My father spent much of his working life travelling for business. We were always sad to see him leave and forever impatient for his return, not only to have him home with us again, nor for the many gifts he brought back but because he took us out for long leisurely lunches to celebrate the family being together again.
One of his favourite restaurants was M’hanna in Zahleh, a town north east of Beirut, which was (still is) famous for its riverside mezze restaurants. He drove us there in his wonderful 1950’s Buick, which he kept well into the 1960s. My two sisters, brother and I sat on the spacious banquette in the back while my mother sat in front, with my baby sister in her arms. The drive wasn’t very long and as much as we loved being in the magnificent car, we repeatedly asked when we would arrive. The reason for our impatience was not so much lunch. Rather, it was the bridge leading to the restaurant which was lined with street vendors selling all kinds of nuts and candy. We knew we had to wait until after lunch to buy candy but this never stopped us from nagging our parents to get some as we crossed the bridge – my favourites were white candy floss (ghazl el-banat) and a very white, rather hard, nougat flavoured with mastic which seems to have disappeared. My parents cheerfully ignored our pleas and hurried us past the vendors into the restaurant, promising to buy us whatever we wanted on the way back.
The headwaiter knew us well and he always gave us a table by the river. My father started discussing the menu as soon as we sat down. ‘What do you have that is good today?’ he asked. The question did not refer to any of the mainstays on the menu such as hommus, baba ghannuge or tabbuleh but rather to what was in season, or to any number of delicacies that needed to be extremely fresh such as raw lamb’s liver, lambs’ testicles (beyd ghanam in Arabic), tiny birds (‘asafir, one of my all-time favourites, even if seriously non pc), and so on. My father nodded whenever the waiter named a dish we wanted, and by the time they had finished, our order stretched to more than 20 mezze dishes.
The waiters arrived soon after, carrying large trays laden with our mezze, which they served in stages. The dips, salads and cold vegetable dishes first, followed by the savoury pastries then the hot dishes. The colours and textures on the table were gorgeous. The smooth, pale ivory of the dips was beautifully set off by the crisp, golden browns of the savoury pastries, kibbeh balls and falafel, while the herb salads and vegetable dishes added brilliant notes of greens and reds. We ate straight from the serving dishes, scooping our food with torn pieces of pita bread or lettuce leaves but even at our young age, we knew we had better keep our fingers clean!
Whenever we got bored, we left our parents to their conversation and went to play by the water. They didn’t mind. It was accepted practice for people to come and go from a mezze table. Nor did they worry about us children coming to any harm. The waiters kept a watchful eye on us – in Lebanon, as in other Mediterranean countries like Italy, children are kings and queens and everyone feels protective towards them. When we had enough of playing and started to feel peckish again, we returned to find new dishes on the table.
My mother and father sipped milky arak (an alcoholic aniseed drink similar to Pernod) from small tumblers while we drank freshly squeezed fruit juices. In the winter, we had orange juice, in the summer watermelon or melon juice and in the autumn, we tried not to stain our lovely clothes with pomegranate juice.
The restaurant scene, at least for that kind of family or group mezze dining, hasn’t changed much in Lebanon. The M’hanna of my childhood is still there, albeit much larger. It has spawned many other M’hannas across the country, while many more restaurants have opened alongside them in Zahleh. In fact, the town has become a sort of Disneyland for mezze restaurants. I don’t go there any longer. The tranquil atmosphere of my childhood has been replaced by noisy crowds and bustling waiters. Instead, whenever I am back in Lebanon (or Syria or Turkey for that matter where the restaurant scene is pretty similar), I prefer to go to places that remind me of those lovely childhood outings, restaurants that have been there for years and where both atmosphere and menu remain largely unchanged. In Iran, the restaurant menus are limited to kebabs and rice with few side dishes like pickles, yoghurt and cucumber or wild garlic salad and some crudités. If they offer any appetisers and stews like those you would eat at home, the selection would be not only limited but often of inferior quality, while in Lebanon and Syria, restaurants are big on mezze and grilled meats or fish leaving the stews, stuffed vegetables and different kinds of kibbeh to home-cooks. It is only in Turkey, in the small lokantasi restaurants that you can enjoy home-cooked dishes. In some, the quality is excellent while in others it is rather mediocre. It really depends on the owner and who he/she chooses to prepare the food.
Levantine Bread Salad
FATTÛSH
I have been going to Chez Sami, a restaurant right on the beach north of Beirut and still one of my favourites in Lebanon, for a great many years. The entrance is through a beautiful vaulted hallway (once part of an Ottoman stone house) into a large glazed modern extension, which serves as the main seating area during the winter when it is too cold to sit outside on the beach terraces. Fortunately Lebanon is famous for its moderate weather and the terraces are shut for only a few months of the year.
The clientele at Chez Sami is an eclectic mix: prosperous families, trendy youngsters and important-looking men, either politicians and/or wealthy businessmen. It is where the high and mighty or simply well off go to eat fish. One night when I was dining there with my family, I noticed the maître d’ moving some diners from the terrace opposite ours. I wondered why he was asking them to leave their tables. Then a swarm of strapping young men came out onto the beach below, apparently looking for someone or something. More and more peculiar, I thought, until it dawned on me that it had to be the prelude to the arrival of a political bigwig. And true enough, it wasn’t long before a group of overdressed women and well-groomed men sauntered onto the emptied terrace, with no less than our president amongst them. It was astonishing to see them go to the trouble of giving him his own terrace and allowing his men to monopolise the beach, searching for a threatening object or person, but without anyone bothering to search the rest of the restaurant or any of the customers – some, like us, very close. It would have taken just a few steps from where I was sitting for me or anyone else for that matter to leap up and attack him or, worse, shoot him. But this is quite normal in Lebanon: the whole dramatic scene was enacted more for show than out of any real concern for the president’s safety.
But to return to the food, Chez Sami has its own group of dedicated fishermen who bring in the best of their daily catch to be displayed in a refrigerator in the cool vaulted entrance for diners to choose a fish, order it by the weight and then instruct the maître d’ on how they’d like it cooked. I always order the same thing: tiny red mullet en friture, a medium-sized dorade (if there are two or three in our party) or a large wild sea bass (if there are more), to be baked in salt; and when in season, I also order small crabs, to be boiled. The chefs always cook the fish to perfection, keeping it moist and tender. No easy feat given the Lebanese tendency to overcook both meat and fish. The fried fish is served covered with golden triangles of fried pita bread, which I like dipping in the tahini sauce, the de rigueur accompaniment for fish, although I prefer my baked fish and boiled crab to be dressed in olive oil and lemon juice.
Unlike other restaurants, Chez Sami’s mezze menu is limited to about a dozen dishes, all as excellent as the fish. They are famous for their fattûsh, a salad of toasted bread and fresh herbs. In most restaurants, the herbs are chopped but the chefs at Chez Sami keep them whole, adding fresh thyme and rocket to the classic trio of parsley, mint and purslane. I also love their stuffed Swiss chard leaves, a delectable variation on stuffed vine leaves, and their hindbeh (dandelion leaves or wild chicory cooked in olive oil and served topped with caramelised onions), both as good as any made at home. If you are going to use the herbs whole, as in the recipe below, buy them young and fresh otherwise they will be too tough, and too large. Purslane is now available almost all year round in Middle Eastern shops, and possibly at farmers’ markets in spring and summer; the same with fresh thyme. If neither is available, use an equivalent amount of parsley, and a little more mint. I like this salad just as much without the toasted bread, although technically it is no longer fattûsh.
Serves 4
2 medium-sized round pita breads
3 tbsp ground sumac
6 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
200g (7oz) flat-leaf parsley (about 1 bunch), leaves picked from the stalks
100g (3½oz) mint (about ½ bunch), leaves picked from the stalks
100g (3½oz) purslane (about ½ bunch), leaves picked from the stalks
100g (3½oz) spring onions (about 1 bunch), trimmed and thinly sliced
350g (12oz) small cucumbers (or large if you cannot find the Middle Eastern variety), cut in half lengthways then thinly sliced
100g (3½oz) radishes, cut in half and thinly sliced
300g (11oz) cherry tomatoes, halved or quartered depending on their size
Sea salt
Juice of ½ lemon
Preheat the grill to high or the oven to 200°C (400°F), gas mark 6.
Tear the pita breads open at the seams and toast them under the grill or in the oven until golden brown. Place on a wire rack to cool.
Break the toasted bread into bite-sized pieces and put in a mixing bowl. Sprinkle with sumac, add the olive oil and mix until the bread is thoroughly coated. (Coating the bread in the oil and sumac is one way of sealing it and stopping it from going soggy; another is to mix in the bread at the very last minute after having seasoned and tossed the salad.)
Put the fresh herbs and other salad ingredients in a salad bowl. Season with salt and lemon juice to taste and toss all the ingredients together, then add the toasted bread and toss again. Taste, adjusting the seasoning if necessary, and serve immediately.
Las Salinas Bread Salad
LAS SALINAS FATTÛSH
A rather nondescript restaurant by the sea in Tyre in the south of Lebanon, Las Salinas may not be attractive but the food is definitely worth the detour. They serve incredibly fresh fish, caught not too far from the restaurant, and their fattûsh, the salad of choice to serve with fish (see here), is quite different from any I have elsewhere. Instead of using lettuce with the herbs, as they do in some restaurants, they add very finely shredded cabbage, which makes for an even more crisp salad.
Serves 4
1 medium-sized round pita bread
3 tbsp ground sumac
6 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
1 medium-sized pointed spring cabbage (about 400g/14oz), trimmed and very finely shredded
100g (3½oz) spring onions (about 1 bunch), trimmed and thinly sliced
300g (11oz) small cucumbers (or large if you cannot find the Middle Eastern variety), sliced into medium-thin semicircles
300g (11oz) cherry tomatoes, halved or quartered depending on their size
200g (7oz) flat-leaf parsley (about 1 bunch), most of the stalk discarded, coarsely chopped
100g (3½oz) mint (about ½ bunch), leaves picked from the stalks and coarsely chopped
100g (3½oz) purslane (about ½ bunch), leaves picked from the stalks
Sea salt
Preheat the grill to high or the oven to 200°C (400°F), gas mark 6.
Tear the pita bread open at the seams and toast it under the grill or in the oven until golden brown. Place on a wire rack to cool.
Break the toasted bread into bite-sized pieces and put in a mixing bowl. Sprinkle with the sumac, add the olive oil and mix until the bread is thoroughly coated.
Put the shredded cabbage in a salad bowl and add the rest of the salad ingredients with a little salt. Toss gently together and taste, adjusting the seasoning if necessary, then mix in the toasted bread. Serve immediately.
Wild Chicory in Olive Oil with Caramelised Onions
HINDBEH BIL-ZEYT
Even though this dish is on the menu of most Lebanese restaurants, I only order it at Chez Sami (see here) because theirs is almost as good as my mother’s. The greens are not cooked to death, for a start. The olive oil they use is excellent and they are generous with the caramelised onions, which really make this dish. It is difficult to get wild chicory in London, except when in season in winter and only in some Middle Eastern shops. If you cannot find it, use frisée. The leaves of the latter are more tender and paler in colour. They require less boiling and the flavour is milder, but they make a good substitute. Spring is the season for foraging for sliq or wild greens, a practice known as tassliq. People forage for many different varieties, which they prepare in the same way as the recipe below. If you stop at a simple mountain eatery during that time, you may find some on the menu, if you’re lucky, because the owners will have been foraging for them.
Serves 4
1kg (2lb 2oz) wild chicory or frisée
Sea salt
100ml (3½fl oz) extra-virgin olive oil
4 medium-sized onions, peeled and thinly sliced
½ lemon, plus extra slices to garnish
Cut the wild chicory (or frisée) into pieces about 6cm (2½in) long. Fill a large saucepan with water and bring to the boil. Add some salt and drop the greens into the water. Boil the chicory for about 5 minutes (2 minutes for frisée) or until just tender. Drain the cooked greens and allow to cool. Squeeze out as much water as you can between the palms of your hands, then separate the pressed leaves. Put in a bowl and cover with a clean tea towel.
Pour the olive oil into a large frying pan and place over a medium heat. When the oil is hot, add the sliced onions and fry, stirring occasionally, until caramelised and a rich brown colour. Be careful not to let it burn – onion can turn from richly caramelised to burned in a matter of seconds. Take the pan off the heat. With a slotted spoon, remove three-quarters of the onions and leave to drain on several layers of kitchen paper. Leave the rest in the pan.
Add the cooked chicory (or frisée) to the pan and place over a medium heat. Sauté for a few minutes, stirring regularly, until the chicory is well blended with the oil and onions in the pan. Taste, adding more salt if necessary, then cover with a clean tea towel and let the mixture cool in the pan.
Transfer to a flat serving platter and squeeze the lemon all over. Scatter the caramelised onions over the top and arrange the lemon slices all around the chicory. Serve at room temperature with pita or any other good bread.
Fish in Tahini Sauce
SAMAK BI-TAHINEH
This dish also goes by the name of tajen samak (fish tagine) in restaurants, where it tends to be made differently from at home, with the fish being flaked and mixed in with the sauce. In places such as Chez Sami, the flavour may be different too. I suspect they use more spices at Chez Sami, but they are notoriously secretive about their recipes and no one there would tell me how the tajen samak is prepared! So here is my version of the dish, using black cod, which is pretty extravagant but it works brilliantly with the sauce and makes for a more elegant presentation. If you find black cod too expensive, however, use Atlantic cod or sea bream fillets instead, or any other white sustainable saltwater fish. My grandmother deep-fried the fish whole, then slipped it into the sauce as it cooked on top of the stove. My mother also fried the fish but she cooked the sauce separately in the oven. I prefer to use fish fillets, which I sear. I then cook the sauce separately and slip the seared fish into it at the last minute so that it doesn’t overcook.
Serves 4–6
2 tbsp pine nuts
4 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
450g (1lb) white fish fillet (such as cod or sea bream – see introduction), cut into 6 pieces
3 medium-sized onions, peeled, cut in half and thinly sliced
1 tsp ground cumin
Sea salt
Finely ground white pepper
For the tahini sauce
125ml (4½fl oz) tahini
2 garlic cloves, peeled and crushed
Juice of 1½ lemons or to taste
Preheat the oven to 220°C (425°F), gas mark 7.
Spread the pine nuts on a non-stick baking sheet and toast in the oven for 5–7 minutes or until golden brown. Remove from the oven and set aside.
Next make the tahini sauce. Mix the tahini with the garlic in a medium bowl and stir in the lemon juice. The tahini will thicken initially, despite the fact that you are adding a liquid, but don’t let this worry you – it will thin out again as you add the water. Slowly add 200ml (7fl oz) of water, stirring all the time, until the tahini sauce is the consistency of single cream.
Put 1 tablespoon of the olive oil in a non-stick frying pan and place over a medium-high heat. When the oil is hot, slide in the fish pieces, skin side down, and cook for about 3 minutes or until the skin is crisp and golden and the fish is almost cooked through. Transfer to a plate and set aside.
Scrape off any bits of fish from the pan then add the remaining oil. Add the onions and cook, stirring occasionally, until soft and very lightly golden. Add the tahini sauce, season with the cumin and a little salt and pepper and mix well. Let the mixture bubble for 3–4 minutes, stirring every now and then, until you see a little oil rising to the surface.
Take the sauce off the heat and slide the fish into it. Gently shake the pan back and forth to coat the fish with the sauce. Return to the heat for a minute or so or until the fish is cooked to your liking. Taste, adjusting the seasoning if necessary. then scatter the toasted pine nuts all over and serve warm or at room temperature.
Spicy Fish
SAMKEH HARRAH
The Silver Shore in Tripoli is another of my favourite fish restaurants, and Tripoli is my favourite city in Lebanon now because it hasn’t lost its character like Beirut has. I don’t remember my father taking us to any seaside restaurant outside Beirut, and I still can’t decide if I love the mountains more than the sea or vice versa, but what is wonderful in Lebanon is that you can go from one to the other in no time at all, regardless of whether you are north, south or east. The recipe below is a hybrid of the samkeh harrah my mother makes, with no tahini sauce, and the Silver Shore’s version, in which they use more tahini sauce and less fresh coriander. I like both recipes and decided to combine them here.
Serves 6
60g (2oz) pine nuts
Vegetable oil for frying
1kg (2lb 2oz) white fish fillet, about 6 pieces
75ml (3fl oz) extra-virgin olive oil
2 medium-sized onions, peeled and finely chopped
1 green bell pepper, deseeded and finely chopped
100g (3½oz) fresh coriander, most of the stalk discarded, finely chopped
100g (3½oz) shelled walnuts, coarsely ground
1 tbsp ground coriander
½ tsp ground cumin
¼ tsp paprika
½ tsp Aleppo pepper
Sea salt
For the tahini sauce
250ml (9fl oz) tahini
8 garlic cloves, peeled and crushed
Juice of 3 lemons
Preheat the oven to 220°C (425°F), gas mark 7.
Spread the pine nuts on a non-stick baking sheet and toast in the oven for 5–7 minutes or until golden brown. Remove from the oven and set aside.
Next make the tahini sauce. Mix the tahini with the garlic in a medium bowl and stir in the lemon juice. The tahini will thicken initially, despite the fact that you are adding a liquid, but don’t let this worry you – it will thin out again as you add the water. Slowly add 125ml (4½fl oz) of water, stirring all the time, until the tahini sauce is the consistency of single cream.
Put a little vegetable oil in a frying pan and place over a medium heat. When the oil is hot, slide in the fish fillets, skin down, and cook for about 4 minutes or until the skin is crisp and golden and the fish just cooked. Transfer to a plate and set aside.
Wipe the pan clean and add the olive oil, onions and chopped pepper, then sauté until the onion is golden and the pepper softened. Add the chopped coriander and stir until wilted, then add the ground walnuts and season with the spices and a little salt.
Add the tahini sauce to the onion, herb and nut mixture and let it bubble gently for 3–4 minutes, stirring regularly, until a little oil rises to the surface. Slide the cooked fish into the sauce, gently shaking the pan to coat the fish in the sauce, and leave on the heat for a minute or so. Transfer onto a serving platter, garnish with the toasted pine nuts and serve hot or warm.
Cold Octopus Salad
Throughout the Levant, people prefer to eat fish in restaurants by the sea because it means the fish is freshly caught. There are exceptions, of course, but not in Istanbul where you are spoiled for choice for spots by the water. When I am there I always go to Kıyı in Tarabya, which is very upmarket, and I˙smet Baba in Kuzguncuk on the Asian side, which is more simple but on the ground floor of a charming old yalı (waterside house) right by a small jetty where you can watch fishermen repair their nets. If you are lucky enough to be seated by the window at I˙smet Baba, you can also watch the fish in the water, although more often it will be flotsam floating by. I always go there early for lunch, both to secure a table by the window and to watch their börek maker create the largest börek roll I have ever seen being made. He works on an elevated platform in full view of the diners and his börek is quite unusual, not only because it is a huge fat roll filled with a mixture of cheese and mashed potatoes but also because it is cut into slices and fried. The sheets of yufka (as filo is known in Turkey) he uses are also larger than any I have seen and the way he handles the pastry, laying one sheet over the other, then spreading the filling and rolling the delicate pastry over the mushy, sticky filling is mesmerising. His börek is too difficult to reproduce at home, unlike I˙smet Baba’s octopus salad, for which the restaurant is also famous. They use regular-sized octopuses for this dish, but I prefer the baby ones which are different from baby calamari – prettier and tastier and with a different texture. If you can’t find baby octopuses, however, simply go for a fully grown one, which will be more tender if you buy it frozen. You’ll need to defrost it first, then once the meat is boiled, all you have to do is to slice it thinly before serving with the dressing.
Serves 4–6
1 lemon, halved
1kg (2lb 2oz) baby octopuses
Sea salt
Few sprigs of flat-leaf parsley, most of the stalk discarded, finely chopped
For the salad dressing
4 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
Juice of ½ lemon or to taste
¾ tsp pul biber or Aleppo pepper
Bring a large saucepan of water to the boil, then reduce the heat to low, add the lemon halves and wait until the water is at a bare simmer. Add the octopuses and some salt and simmer for 15–20 minutes.
Mix the salad dressing in a bowl. When the octopus is done, drain it thoroughly in a colander before adding to the salad dressing with the parsley. Mix together well. Taste, adjusting the seasoning if necessary, and serve warm, at room temperature or slightly chilled.
Lebanese Steak Tartare
KIBBEH NAYEH
Qal’at el-Rummiyeh in Qley’at is about 10 minutes’ drive from my mother’s home. The restaurant itself is not beautiful but it is high up in the Lebanese mountains, overlooking a dramatic valley leading to the sea in the distance; and the owners raise their own lambs, butchering them in situ. As a result, their raw meat dishes are incredibly fresh. I often go there with my mother, and despite us often being on our own, I insist on ordering almost as many dishes as my father used to order for the whole family. And like he did, I engage in conversation with the maître d’, asking what is best or in season; and seeing all the mezze dishes being brought to our table and covering it in a vibrant display never fails to bring back memories of those delightful meals I so enjoyed as a child. I always order the same dishes except for seasonal specialities; and I often ask for a second order of habrah nayeh (very finely minced raw meat with hardly any seasoning), which they serve with a very fluffy, almost ethereal garlic dip (tûm). I also adore their raw kibbeh and kafta (also made with minced meat). And if the raw liver is from a freshly slaughtered lamb, I order it as well and I ask my mother to make me liver bites, just as my grandmother used to do (see here) except that she adds fresh mint leaves.
For kibbeh nayeh (like habrah nayeh but with burghul added to the mixture), you need to have a good relationship with your butcher so that he doesn’t mind boning a leg of lamb, trimming the meat of all the fat and sinuous nerves and passing it through the fine mincer twice. I do not advise making kibbeh nayeh with ready-minced meat from the supermarket, however lean. You need to know that the meat is very fresh and that it comes from a superior cut. If your butcher is not prepared to do the work, then have him bone and skin the leg and you do the rest, using meat from only the top part of the leg for the kibbeh nayeh and reserving meat from the bottom part for regular mince or a stew.
Serves 4–6
500g (1lb 1oz) lamb from the top part of the leg, skinned
Sea salt
1 small onion, peeled and finely grated
2 tsp ground cinnamon
1 tsp Lebanese seven-spice mixture
1 tsp ground allspice
½ tsp finely ground black pepper
Sea salt
120g (4oz) fine burghul, rinsed under cold water and drained
For the garnish
Spring onions, trimmed
Fresh mint leaves
Trim the meat of any fat and as many white ligaments as you can. Then put the meat through a fine mincer twice. You can mince the meat in a blender, if you prefer, but you need to be careful not to process it too much or it will become too smooth and lose texture. Alternatively, ask if your butcher will prepare the meat and mince it for you.
Prepare a bowl of lightly salted water and have it at hand.
Put the grated onion in a mixing bowl. Add the minced meat with the spices and some salt and with mix well using your hand. Add the burghul and mix it in, dipping your hand every now and then into the salted water to moisten both your hand and the kibbeh mixture. Knead for about 3 minutes or until you have a smooth meat paste. Taste and adjust the seasoning if necessary. Serve immediately drizzled with olive oil and accompanied by spring onions, fresh mint leaves and some pita bread.
Chickpea Fatteh
FATTET HOMMUS
My father took us only to elegant restaurants. Eating out for him was a treat and not a necessity – my mother was and still is a wonderful cook – and as far as he was concerned, modest eateries were for workers and travellers and not places where well-to-do families went. As I grew older and became independent, I was able to escape my parents’ control and to eat wherever I wanted – particularly on the street or in simple cafés/restaurants specialising in one particular dish or in a specific meal such as breakfast. I love eating at these places as much as, and sometimes more than, at elegant restaurants. One of my favourites is El-Soussi, a simple breakfast café in west Beirut named after its owner who specialises in fatteh (from the Arabic verb fatta, meaning to break or crumble). Fatteh is a composite dish made up of different layers (see here), starting with toasted or fried pieces of pita bread and finishing with yoghurt mixed with crushed garlic and garnished with toasted pine nuts. In between you can have chickpeas, alone like at el-Soussi, or chickpeas and meat, or aubergines. The dish brings together a wonderful mixture of different tastes, textures and temperatures, with crunchy contrasting with velvety, hot with cold, and subtle with intense.
The café is a very basic place with plastic tables and chairs arranged haphazardly in a bare room. Next door, the Zen-like El-Soussi presides over the tiniest kitchen where he tends a large pot of chickpeas on one big burner in the window and a frying pan on a small burner on the counter in which he fries eggs with qawarma (lamb ‘confit’ –) and lamb’s testicles. It is almost as if he had a toy kitchen right next to a ‘proper’ one. He serves a few other dishes, including fûl medammes, another typical Arab breakfast dish, made with boiled fava beans and originally from Egypt. Sometimes fûl is served without a garnish, but El-Soussi tops his with chopped tomatoes. His fûl is very good but I never order it there. Not because I don’t like it, nor because he serves his Lebanese-style, adding chickpeas to the broad beans, but because I always wait until I get to Aleppo to have my fûl at Hajj Abdo, a wonderful old man whose fûl medammes is the best.
Serves 6
200g (7oz) dried chickpeas, soaked overnight in cold water (enough to cover the chickpeas by 2–3 fingers) and ½ tsp bicarbonate of soda
1 cinnamon stick
1 large round pita bread
40g (1½oz) unsalted butter
60g (2oz) pine nuts
2 large garlic cloves, peeled and crushed
900g (2lb) plain yoghurt
Sea salt
Rinse the chickpeas under cold water, then place in a saucepan and cover well with fresh water. Add the cinnamon stick and place over a medium heat. Bring to the boil, then lower the heat to medium-low, cover the pan with a lid and cook for 1 hour or until they are tender. Then add salt to taste (adding salt before the end of cooking will harden the skins) and keep warm.
Meanwhile, preheat the grill to high or the oven to 200°C (400°F), gas mark 6.
Tear the pita bread open at the seams and toast it under the grill or in the oven until golden brown. Place on a wire rack to cool.
Melt the butter in a frying pan and sauté the pine nuts, stirring constantly, until golden brown. Remove with a slotted spoon onto a double layer of kitchen paper and leave to drain.
Mix the crushed garlic into the yoghurt, adding salt to taste.
Break the toasted bread into bite-sized pieces and spread over the bottom of a deep serving dish. Remove the chickpeas with a slotted spoon and spread over the bread. Cover with the seasoned yoghurt and garnish with the sautéed pine nuts before serving immediately.
Khawali Hommus
HOMMUS KHAWALI
Even though Damascus has many restaurants, including the largest in the world (the Damascus Gate, with over 6,000 seats, as confirmed by Guinness World Records), few are good. Khawali, just off Straight Street and occupying a whole building originally constructed in the fourteenth century, was until recently the only excellent restaurant in town. The main dining area is an enchanting courtyard with a fountain in the centre that sometimes is filled with flowers floating in the water, usually left over from private parties. The clientele at Khawali is made up of the political elite, members of Damascene high society, and some tourists, all enjoying the restaurant’s specialities, such as hommus Khawali, where the classic mixture of chickpeas, tahini and lemon juice is jazzed up with pepper paste (muhammara is both the name of the paste and the name of a dip made with the paste) and pomegranate syrup to give the dip a touch of heat and a hint of sweetness that make it totally irresistible, among the best hommus I have ever had. Also, Khawali was among the first to serve the now ubiquitous mint lemonade where fresh mint leaves are whizzed with freshly made lemonade to produce a supremely refreshing drink.
Serves 4–6
1 × 660g jar of chickpeas, drained and rinsed (425g/15oz drained weight)
100ml (3½fl oz) tahini
Juice of 1 lemon or to taste
1 garlic clove, peeled and crushed
1 tbsp Aleppo pepper paste
½ tbsp pomegranate syrup
¼ tsp ground cumin
Fine sea salt
Aleppo pepper for sprinkling
Extra-virgin olive oil for drizzling
Place the chickpeas in the food processor. Add the tahini, lemon juice, garlic, pepper paste and pomegranate syrup and process until very smooth.
Transfer to a mixing bowl. Add the cumin and salt to taste and mix well. If the hommus is too thick, thin it by adding a little water or a little more lemon juice, unless it is tart enough already. Taste and adjust the seasoning if necessary.
Spoon the hommus into a shallow serving bowl and, using the back of a spoon, spread it across the dish, raising it slightly at the edges and in the centre, so that you have a shallow groove in between. Sprinkle a little Aleppo pepper over the raised edges and in the middle and drizzle a little olive oil in the groove. Serve with pita bread.
Minty Labneh Dip
KISHKEH
The first time I had this dip was more than 20 years ago in a wonderful restaurant in Aleppo that is now an equally wonderful hotel. The hotel, which went by the name of Dar Yasmine as a restaurant, is now known as Yasmeen d’Alep – information that is sadly of no practical use until the situation improves in Syria. I was familiar with labneh, or strained yoghurt, as I’d grown up on it. But I had never had it mixed with burghul and mint before and I was intrigued by the name kishkeh on the menu because it sounded like kishk, although I didn’t know they were related. When the waiter explained what it was, the name made sense as it was more or less the fresh version of kishk, where burghul and yoghurt are mixed and left to ferment before being dried. You can use fresh or dried mint for this dish. At Dar Yasmine and elsewhere in Syria they use dried mint, whereas I alternate between the two. I also use fine burghul but you can use medium grade, if you prefer. I suggest you prepare the dip a little ahead of time. The burghul soaks up a lot of the moisture from the labneh and you may need to adjust the consistency by adding a little water and adjusting the seasoning if needed.
Serves 4–6
250g (9oz) labneh (to make it yourself)
2–3 tbsp fine burghul, rinsed under cold water and drained
1 tbsp dried mint
Sea salt
Extra-virgin olive oil, for drizzling
Mix the labneh, burghul and dried mint in a mixing bowl. Add salt to taste, then cover with a clean tea towel and let the mixture sit for about 30 minutes. Mix again, adding a little water if you think the dip is too thick and more salt if necessary.
Spoon the dip into a shallow serving bowl and, using the back of a spoon, spread it across the dish, raising it slightly at the edges and in the centre, so that you have a shallow groove in between. Drizzle a little olive oil in the groove and serve with good bread or crisp crudités.
Grilled Aubergine Salad with Tahini Sauce
BATINJAN KHAWALI
This salad is another speciality of Khawali, one of my favourite restaurants in Damascus, who give their own name to this dish, as they do to their superlative hommus.
Serves 4
2 large aubergines (about 600g/1lb 5oz total weight)
100g (3½oz) spring onions (about 1 bunch), trimmed and thinly sliced
1 ripe firm medium-sized tomato, deseeded and diced into small cubes
Few sprigs of flat-leaf parsley, most of the stalk discarded, finely chopped
2 tbsp pomegranate syrup
2 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
Handful of walnut halves, coarsely chopped, to garnish
For the tahini sauce
125g (4½oz) tahini
Juice of 1 lemon or to taste
2 garlic cloves, peeled and crushed
Sea salt
First make the tahini sauce. Put the tahini in a mixing bowl and gradually whisk in the lemon juice, alternating it with 75ml (2½fl 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. Add the crushed garlic and a little salt. Taste and adjust the seasoning if necessary.
Preheat the grill to high or start a charcoal fire on a barbecue.
Prick the aubergines in a few places and grill or barbecue them until the skin is charred and the flesh is very soft. Cut the aubergines in half lengthways and scoop out the flesh. Let the flesh drain in a colander for about 30 minutes to get rid of the excess liquid, then dice into bite-sized chunks. Put in a bowl with the spring onions, tomato and parsley and carefully mix, making sure you do not mash up the aubergines too much.
Mix the pomegranate syrup with the olive oil and pour over the aubergines. Add salt to taste and toss together. Spoon the salad into a serving dish and drizzle as much tahini sauce as you would like over it. (At Khawali, they mould the salad in a timbale and invert it on a plate before drizzling with the sauce.) Garnish with the chopped walnuts and serve with good bread.
Turkish Kebabs
ŞIŞ KEBABI
Turkey has distinct regional cuisines but you don’t need to travel all over the country to taste these. All you need to do is to go to Çiya in Kadıköy in Istanbul to eat chef Musa Dağdeviren’s food. Dağdeviren travels throughout Turkey researching regional specialities which he then reproduces in his three Çiya restaurants, all gathered in a cluster on a pedestrian street on the Asian side of the city. The main Çiya is a glorified esnaf lokantası (see here) with all the dishes on display, each kept in the large pot it has been cooked in. The food is served in very pretty metal bowls, rather than regular china, the way it was served in the past and still is in some parts of south-eastern Turkey, which is where Musa comes from. The last time I ate there, Musa made me taste lamb kebabs wrapped in apricot leather which he grilled over charcoal and served with a chunky tomato sauce. The apricot leather was slightly burned in places and melting in others, making for a wonderful contrast between bites. Musa also serves stuffed vegetables made with dried aubergines and peppers, which are quite exquisite, the dried vegetables giving the dish a more pronounced flavour than if it had been prepared with fresh ones. His kissir is better than any I have eaten at a restaurant, while the big puffy bread they bring to the table straight out of the oven (a little like a giant pita but thinner and dusted with sesame and nigella seeds) is perfect for scooping up dips and salads or wrapping around kebabs. The recipe below is for regular kebabs, but if you want to give it the Çiya apricot-leather twist, you could wrap the kebabs in apricot leather before grilling.
At Borsa, another restaurant in Istanbul with several branches dotted all over the city, they serve their equally delicious kebabs with thick-skinned yoghurt, which reminds me of the yoghurt my Syrian aunt used to make with the milk from her own cow. She would milk her cow, which she kept in a barn on one side of the courtyard, early in the morning and I often went with her, carrying the tin pail for the milk. My aunt kept a stool by the door which she moved near to the cow as we entered. I stood behind her, both a little scared of the cow and fascinated by how the milk spurted out of her udders as my aunt squeezed on them. Every now and then I mustered enough courage to try milking, but I didn’t know how to get the milk out of the poor animal, despite squeezing hard on her udders. The same happened when I tried to milk a camel in Dubai not so long ago; I felt so sorry for the poor beast having to put up with my clumsy handling! I guess I am not made for that kind of life.
But to go back to kebabs, the two other places in Istanbul where I love eating them are Ulus 29 and Hamdi, the whole dining experience enhanced by the spectacular views from both restaurants. Situated on top of a hill in Bebek, a chic neighbourhood on the Bosphorus, Ulus 29 offers a sweeping view of both the sea and the Asian side of the city, while Hamdi is right on Eminönü Pier, overlooking the Galata Bridge and all the activity there on both land and water.
Serves 4
800g (1¾lb) lamb from the leg, skinned, trimmed of most of the fat and cut into 3cm (1¼in) chunks
20–24 cherry tomatoes
For the marinade
3 garlic cloves, peeled and crushed
3 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
1 tbsp tomato purée
½ tsp paprika
¼ tsp cayenne pepper
¼ tsp ground allspice
¼ tsp ground cinnamon
¼ tsp ground cumin
1–2 tbsp fresh thyme leaves
Sea salt
Finely ground black pepper
8 long metal skewers
Put all the marinade ingredients in a large bowl, season with salt and pepper and mix well. Add the lamb and toss in the marinade so that the meat is well coated and leave to marinate for at least 2 hours.
Preheat the grill to high or start a charcoal fire on a barbecue.
Thread the meat onto seven of the skewers and the tomatoes onto the eighth one. Grill over a high heat for 3–4 minutes on each side or until the meat and tomatoes are done to your liking. Serve immediately with good bread.
Stuffed Aubergines Fatteh
FATTET AL-MAKDUSS
For a long time Khawali was the only restaurant to eat in and be seen at in Damascus, but its place has now been usurped by Naranj, a relative newcomer on Straight Street further down towards Bab Sharqi (Eastern Gate). It is now the restaurant of choice for the top echelon of Damascene society. When the president wanted to entertain Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie (who were attending the city’s film festival a couple of years before the Syrian uprising), he chose the courtyard of the nearby Talisman hotel as the setting, and had the food brought over from Naranj, asking their waiters to serve it. All the hotel staff and those staying there, including me, had to make themselves scarce while the president, his wife and their glamorous guests enjoyed their meal. Luckily, I was out for the day visiting the ruins of Bosra in the south, otherwise I might have protested! Even after the revolution started, Naranj kept its place as the government’s restaurant of choice (apparently because the owner is an ex-Mukhabarat or secret service man), and when Kofi Annan went to Damascus to try to broker a peace deal between the opposition and the government, they took him to Naranj, along with their TV cameras to advertise the whole event.
Naranj, like Khawali, is also converted from an old house, albeit a less ancient one. It is larger and glitzier, with a delightful roof terrace. The waiters are elegantly dressed in a modern take on the traditional ’abaya (long robe-like garment) and the restaurant has the decided advantage of serving alcohol, which they don’t at Khawali. The menu features such regional specialities as haraq osba’u and fattat al-makduss (a variation on El-Soussi’s fatteh), where the hot element of the dish (as in heat rather than spiciness) is baby aubergines stuffed with meat. In the Syrian version, the yoghurt is mixed with tahini and the bread is fried, although I prefer to toast mine in the oven instead.
Serves 4
For the lamb broth
500g (1lb 1oz) lamb from the shanks, cut into medium-sized chunks
1 cinnamon stick
1 large onion, peeled and quartered
Sea salt
3 large ripe tomatoes, peeled, deseeded and finely chopped
For the stuffed aubergines
100g (3½oz) unsalted butter
60g (2oz) pine nuts
300g (11oz) freshly minced lean lamb, from the shoulder or neck (either ask your butcher to mince the lamb or do it yourself using the fine attachment on a meat grinder)
½ tsp ground allspice
½ tsp ground cinnamon
Finely ground black pepper
1kg (2lb 2oz) small aubergines, trimmed and cored (see here)
3 medium-sized round pita breads
2kg (4lb 4oz) plain Greek yoghurt (sheep’s or goat’s)
2 tbsp tahini
2 garlic cloves, peeled and crushed
Few sprigs of mint, leaves picked off the stalks, finely chopped
First make the lamb broth. Put the meat from the shanks in a large saucepan and cover with water. Place over a medium-high heat and bring to the boil, skimming away any scum that rises to the surface. Add the cinnamon stick, onion and some salt, then reduce the heat and simmer, covered with a lid, for about 30 minutes or until the meat is half cooked. Add the chopped tomatoes and continue simmering until the meat is done. Keep hot in the pan.
Meanwhile, prepare the stuffed aubergines. Put half the butter in a frying pan and place over a medium heat. Add the pine nuts and sauté, stirring constantly, until golden brown. Transfer with a slotted spoon onto a plate and add the minced lamb. Cook, stirring the meat and mashing it with the back of a wooden spoon so as to break up any lumps, until there are no traces of pink, then add the allspice, cinnamon and some salt and pepper. Return half the toasted pine nuts to the pan, reserving the rest for garnishing, and mix well. Allow to cool before you stuff the aubergines.
Take hold of a cored aubergine and hold it upright, cupping your hand around it. Scoop up a little of the stuffing with your other hand and gently push it inside the aubergine, using your finger to force it down. Every now and then, shake the vegetable in a downward motion to make sure the filling is well inside it (or push the filling in further with your little finger). Stuff the remaining aubergines in the same way.
Melt the remaining butter in a saucepan over a medium heat. Add the stuffed aubergines and gently sauté until they become pale in colour. Pour in 375ml (13fl oz) of the meat broth and simmer for about 1 hour or until done. Keep hot while you prepare and assemble the rest of the dish.
Preheat the grill to high or the oven to 200°C (400°F), gas mark 6.
Tear the pita breads open at the seams and toast them under the grill or in the oven until golden brown. Place on a wire rack to cool.
Mix the yoghurt with the tahini, crushed garlic and chopped mint. Spread the toasted bread over the bottom of a deep serving dish. Remove the meat from the hot broth and spread over the bread. Then arrange the stuffed aubergines over the bread and meat and cover with the yoghurt. Garnish with the reserved toasted pine nuts and serve immediately.
Lemony Lentils with Pasta and Croutons
HARAQ OSBA’U
I used to love going to Naranj until I realised it belonged to an ex-secret service man and was the place of choice of the Syrian regime who wined and dined their guests there while their army and shabbiha were killing the people. Regardless, the food at Naranj was, and I suppose still is, exquisite. They specialise in serving typical regional dishes from all over Syria, including this particular one from Damascus with its amusing name, which means ‘he burned his finger’. According to Sonia Khandji, who gave me the recipe below, it came to be known as this because cooks tend to burn their fingers when arranging the hot fried bread over the lentils. If you don’t feel like making the dough, you can buy fresh pasta and use it instead. It will not be quite the same, but it is a respectable substitute.
Serves 4–6
For the pasta
150g (5oz) plain flour, plus extra for dusting
Fine sea salt
500g (1lb 1oz) brown lentils, soaked for 30 minutes in cold water (enough to cover the lentils by 2–3 fingers)
100ml (3½fl oz) extra-virgin olive oil
3 medium-sized onions, peeled and thinly sliced
Juice of 1 lemon
Sea salt
200g (7oz) fresh coriander (about 1 bunch), most of the stalk discarded, finely chopped
2 cloves garlic, peeled and crushed
Vegetable oil for frying
First make the pasta dough. Mix the flour and ½ teaspoon of salt in a large mixing bowl and make a well in the centre. Gradually add 90ml (3fl oz) of water and mix with the flour until you have a rough ball of dough. Transfer the dough onto a lightly floured work surface and knead for 2–3 minutes. Invert the bowl over the dough and leave to rest for 15 minutes.
Knead the dough for a few more minutes, lightly flouring your hands every now and then, until the dough is smooth and elastic. Shape into a ball, then sprinkle a clean bowl with a little flour and place the ball of dough in it. Cover with cling film and let it rest while you prepare the rest of the dish.
Drain the lentils and put in a large saucepan, add 1 litre (1¾ pints) of water and place over a medium heat. Bring to the boil, then lower the heat and simmer for 15–45 minutes, depending on the type of lentils you are using – some will take longer to cook than others.
While the lentils are cooking, roll out the dough and cut into long strips and the strips into small squares with sides about 2cm (just under 1in). Spread the pasta squares over a clean tea towel to let them dry a little. You will be adding half to the lentils and frying the other half to use as a crouton garnish. (This is what they do at Naranj, whereas Sonia fries all the pasta to add at the end.)
Next add 75ml (2½fl oz) of the olive oil and the onions to a large frying pan and place over a medium heat. Fry until golden brown, then transfer half the onions onto several layers of kitchen paper to drain the excess fat – you will use these for garnishing. Reserve one-third of the chopped coriander for scattering over the finished dish and, in a separate pan, sauté the rest with the crushed garlic in the remaining olive oil until they become aromatic.
Five minutes before the lentils are ready, add half the pasta, the fried onions and their oil, the lemon juice and the coriander and garlic mixture. Add salt to taste and simmer for another 5 minutes. Take off the heat and allow to cool while you fry the remaining squares of pasta until golden brown in a little vegetable oil. Serve the lentils garnished with the pasta croutons and reserved fried onions and chopped coriander.
Aleppine Muhammara
Here is the classic Aleppine version of muhammara, which comes from Maria Gaspard Samra, once the chef at the Mansouriya, Aleppo’s finest boutique hotel and now a private chef who did demonstrations for my culinary groups in Syria before the revolution. Hers is very similar to the muhammara served at the Club d’Alep, a private and very exclusive dining club in Aleppo that you can go to only if you are invited by a member. I normally use a thick pepper paste that I buy in Aleppo or Gaziantep, but you can use a commercial Turkish brand instead, sold in Middle Eastern shops either in a tin or jar and either mild or hot. It may be a little too watery compared to those sold in the souks, but it will have to do if you can’t get a more artisanal one. You can, if you want, add Aleppo pepper to enhance the flavour.
Serves 6
125g (4½oz) fine golden breadcrumbs
300g (11oz) Aleppo pepper paste, plus ½ tbsp Aleppo pepper (optional)
1½ tbsp ground cumin
Juice of ½ lemon or to taste
1 tbsp golden granulated sugar
1½ tbsp pomegranate syrup
2 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
½ tbsp tahini
125g (4½oz) shelled walnuts, coarsely ground
Sea salt
Put the breadcrumbs, pepper paste and 125ml (4½fl oz) of water in a mixing bowl and mix well. Add the remaining ingredients (plus the Aleppo pepper if your pepper paste is not up to scratch), season with salt to taste and mix well. If the muhammara is too thick, add a little more water or lemon juice if you want it to be more tart (although it is not supposed to be).
Taste and adjust the seasoning if needed, then serve with pita or another good type of bread or cover and refrigerate to serve later. Like Mohamed’s muhammara, this will also last for a couple of days – even longer, in fact, given that it contains no onion and fresh peppers.
Mohamed’s Muhammara
There are different ways of preparing muhammara, with raw peppers, or grilled peppers or simply pepper paste, the latter being the classic Aleppine way. I had been searching for a recipe for muhammara for quite a while when I tasted Mohamed’s version, which I like as much as the classic version. He makes it quite differently, using a mixture of nuts rather than just walnuts, and he not only very kindly gave me his recipe, but also showed me how to make it in the kitchens of his restaurant, Al Waha, which is my favourite Lebanese eating place in London. Mohamed sautés the different nuts separately and chops them by hand, but I am too impatient for this and roast the nuts in a hot oven before chopping them in a food processor. Muhammara is more of a spread than a dip. If you would like the mixture to be softer, however, simply omit the step in which the peppers and onion are squeezed dry.
Serves 6
60g (2oz) shelled walnuts
30g (1oz) raw shelled pistachios, plus extra to garnish
30g (1oz) raw cashews
30g (1oz) pine nuts
30g (1oz) flaked almonds
45g (1½oz) fine golden breadcrumbs
½ tsp sea salt
¾ tsp cayenne pepper or to taste
2½ red bell peppers, trimmed and deseeded
1 small Spanish onion, peeled and quartered
170ml (6fl oz) extra-virgin olive oil
Preheat the oven to 220ºC (425°F), gas mark 7.
Spread the walnuts, pistachios and cashews on one non-stick baking sheet and the pine nuts and flaked almonds on another and toast in the oven until golden: 6–7 minutes for the walnut mixture and 5 minutes for the pine nuts and almonds. Remove from the oven and allow to cool.
Place the walnuts, pistachios and cashews in a food processor and pulse until medium-fine. Transfer to a large mixing bowl, then add the pine nuts, almonds, breadcrumbs and seasonings and mix well.
Place the peppers and onion in the food processor and process until fine. Transfer to a bowl and, using your hands, squeeze out all the excess liquid, reserving the juices. Add to the nuts, together with the olive oil, and mix well. If the mixture is too dry, use some of the reserved juices to thin it. Taste, adjusting the seasoning if necessary, and serve immediately with pita bread, or place in a sealed container and refrigerate to serve later. Muhammara will keep for a couple of days in the fridge.
Pistachio Kebabs
FISTIKLI KEBAB
I am ambivalent about the way mezze are served in some restaurants in Turkey, with the waiter bearing a large tray with every dish on it. You choose which ones you want and he just lifts them off the tray and puts them on your table. It is quick and practical, but I can’t help wondering how long the food has been sitting uncovered and possibly unrefrigerated. At Hamdi (see here), they serve mezze in the same way and I have to admit that I’m not that keen on them, but I do like their kebabs, in particular the fıstıklı ones (in which the meat is mixed with pistachios). For really exceptional kebabs, I travel all the way to the south-east to eat at I˙mam Çağdaş in Gaziantep. The town is Turkey’s kebab and baklava capital and I˙mam Çağdaş is the undisputed king of both. I love everything about the place: the owners, Burhan Bey and his adorable father, who takes me to the back to watch the kebab makers wield the zirh (a large sabre-like knife with a wide curved blade) with great dexterity, or upstairs to the baklava kitchens, where everything is still made by hand and where they bake the baklava in a wood-fired oven. All the meat is minced by hand, and if you are lucky enough to be allowed into the kebab kitchen, a few steps down from where the barbecue chefs are wrapping the minced meat around the skewers and grilling it, you can watch several men, each rocking his amazing zirh, back and forth, over a mound of meat, parsley or tomatoes. They all work to the same rhythm, as if they were dancers, and they stay totally absorbed by what they are doing regardless of what is going on around them, which is no bad thing. The knives they use could easily cut off one of their fingers in one fell swoop in one distracted moment. As for the grill chefs, they consistently cook the meat to perfection, never overdoing it.
As I watch them, I remember barbecue lunches at home, with my uncles and grandmother grilling the meat out on the balcony, fanning the embers of the charcoal fire to keep them glowing. But the taste of our grilled meat was very different; my grandmother used a lot of garlic in her marinade, whereas the marinade is plainer at I˙mam Çağdaş. Their menu includes several types of kebabs, all of them consisting of minced meat except for an outstanding one in which the meat (lamb fillet) is cut into chunks and grilled pink – rather unusual in that part of the world. Apart from the different kebabs, you can have one of two salads, both chopped very small: one spicy and the other dressed with pomegranate syrup and more like a salsa than a salad. They also serve the best lahmacun (very thin meat ‘pizza’) in town, which I eat Turkish-style – wrapped around mashed-up grilled aubergines and fresh parsley. Even their ayran, a frothy, slightly sour yoghurt drink, is sensational. They serve it in gorgeous tin bowls that you sup from with a tin spoon, its handle embossed with their elegant 1950s-style Çağdaş logo. I’ve never found out if the logo was designed then and never changed or if it is a retro design. And of course, you can finish with some of their own baklava, considered to be the best in Turkey.
Serves 4
Sea salt
500g (1lb 1oz) freshly minced lean lamb, from the shoulder or neck (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 very finely chopped
Few sprigs of flat-leaf parsley, most of the stalk discarded, very finely chopped
100g (3½oz) raw shelled pistachios, ground medium-fine
2 garlic cloves, peeled and crushed
1 tsp finely ground black pepper
½ tsp pul biber or Aleppo pepper
6 flat metal skewers
Prepare a small bowl of lightly salted water and keep this to hand. Put the minced meat in a mixing bowl, then add the remaining ingredients and some salt. Mix together with your hand, wetting it in the salted water every now and then, until the mixture is well blended. Pinch off a little of the mixture and sear in a hot pan to taste, adjusting the seasoning if necessary.
At this stage you have the choice of wrapping the mixture around skewers, as on here, or simply shaping it into medum-sized balls or patties. I normally bake my meatballs in a hot oven (preheated to 220°C/425°C/gas mark 7) for a few minutes to keep the inside moist, or I sear the patties in a frying pan, for 1½–2 minutes on each side, as you would with hamburgers. Still, the traditional way to serve these kebabs is on skewers and grilled over charcoal, which you could do on a barbecue, cooking the skewers for 2–3 minutes on each side.
Chelow Kebab
Iran does not have a restaurant culture. To sample the best of Iranian cooking, you need to go into people’s homes. If you eat out, then apart from a few exceptions, you’ll be served kebabs and rice, along with side dishes such as pickles, yoghurt and cucumber, or yoghurt and elephant garlic salad, and quartered cucumbers or other crudités. The kebabs generally consist of chunks of meat (tikkeh kabâb), minced meat (kabâb kubideh) or chicken (jujeh kabâb). Below are recipes for the plain rice and these three different types of kebab, together with the cucumber and yoghurt dip – the most common items on the menu of an Iranian restaurant. As for the pickles, you can buy them ready-made from Iranian shops or make your own following the recipes on here.
Plain Rice
POLOW
The Iranian way of cooking rice is one of the best there is and, like my Iranian friends, I prefer to use rice grown in Iran, but good Pakistani or Indian basmati is also fine. They have three basic ways of preparing rice but polow, where the rice is parboiled then drained and steamed, is the one you’ll have in almost every restaurant you go to. What is interesting about eating out in Iran is that, while the rest of the food may be very variable in quality, you will be served excellent rice wherever you go, even in the most modest cafés or restaurants. No self-respecting Iranian would eat rice that is not properly cooked. One thing is for sure, though; it is unlikely that you will get any tahdig – the delicious crust of rice that forms in the bottom of the pan – in most restaurants. If they make it, they keep it for themselves, although I suspect it is much easier for them to make large quantities of rice without bothering with the tahdig.
Serves 4–6 to accompany stews and kebabs
500g (1lb 1oz) basmati rice
Sea salt
75ml (3fl oz) vegetable oil
Good pinch of saffron threads, soaked in 6 tbsp water
60g (2oz) unsalted butter, melted
Put the rice in a sieve and rinse under cold water. Place in a large bowl and add enough cold water to cover it by two fingers. Stir in 2 tablespoons of salt and leave to soak for 2 hours.
Bring 2 litres (3½ pints) of water to the boil in a large saucepan. Drain the rice and add to the boiling water with 3 tablespoons of salt. Bring back up to the boil and boil for 3 minutes, then drain the rice.
Wipe the pan clean and place over a medium heat. Add the oil and half the saffron water. As soon as it starts sizzling, sprinkle a layer of rice over the bottom of the pan. Sprinkle another layer of rice and another, keeping the rice away from the sides of the pan so that it does not stick, until you have built up a pyramid.
With the handle of a wooden spoon, make a hole in the middle and pour in the melted butter and remaining saffron water. Wrap the lid of the saucepan in a clean tea towel and place over the pan so that it is tightly covered. Leave on a medium heat for 3 minutes, then reduce the heat to low and let the rice steam for 1 hour or a little longer. The finished rice should be light and fluffy.
Take the pan off the heat and dip the bottom in iced water to loosen the crust, or tahdig, as it is known in Persian. Spoon the saffron-coloured rice into a small bowl and the rest of the rice into a serving dish. Scatter the saffron rice all over the rice in the serving dish. Remove the tahdig from the pan, break it into chunks and arrange around the rice. Serve immediately with the kebabs of your choice.
Iranian Minced Meat Kebabs
KABÂB KUBIDEH
Minced meat kebabs are one of three basic types of kebab that you can order in an Iranian restaurant. The meat is wrapped around beautiful flat metal skewers that are kept in their own case like a prized set of silver cutlery. The skewers are twice as wide as those used by Lebanese, Syrians and Turks, and usually longer, and as a result the kebabs are longer and larger too.
Serves 4
Sea salt
500g (1lb 1oz) freshly minced lean lamb, from the shoulder (either ask your butcher to mince the lamb or do it yourself using the fine attachment on a meat grinder)
1 tsp fine breadcrumbs
1 medium-sized onion, peeled and finely grated
¼ tsp ground turmeric
Unsalted butter, to serve
Ground sumac for sprinkling
Finely ground black pepper
4 long flat metal skewers
Prepare a small bowl of lightly salted water and keep this to hand. Put the meat in a mixing bowl with the rest of the ingredients and season with salt and pepper. Mix together with your hand, wetting it in the salted water every now and then, until the mixture is well blended. Pinch off a little meat and sear in a hot pan to taste, then adjust the seasoning if necessary. Wrap equal quantities of meat around the skewers following the instructions on here.
Preheat the grill to high or start a charcoal fire on a barbecue.
Grill or barbecue the skewers for for 2–3 minutes on each side or until the meat is done to your liking. Serve with the polow, with more butter added to the hot rice, and sprinkled with sumac for extra seasoning.
Chicken Kebabs
JUJEH KABÂB
Chicken is another popular type of kebab. Depending on the restaurant, you will be served boneless pieces, both dark and white meat, or you will get joints of poussin, which I prefer – jujeh means ‘young chicken’, in fact – and have included in the recipe below.
Serves 4
2 poussins, jointed into 8 pieces (reserving the carcass for stock or soup)
Unsalted butter, to serve
Ground sumac for sprinkling
For the marinade
Pinch of saffron threads soaked in 1 tsp water for 15 minutes
1 small onion, peeled and finely grated
Juice of ½ lemon
Sea salt
Finely ground black pepper
Put the saffron water, grated onion and lemon juice in a large mixing bowl and season with salt and pepper. Add the poussin pieces and mix together so that the meat is well coated in the marinade, then let it marinate for 2 hours or preferably longer.
Preheat the grill to high or the oven to 220°C (425°F), gas mark 7, or start a charcoal fire on a barbecue.
Grill or barbecue the marinated chicken pieces for 10 minutes on each side. Or spread the pieces on a non-stick baking sheet and roast them in the oven for 30 minutes. Serve with the polow, with more butter added to the hot rice, and sprinkled with sumac for extra seasoning.
Shish Kebabs
TIKKEH KABÂB
Chunks of marinated meat threaded onto skewers and grilled or barbecued are the third main type of Iranian kebab. This is the most risky variety to order in a restaurant, however, because if the meat is not good quality, it will be tough and chewy. Indeed, unless I know the restaurant, I always order kubideh or jujeh instead. Home-cooked tikkeh are another matter entirely, of course, especially if you use meat from a leg of lamb or if you use the fillet.
Serves 4
500g (1lb 1oz) lamb from the top part of the leg, cut into 3–4cm (1¼–1½in) cubes
For the marinade
Pinch of saffron threads, soaked in 1 tsp water for 15 minutes
2 medium-sized onions, peeled and finely grated
Juice of 2 lemons
Sea salt
Finely ground black pepper
4 long flat metal skewers
Put the saffron-infused water in a large mixing bowl. Add the grated onion and lemon juice and mix well, season with salt and pepper. Add the lamb, mixing together so that the meat is well coated in the marinade, and let it marinate for at least 2 hours or preferably longer.
Preheat the grill to high or start a charcoal fire on a barbecue.
Thread the marinated pieces of meat onto the skewers and grill or barbecue for 3–4 minutes on each side or until the lamb is done to your liking. Serve with the polow, with more butter added to the hot rice, and sprinkled with sumac for extra seasoning.
Yoghurt and Cucumber Dip
MAST-O KHIYAR
In most of the kebab restaurants I’ve visited in Iran, there is a buffet table on which they have a bowl of this dip, alongside bowls of pickles (torshi) and platters of crudités that include cut-up carrots and cucumbers. You help yourself to as much as you want to eat with your order of chelow kabâb. The recipe below can be varied by using 100g (3½oz) of elephant garlic (musir), milder than regular garlic and available sliced and dried in Iranian shops, instead of the clove of garlic. You will need to rehydrate the musir first by putting it in a saucepan over a high heat and bringing it to the boil. Lower the heat and simmer for 20 minutes, then drain and rinse the garlic under cold water and place on a clean tea towel to dry before finely chopping and mixing with the other ingredients.
Serves 4 as an accompaniment
500g (1lb 1oz) plain yoghurt (preferably goat’s)
1 garlic clove, peeled and crushed
2–3 tbsp dried mint, plus extra to garnish
3 mini cucumbers, grated and strained of any excess liquid
Sea salt
Mix the yoghurt with the garlic and dried mint. Add the grated cucumber and season with salt to taste. Taste, adjust the seasoning if needed, and transfer to a serving bowl. Garnish with a little dried mint and serve.
Fûl Medammes
Hajj Abdo’s café in Aleppo is as modest as El-Soussi’s (see here) and his choice even more limited. Just fûl medammes, which you can have with tahini or with lemon juice. The fûl is served with raw onion, sliced tomatoes and pita bread. Everyone scoops up the beans with pieces of bread, never touching a piece of cutlery, eating it with the onion and tomatoes. I always make a mess when I try eating fûl like this, with the pita flopping around and the sauce dribbling everywhere, and I end up asking for a spoon. Perhaps one day I will get the hang of it, the way I eventually learned to eat rice gracefully with my hand. Hajj Abdo’s café is in Jdaydeh, a Christian Armenian neighbourhood with narrow cobbled streets lined with lovely old buildings, and a large open area called Sahet el-Hatab (Square of the Logs) where people gather in the evening. Children play ball, young couples whisper sweet nothings to each other without getting too close – they are, after all, in a strict Muslim country – and old men sit on benches, fiddling with their worry beads and chatting. Hajj Abdo is on one side of the square and Zmorod, an elegant restaurant in a converted old Ottoman house, is down a narrow lane on the other side. Within the few minutes it takes to go from the one to the other, you leave a world of simplicity to one of opulence. I enjoy both equally, I have to say, and fortunately I don’t have to make a choice between the two. Hajj Abdo is open from early morning till early evening and Zmorrod is open from early evening till late, although such information isn’t really relevant until the situation in Syria improves and visitors can go there again. Sadly, Hajj Abdo’s café was completely burned in the fighting between regime forces and rebels and he has moved to Egypt. I am still not sure if Zmorrod has escaped the destruction wreaked on that part of Aleppo.
Serves 4
350g (12oz) dried fava beans, soaked overnight in cold water (enough to cover the beans by about 5cm/2in) and 1 tsp bicarbonate of soda
Sea salt
2 tbsp Aleppo pepper paste, diluted with 3 tbsp water (optional)
Extra-virgin olive oil, for drizzling
For the tahini sauce
125ml (4½fl oz) tahini
1 garlic clove, peeled and crushed
Juice of 1 lemon or to taste
Drain the soaked fava beans and rinse under cold water. Put in a large saucepan and add about 1 litre (1¾ pints) of water. Place over a medium heat and bring to the boil, then reduce the heat to low and simmer for 2½–3 hours or until the beans are very tender and the cooking liquid has thickened. Add salt to taste – it’s best not to add salt until the very end or the skins will harden.
Make the tahini sauce by mixing the tahini with the crushed garlic and lemon juice, then gradually add 190ml (6½fl oz) of water until the mixture is a little thinner in consistency than double cream.
To serve the fûl, first divide the tahini sauce between four serving bowls. Add a serving of hot beans together with a little of their cooking liquid. Spoon a little diluted pepper paste over the top, drizzle with olive oil and serve immediately with pita bread.
Meat Kebabs in Cherry Sauce
KABAB KARAZ
Zmorod is possibly the best restaurant in Aleppo; the Club d’Alep, a private establishment, is as good if not better, but it is out of bounds to visitors unless you are friends with a member. You enter Zmorod through a narrow door leading into a tiny entrance hall which doesn’t prepare you for the fabulous courtyard beyond with carved alcoves on every side. Even though I have been there many times, I am always amazed by the splendour hidden behind the modest entrance. It was once a private home, and judging by the elaborate wall decorations and woodwork, it must have been a rather grand one. Until Zmorod opened, the best of Aleppine cuisine could only be enjoyed at friend’s homes or at the Club d’Alep. But Dalal Touma, the splendid owner of Zmorod, changed all that and made it possible for foreign visitors, and Syrians alike, to enjoy the best of local cooking in a delightful restaurant setting. And her cherry kebabs are almost as good as those of my friend Lena Antaki, who has one of the best tables in Aleppo.
Serves 4
500g (1lb 1oz) freshly minced lean lamb, from the shoulder or shanks (either ask your butcher to mince the lamb or do it yourself using the fine attachment on a meat grinder)
½ tsp Lebanese or Syrian seven-spice mixture or ground allspice
Sea salt
Handful of pine nuts, plus extra toasted (see here) to garnish
1 tbsp unsalted butter
1 tsp unbleached plain flour
1kg (2lb 2oz) fresh sour cherries, pitted, or 500g (1lb 1oz) dried sour cherries soaked overnight in 500ml (18fl oz) water and then drained
2–3 medium-sized round pita breads, opened at the seams and cut into medium triangles
2 tbsp finely chopped flat-leaf parsley, to garnish
Mix the meat with the spices and season with salt. Roll the mixture into small meatballs, each smaller than a walnut, and press a pine nut inside each. Melt the butter in a frying pan over a medium-high heat, then sauté the meatballs until they are browned all over and transfer to a sieve to drain off the excess fat.
Add the flour to the remaining butter in the pan and stir for a minute or so. Add the pitted cherries (or soaked dried cherries). Season with a little salt and stir for a few minutes. Let the cherries simmer on a low heat for about 20 minutes or until mashed up and completely softened.
When it is time to serve the kebabs, add the meatballs to the cherry sauce to heat them through. Serve over torn pieces of pita bread, garnished with toasted pine nuts and chopped parsley.
Kibbeh in Sumac Sauce
KIBBEH SUMMAQIYEH
Aside from Zmorod, the other restaurant in Aleppo where you can enjoy excellent local dishes is Bazar el-Sharq, set in the armoury of the old Aleppo Governorate building. There you can order classic dishes such as kibbeh summaqiyeh (kibbeh balls cooked in a sumac sauce with aubergines and diced lamb) and ma’jouqa (an amazing meat pie filled with vegetables), all cooked to perfection by chef ’Emad, who has been presiding over the kitchen for years. Despite the magnificent vaulted rooms, the restaurant is not particularly elegant but the excellent food more than makes up for the drab surroundings. Sadly this restaurant has also disappeared because of the fighting.
Serves 4–6
½ quantity of uncooked kibbeh
½ quantity of cooked kibbeh stuffing, with 1 tbsp finely chopped walnuts mixed in
For the sauce
50g (2oz) whole sumac berries
1kg (2lb 2oz) lamb from the shanks, cut into medium-sized chunks
3 medium-sized onions, peeled, one kept whole and the others thinly sliced
Coarse sea salt
4 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
750ml (11⁄3 pint) tomato passata
350g (12oz) small aubergines (or 1 largish aubergine), peeled to create a striped effect, cut in half lengthways and then cut across into medium-thick chunks
30g (1oz) unsalted butter
2 tsp dried mint
5 garlic cloves, peeled and crushed
Juice of 1 lemon or to taste
½ tsp finely ground black pepper
Divide the kibbeh into 20 equal-sized pieces and roll them into balls, each the size of a large plum. (Keep them round, following the Syrian style, rather than moulding them into oval patties as on here.) Lightly moisten your hands in salted water (dipping them in the bowl of water used during the preparation of the kibbeh) and place a kibbeh ball in the palm of one hand. With the index finger of your other hand burrow a hole into the ball while rotating it – this makes the hollowing out easier and more even. You should produce a thin meat shell resembling a topless egg. Be careful not to pierce the bottom or sides of the kibbeh shell.
Put 1½–2 teaspoons of stuffing inside the kibbeh shell, gently pushing the stuffing in with a finger, then pinch the open edges together and mould back into a fully rounded shape in your hands. Put the finished ball on a non-stick baking sheet. Continue making the balls until you have used up both kibbeh mixture and stuffing. Place the kibbeh balls in the fridge or freezer to firm them up.
Meanwhile, prepare the sauce. Put the sumac berries in a small saucepan. Add 375ml (13fl oz) of water and bring to the boil. Remove from the heat and leave to infuse while you prepare the rest of the ingredients for the sauce.
Put the meat and the whole peeled onion in a large saucepan and add 1 litre (1¾ pints) of water. Place on a medium heat and bring to the boil, skimming away any scum that rises to the surface. Add 1 tablespoon of salt, then reduce the heat and simmer, covered with a lid, for 1 hour or until the meat is very tender. Discard the onion.
Put the olive oil and sliced onions in a wide saucepan and fry over a medium heat until lightly golden. Strain the lamb stock, reserving the meat, and add to the onions, followed by the passata. Strain the sumac liquid and add it to the pan before bringing back up to the boil and adding the butter. Reduce the heat and let the pot bubble gently for 15 minutes.
Add the aubergines and the stewed lamb and cook for about 15 minutes or until the aubergines are nearly done. Then add the mint, garlic and lemon juice and drop the kibbeh balls into the sauce. Season with more salt if necessary and the black pepper and simmer for another 5 minutes or until the kibbeh balls are cooked through. Taste, adjusting the seasoning if needed, and serve very hot in soup bowls accompanied by good bread.
Siddiq’s Kibbeh
KIBBET SIDDIQ
Shawarma (see here and here) is a very common street food, formerly just in the Levant but now all over the world. Most places cook their shawarma at a gas-fired vertical grill, but at Siddiq, an unpretentious restaurant in a delightful, little-known (at least for those visiting from abroad) part of Damascus called Qanawat, they grill the meat over charcoal. The restaurant is tucked away in a quiet narrow lane off a charming pedestrian street shaded by trellised vines and lined with shops – grocers selling every kind of spice cheek by jowl with vendors of outlandish ladies’ fashions. The restaurant, once someone’s family home, has a pleasant courtyard and two airy rooms on either side. One is the kitchen with the charcoal-fired vertical spit where the shawarma is cooked in full view of customers, while the other room takes the overspill of diners when the courtyard is full. Seated at a table to one side of a large flat-screen television, and totally oblivious to the loud noises coming from it, the owner benevolently watches over his clientele, making sure they are well looked after.
The great thing about Siddiq is that you never have to worry about what to order. Their set menu consists of a few mezze dishes, followed by shawarma then fruit or qatayef. All you can do is ask for fewer mezze dishes if you are not very hungry, or more dishes if you are. The service is fast: within minutes of being seated, you are brought plates of hommus, baba ghannuge, salad, chips, cheese börek (in the form of puffed-up squares, unlike the Turkish and Lebanese versions, which are finger-shaped) and two types of kibbeh balls, one stuffed with spiced tail fat and the other with minced meat seasoned with pomegranate syrup.
Every time I eat grilled kibbeh there, I remember my aunt Jamileh in Mashta el-Helou, who was married to my father’s only brother. Unlike my gorgeous mother, who had a model’s figure, ’Ammto Jamileh was very fat. We didn’t like her much. Not only was she unattractive, but she was also not very kind. Still, this didn’t stop us from enjoying her kibbeh balls, which were very different from my mother’s or grandmother’s. Instead of making torpedo-shaped balls, she made hers by flattening each piece of the meat mixture into a disc on which she piled seasoned tail fat before laying another thin disc of kibbeh on top to form a domed shape. She then grilled the kibbeh over charcoal in a manqal (see here) that she set up in the courtyard by a low stool. As she sat down on the stool, her flesh draped over the sides and we would start giggling. Then she started sweating as she fanned the fire, which made us giggle all the more, impatient for the first batch to come off the fire, so that we could nab our portion and run off. I guess we were not very nice either. Siddiq’s kibbeh is shaped differently from my aunt Jamileh’s and stuffed with meat rather than tail fat, but it is just as good.
Serves 4–6
1 quantity of uncooked kibbeh
1 quantity of uncooked kibbeh stuffing, with no pine nuts and with 1 tbsp pomegranate syrup added at the end
50g (2oz) unsalted butter, melted, for brushing
Preheat the oven to 220ºC (425°F), gas mark 7.
Divide your kibbeh into 24 pieces, with 12 a little larger than the other 12, and roll into balls. Then take one of the smaller balls and flatten into a disc measuring about 10cm (4in) in diameter. Place on a sheet of cling film and pile 2 tablespoons of stuffing into the centre. Take one of the larger balls and flatten into a disc a little larger in diameter and carefully lay over the filling, aligning the edges with those of the bottom disc. Press on the edges to seal and then shape the top into a rounded dome.
Lift the cling film with the kibbeh ball to remove it from your work surface. Carefully take the kibbeh off the plastic and lay on a non-stick baking sheet (or one lined with baking parchment). Brush with the melted butter before filling and shaping the remaining kibbeh balls in the same way. Brush them all again with melted butter and bake in the oven for about 15 minutes or until just done. Serve hot as part of a mezze, or with a yoghurt and cucumber dip as a main course.
Eskenderun’s Shanklish Salad
I discovered Eskenderun thanks to my friend Lina Sinjab, the BBC’s correspondent in Damascus who knows all the best spots to eat in the city. When I first walked into the tiny restaurant, I wondered if I had come to the right place. It had only two tables, and a few straggly chairs covered in red plastic. The food was displayed in a refrigerator at the back with a charcoal grill behind it, making it look more like a take-away than a restaurant. I was about to walk out, when Ahmed, the owner, whom I had called earlier to book a table, came to greet me and the two friends I had with me. We sat down, wondering what kind of lunch we were going to be served, but all it took was one bite of their baba ghannuge (which in Syria confusingly means a grilled aubergine salad and not the Lebanese dip) for us to realise that the meal was going to be exceptional. The aubergines had an intense smoky flavour from being grilled over charcoal, and the well-judged pomegranate dressing gave the salad a subtle sweet and sour flavour. Everything we had was very fresh, and beautifully seasoned. And it had been a long time since I had eaten a proper shanklish (a fermented curd cheese, the Levantine answer to Roquefort – see here) and theirs was pungent and spicy, as it should be – it can be fairly bland – and more soft than crumbly, just like the one my aunt Zahiyeh used to make in Mashta el-Helou (see here).
Serves 4
200g (7oz) shanklish, crumbled
2 medium-sized firm ripe tomatoes, diced into small cubes
1 small Spanish onion, peeled and very finely chopped
4 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
Put all the ingredients in a mixing bowl and mix well. Serve with good bread.
Stewed Lamb on a Purée of Smoky Aubergines
HÜNKAR BEĞENDI
An esnaf lokantası, or ‘restaurant of the working people’, is a Turkish eatery where the food is displayed in large metal trays and kept in hot cabinets for customers to see what’s being served that day – a great system for visitors who don’t speak the language. Some are very unappealing, with greasy trays and wizened pieces of meat and vegetables that have been sitting in the heat for far too long, while others have wonderful displays that make you want to try everything. And at Özkonak in Cihangir, a charming and tranquil neighbourhood where you’ll find one of the best pickles shops in Istanbul, I’m tempted to eat everything. The food, limited to half a dozen dishes, is displayed at the back. It is always seasonal, and in the spring they have the most sensational artichoke hearts cooked in olive oil with diced potatoes, carrots, fava beans and fresh dill. They also have classics, like this dish here – hünkar beğendi or succulent lamb shanks served on a velvety aubergine purée. As for the atmosphere, it is as relaxed as the neighbourhood, and very friendly. The old owner, who is permanently stationed by the door, either sitting at a small table or standing by it, greets everyone with a big smile. His clientele is made up of locals, some enjoying a leisurely meal, others a quick bite or a pudding. Özkonak is known for its kazandibi, which is displayed with other desserts in the windows either side of the entrance door.
Serves 4
25g (1oz) unsalted butter
3 medium-sized onions (about 300g/11oz total weight), peeled
4 lamb shanks
2 tbsp tomato purée
1 tbsp red wine vinegar
1 bay leaf
2 sprigs of thyme, leaves picked from the stalks
1 tsp Aleppo pepper
¼ tsp ground cinnamon
¼ tsp finely ground black pepper
Sea salt
For the aubergine purée
4 medium-sized aubergines (about 1kg/2lb 2oz total weight)
Juice of 1 lemon
100g (3½oz) unsalted butter
50g (2oz) plain flour
500ml (18fl oz) full-cream organic milk, boiled and cooled
50g (2oz) kaçar (see here) or pecorino cheese, grated
Melt the butter in a saucepan and add the onions. Sauté until lightly golden, then add the lamb shanks and lightly brown them all over. Add the remaining ingredients and season with salt. Pour in 1 litre (1¾ pints) of water and bring to the boil, then reduce the heat to medium-low, cover the pan with a lid and let it bubble gently for 1½ hours.
While the meat is cooking, start preparing the aubergine purée. First preheat the grill to high.
Prick the aubergines in several places and place under the grill to cook until the skin is charred and the flesh is very soft. Cut the aubergines in half lengthways and scoop out the flesh. Let the flesh drain in a colander for about 15 minutes, then marinate in 1 litre (1¾ pints) of water mixed with the lemon juice. Drain the aubergines well and mash with a fork or a potato masher.
Melt the butter in a medium-sized pan over a medium heat, add the flour and stir for a couple of minutes to form a roux. Take the pan off the heat, then add the mashed aubergines and stir energetically to mix in with the roux. Return the pan to the heat and stir in the milk. Cook for 2–3 minutes, stirring constantly, until you have a creamy purée. Then add the cheese and stir for another minute or so.
Using a slotted spoon, remove the lamb shanks from the broth and arrange in the middle of a serving dish. Arrange the aubergine purée around the meat and serve very hot with good bread.
Caramelised Milk Pudding
KAZANDIBI
Kazandibi, a milk pudding made with shredded chicken breast, is an acquired taste for some, but I love experiencing the texture of the meat without any of the taste. The extraordinary use of meat in a dessert may appear outlandish, but kazandibi is one of the great Turkish desserts, and thanks to my friend Hande, who owns the Istanbul Culinary Institute, I now know where to go for the best kazandibi in town, at Özkonak (see here). Last time I was there, I was greedily enjoying my second serving of the pudding when I noticed a young girl sitting across from me, tucking into a plate of stuffed vegetables. There was something rather strange about her. She looked fearful and was eating far too quickly, even by my standards – I eat very quickly. I wondered what it was that was making her so anxious. Admittedly she was a bit young to be there on her own, but everyone was very friendly. I left still wondering about her until I saw her later in the day, begging for money in the Pera district. I guess the old man had kindly fed her for free, which did not surprise me. Turks are amongst the most generous people in the Middle East, even more hospitable, if anything, than my fellow countrymen and women, who are famous for their gracious welcome of strangers.
Serves 4
100g (3½oz) pudding rice, soaked overnight in 100ml (3½fl oz) cold water
1 small breast of chicken, without the skin
1 litre (1¾ pints) full-cream organic milk
200g (7oz) golden caster sugar
Ground cinnamon for sprinkling
Put the soaked rice and its water in a food processor and process until completely pulverised. Drain in a fine sieve to collect the starchy water, or sübye – the basis of many milk puddings. You can use rice flour instead but the pudding will not be as smooth or set as well.
Put the chicken breast in a small saucepan and cover with water. Place over a medium heat and bring to the boil, skimming away any scum that rises to the surface. Reduce the heat, then cover the pan with a lid and simmer for 30 minutes or until the chicken is completely cooked through.
Drain the meat and put in a bowl full of cold water. Leave to cool for a short while then separate into very fine shreds – the meat should almost disappear in the dessert. Soak the shredded chicken in cold water.
Heat the milk and as it comes to the boil, reduce the heat to low. Add the sübye, stirring constantly, and continue stirring for about 15 minutes or until the milk starts thickening. Add the sugar and continue stirring for another 10 minutes. Drain the shredded chicken well and add to the milk, then cook for another 10 minutes, stirring regularly.
Put a medium-sized non-stick saucepan on a medium-high heat and when the pan is hot, pour the milk dessert into it. Cook for about 10 minutes or until the bottom is browned but not burned. Lift a corner with a spatula to check on how the colour is developing. When the bottom has coloured properly, take the pan off the heat. Cover with a clean tea towel and allow to cool. Cut into quarters, which you can roll up if you like or are able to – like a fat Swiss roll – and serve sprinkled with cinnamon.