but also interesting because it is packed with soaked pine nuts (rehydrating nuts makes them taste like fresh ones) and plumped-up sultanas. Simply remember to soak both raisins and pine nuts for a few hours, or preferably overnight, before you intend to serve the drink.

Serves 4

60ml (2fl oz) jellab syrup

Crushed ice

60g (2oz) pine nuts, soaked overnight in cold water

60g (2oz) sultanas, soaked overnight in cold water

Pour the syrup into a large jug. Add 750ml (1⅓ pints) of water and stir until well blended with the syrup. Pack the drink with crushed ice, then drain the pine nuts and sultanas and mix in with the jellab in the jug. Serve immediately, making sure you spoon equal amounts of nuts and sultanas into each glass.

Salep

SAHLAB

Salep is a warming winter drink made by boiling milk with powdered salep and sugar until the milk thickens. You can drink it from a cup or have it in a bowl as if it were a sweet soup. I still remember how in Beirut, as teenagers, we would stop at a salep stall with a few tables and chairs in the old souks not far from Ajami, the ultimate late-night restaurant that served hommus and other mezze dishes through the night both to flighty revellers like us and to souk traders or early shoppers. Our salep stall served the warming drink in thick ceramic soup plates. The stallholders sprinkled it with ground cinnamon and served it with croissants still warm from the oven of the nearby bakery. I didn’t do this very often as my parents were very strict and didn’t let me stay out late, but every now and then they would relax the rules, or more likely be away for a day or two, allowing me and my sisters to enjoy our short-lived freedom.

I like to make salep in London during the cold winters, not only to enjoy the sweet warming drink but also because it reminds me of those long-gone days. You find the same drink in Turkey, where it is usually served with simit, Syria and Egypt. In Egypt, they garnish it with nuts, raisins and desiccated coconut, while in Syria they add a sprinkling of ground cinnamon, just as they do in Lebanon.

Serves 4

1 litre (1¾ pints) full-cream organic milk

½ tsp ground mastic

1 tbsp salep

6 tbsp golden granulated sugar or to taste

Ground cinnamon for sprinkling

Pour the milk into a large saucepan, reserving 1–2 tablespoons to mix with the mastic, and place over a medium heat. Gradually add the salep, in very small amounts so that it does not form lumps, as you whisk the milk. Bring to the boil, whisking the milk all the time, and keep whisking for about 5 minutes after the milk has boiled. Add the sugar and whisk for another 3 minutes, then whisk in the mastic and ladle into cups or soup bowls. Sprinkle with cinnamon and serve hot on its own or with croissants or simit.