A Stunning Collection of Lebanese, Moroccan and Persian Recipes
Bethany Kehdy
This book is dedicated to my late grandparents,
Kehdy Farhoud Kehdy and Adla Kehdy
culinary reflections
mezze
poultry
meat
seafood
vegetarian
desserts
middle eastern & north african pantry
basic recipes & methods
suppliers
culinary reflections
beirut, circa 1985. My delicate, fidgeting fingers in the bone-breaking grip of my grandfather’s (jeddo’s) hand, his other hand firmly clasps the daunting, gold, lion-faced ornament mounted on his signature walking stick. As the foot of the stick beats against the asphalt, the thumping sounds are in sync with our steps. Together, we pace down a war-ravaged street in Fassouh, Ashrafieh, en route to my kindergarten. Along the way, we pause by the corner shop where we are greeted by the ruddy-cheeked owner, Rizkallah. Here, my jeddo spoils me with sweets that my young self adored so much. Most notable amongst them were Tutti Frutti and one we knew as Ras El Abed, with its fez-shaped crunchy outer fortification concealing a soft, meringue interior. As Rizkallah puts them on the counter, my jeddo gestures me to choose from any one of the sugar-loaded pyramids populating the chilled cabinet. “Jus ananas, jeddo”, I proclaim – “pineapple juice, grandfather”. He then pierces the inconspicuous aluminium-masked porta with the straw, before passing it to me.
The sweets are reserved for récré, but only if I am a well-mannered girl who has eaten all her tartine for lunch. This could be Arabic bread spread with labneh (strained yogurt) and dotted with olives, or perhaps cheese and cucumber, ham and cheese or cheese and jam, my grandmother’s (teta’s) favourite. Returning home with the sandwich uneaten isn’t something I even dare to consider. Worse still would be to abandon it in the rubbish, for somehow the school maitresse will discover this ultimate sin and bear news of it to my teta, much to God’s outrage. “Allah ’atena akel ya te’breene, fee gheirna ’am b jou’o.” – “God has blessed us with food, others are starving.”
These are my earliest memories of food, and the fear of my teta’s wrath, which is a plausible reason as to why my plate is never given a second to entertain a crumb.
The crumbs that led me to the kitchen
At home in Beirut, we could always expect a soul-stirring rendition from the seasons’ star characters as they rehearsed on the stove top before asserting themselves centre stage on our kitchen table. Our meals consisted of many of the quintessentially Lebanese home-cooked dishes, from the basic to the intricate. My teta’s social foundation schedule, as active as olive oil in a Lebanese kitchen, meant that certain days would be reserved for simpler dishes like mujadarah, musaqa’a or mutabaqa. Mutabaqa, meaning “layered” in this instance, is a Lebanese relative of ratatouille, and was sometimes made too often for my jeddo’s palate. It often triggered the complaint, “Taba’te ’a albna ya mara” – “You’ve caved in our hearts with this dish, woman”. Playing on one of the several meanings derived from the root word tabaqa, it was a coy effort to express his underwhelmed appetite.
Regardless of what was on the table, though, as the clock struck noon, you could count on my grandfather to stroll over from his nearby law office every day of his married life. Lunch over, he would listen to the news on his radio box, read a book or do some writing before his dreams hijacked him into a gentle afternoon siesta.
On Saturday mornings or during the school holidays, I would shadow my teta as she went about her grocery shopping. First, we would whizz over to Hanna al laham (Hanna the butcher); both his body and his store still strong and upright, their façades evidence of time’s great pilgrimage. “Ahlan b sit Adla,” – “Welcome Madame Adla,” he would greet her, a prelude to a short exchange of words about the well-being of each other’s families before the serious business of shopping began, signalled by Hanna’s request, “O’moreené ya sitna” – “Your orders, Madame”. In her stern voice, bereft of hesitation, teta would question the meat’s source and time of slaughter. “Bta’refné ya Hanna ma be’bal gheir b ahsan shee.” – “You know me, Hanna, I am only satisfied with the best.”
At the greengrocer, she would shamelessly bury her hands right to the bottom of the vegetable pile, pulling out several contenders before picking the most worthy. In no way would she be outsmarted by the grocer’s conspiracy to keep the older vegetables most exposed. Tomatoes would get a full, twirling, close-up inspection as though they were a model at a casting. Aubergines/eggplants would be fondled to test their tenderness, and often tossed back in disappointment. On bad mornings, I would hear her discontented muttering: “Te’te’te, shou hal bda’a ya Rizkallah! Ndahle bas yejeek ahsan!” – “Such terrible quality of produce! Give me a ring when you get better!” she would announce, before turning on her heel and marching me out of the shop.
Cherished gifts from the land
I was four years old when my parents separated. Born in Houston, I returned to Lebanon with my father, while my siblings remained in the US with my mother; it was a long time before we would all rendezvous again.
My mother was a beautiful, all-American Texan with golden blonde hair, shimmering, ocean-blue eyes and eyelashes that, when fluttered, could get her into Fort Knox. My Lebanese father was tall, robust and olive skinned, with large, piercing eyes. A hard-working, handsome, twenty-something lawyer meant I spent most of my time soaking up the attention of my grandparents. My long, lean and imposing jeddo, with his chiselled cheekbones and a smile that, even in memory, can still light up my heart, was a renowned lawyer and author across the Arab world. His was a fascinating story of hard work, triumph and unmatched determination, deserving every blotch of ink on the flickering pages of Lebanon’s history books. “His presence could shake a room,” was something I often heard said about him. My grandmother, born to the only commercial tobacco farmer in Lebanon at the time, grew up along the shores of the northern town of Batroun. Stern and articulate, she never missed a beat, and it was said she could read a person and their motives in the glimpse of an eye. Family was the central focus of our life and I was always surrounded by the people who played a pivotal role in my upbringing: my grandparents, aunts and uncles.
My mother returned to Lebanon for a little while with my sisters in tow, and, as the civil war swelled with fury and pain, we entrenched ourselves in our ancestral village of Baskinta, in the foothills of Mount Sannine. My father set up a dairy farm where we spent the next five years embracing the land, its bounty, its unpredictable nature and the general, all-round, rugged goodness.
During the summers, my sisters and I would run in the terraces, hide in the pine forest, explore caves, swing from trees and compete to see who could jump the highest. Quite often, we were bribed to water the orchards, make cheese and help to bring in the harvest in exchange for pocket money that we squandered on junk food, usually a Snickers bar and a Pepsi. My idea of fun was to set up shop just outside the house, my toy wagon overflowing with seasonal produce: corn, chickpeas, apples, anything I could sell to ghostly foot traffic. Needless to say, my only customer was my jeddo.
In the autumn, my father and grandmother, would make jam, tomato purée, ketchup, apple vinegar, pickles and other mouneh, or preserves. My siblings and I would often help with the shelling of the pine nuts and the chickpeas. If the chickpeas were harvested while they were still green, we enjoyed them like sugar-snap peas, otherwise they were left a little longer to wither, then laid out to dry on the roof. Once dry, we would all join together, stepping and grinding to split the pods and release the seeds. The results of our labours were stored in the mouneh room, a full-sized chamber dedicated to the winter’s provisions.
We surrendered our appetites to the supremacy of the land and the generous array of ingredients it would gift to us. No matter how dire the situation became in our war-torn country, our kitchen table always remained plentiful – a representation not of my father’s pocket but rather his appetite and zeal for life. So it was in the mountains of Lebanon that my connection with the land and with the food that came from it was truly nurtured.
The peal of Taco Bell
By the age of ten, I suddenly found myself back in Houston with my mother, newly born brother and sisters, meeting another side of my family that I had only heard of or seen in pictures. In the US, I learned to befriend Taco Bell, Wendy’s and Jack in the Box. I fell in love with Campbell’s soup (the mushroom imposter one, to be precise), SpaghettiOs and Ramen noodle soup.
The few wholesome dishes I can remember eating were a rocking bowl of chilli and some sizzling, hickory-smoked ribs that my grandfather would make every so often. Of course, there was always Thanksgiving dinner, but even then, the green bean casserole was made straight from the tin. My mother’s exhaustive work schedule meant she had less time to cook for us, but when she did, she relished making any of the Lebanese dishes she’d picked up from my father, grandmother and aunts. Often, she would treat us to a meal at the local Greek restaurant, which was the next best thing. And so, in many ways and like a spinning globe, my life had been flipped upside down, if food is any good indicator.
Home is where the belly is
My raging appetite for home soon steered me back to Lebanon once again. By now the 15-year-long civil war in Lebanon was blown out like a trick candle, and the country was trying to rebuild itself.
My French and Arabic had been temporarily buried away and I had become a born-again American. A vain teenager by now, I was completely preoccupied with calories and dizzied with the task of reducing my intake of fat to zero, if I could only figure out how while still chewing food. I consumed countless fat-free fads like a glutton consumes cake.
It wouldn’t be long before the unrelenting spoon in my father’s hand would rekindle my cravings. Living in Lebanon and spending summers in the south of France, my distant love affair with real, honest food would find its way back to my heart.
Eventually, my siblings followed suit to Lebanon and, as the eldest sister, I was promoted to chief household feeder. It’s here that I really began to appreciate my love for cooking and for feeding others. More importantly, though, I discovered a cheap and rewarding form of therapy.
Back Stateside again
Fresh into my twenties, I wandered back Stateside, hoping for a bigger poke at life. I drifted aimlessly, chasing lands with flashing neon signs to nickname home. It took a few extended pit stops in Montreal and Houston before I cosied up in Miami with my British flame, now husband, Chris.
Between finding houses for people to buy, flats to rent and mortgages to sign, I managed to gain a reputation as both a wild child and a snow trader to the Inuit. With a heavy workload ahead, I would spend long, therapeutic Saturdays cooking the foods of my homeland, not just to nourish us through the week, but also to satiate the longing. As I whisked, chopped and stirred, as I smelled, tasted and watched others savour each bite, I could fleetingly stumble across that comfortable feeling of belonging. Barbecues were ablaze nearly every weekend; stray friends, relentless sunshine and unceasing home-cooked Lebanese food meant we almost had it all figured out. And it was during those days in Miami that the idea of a cookbook came to exist, one day in my retirement.
As time passed, we moved on to the even sunnier shores of Maui, Hawaii, where I managed Lahaina Store Grill and Oyster Bar. Chained to the gates of a 500-seater restaurant, I gained force (and weight) by eating island-sized portions of oysters, tuna (poke) and seafood chowder.
But Island Fever would soon catch up with Chris and me, chucking us into the chills of London on an early February morning. Between the aching temperature drop, a brand new culture and a very naked wardrobe, I struggled to brace myself against the screeching and howling winds of change. So, I cooked and I cooked, because that was all that made sense, and here I am now writing that cookbook but not yet retired.
Aromas drifting from the past
The Middle East cradles an ancient cuisine; one of the oldest in the world. It is a cuisine engraved in the tablets of history, although foreign policies, the clash of civilizations and a concern to travel to the region, have kept it but a whisper beneath the dust.
Of course, that’s not to downplay a much-deserved tribute to pioneering cookery writers who have championed the cuisine of this region, notable amongst them Claudia Roden, Paula Wolfert, Charles Perry, Arto Der Haroutunian, Anissa Helou, Najmeh Batmanglij and Margaret Shaida. However, the cuisines have not yet achieved the celebratory recognition of the food of France, Italy, Spain, India or China.
Set the clock back several hundred years, however, and there was a time in Europe when Middle Eastern food was more than trendy. During the Middle Ages, Islam was the most advanced civilization in the world, contributing vastly to the advancement of Europe in the spheres of science, technology, medicine, art, architecture and food. Over time, with Muslim expansionism and the Crusaders’ travels to the Holy Lands, trade expanded and flourished, and spices and exotic ingredients flowed along the Spice Routes, greatly influencing the European palate. Christmas pudding, gingerbread, coffee, almond paste, rice pudding, cinnamon, nutmeg and saffron can all be traced through the pages of old cookery books.
Over the last decade, mezze has settled well on Western dining room tables, and almost everyone knows its main ambassadors: hummus, tabbouleh and vine leaves. But there still exists a vast and distinct culinary heritage that remains unexplored: wholesome stews, exotic casseroles and a range of home cooking that routinely welcomes home hungry school children and soothes the appetites of tired workers. These are the dishes that feed the peasants and the affluent alike, and many are dishes that have drifted in straight from the past.
Culinary footprints
With Arabic being the common language of the territories that make up the Middle East, most dishes across the region share the same name, with their diversity concealed in the seasonings and preparation methods. This also lends a friendly culinary rivalry between the countries of the region, where the few dishes that are specialities of a particular country become integral to its national identity. Take musakhan, for instance. While popular in both Palestine and Jordan, ask a Palestinian and they will swear it’s their own culinary treasure.
Middle Eastern food has also been influenced by visiting cultures, as peoples from both East and West have danced and mingled on Middle Eastern soil, each leaving behind a footprint from its own tradition without troubling the fundamental flavours. For example, Persian, Iraqi and Gulf cuisines share many similarities and, while they also show traces of Mediterranean influences, they are, in particular, more abundant in meat, overflowing with rice dishes, and have taken much of their use of spices from India.
The Mediterranean cuisines of Turkey, Lebanon, Syria, Palestine, Jordan and North Africa use prolific amounts of pulses, grains, nuts, citrus fruits, garlic, fresh herbs, allspice and to some extent olive oil.
Eating the Middle Eastern way
In a Middle Eastern kitchen, fresh ingredients are celebrated in tune with the seasons or conserved as part of the ritual of preservation; simple yet clever. Real home-style dishes revolve around humble vegetables and grains, which are used to extend the limited amounts of meat that may be available. While an abundance of invigorating spices prevail in the cuisine, heat for the most part does not dwell in it. Exceptions can be found in some of the dishes of North Africa, Turkey, Palestine and Yemen.
Garlic, lemon and fresh herbs feature heavily and there is an affectionate respect for marrying sweet and sour tones with the use of verjuice, pomegranate molasses and citrus fruit. Yogurt is enjoyed on its own, as labneh, or as an integral part of many dishes – so much so that it’s hard to imagine this cuisine without it. Of even more significance, though, is the use of bread. Not only nutritional, it’s served with every meal, however humble or lavish, and used interchangeably with or even replacing cutlery (for most in the region, eating many of the dishes without bread to mop up the juices is inconceivable). Moreover, it’s also considered a gift from God, to be cherished and honoured. So intricate to the culture is bread, and the ritual surrounding its breaking, that a well-known proverb demonstrates the intimacy and unbreakable bonds of friendship it represents: “there is bread and salt between us”.
The generous table
Religion and landscape have contributed to the strict notions of hospitality in the Middle East, lavishing this ancient culture with virtues, customs and overwhelming etiquettes. A Middle Eastern meal is a titillating contradiction to the rigid, three-course Western meal. In fact, it begins well before anyone sits down at the table. Guests are always greeted with tea and a selection of dried fruit, nuts and pastries to unfasten their appetite for the real feast.
The meal that follows is relaxed and fluid and, depending on location and social class, diners may gather around a table or a sofrah, which may be as simple as a cloth laid out on the floor. The table is adorned like a glistening Byzantine empress, with a wide variety of dishes, served in a quick procession. Guests may use bread instead of cutlery to scoop up food from the communal dishes or from their own plates. One can expect to be urged towards second and third helpings, so a wise diner eats less on the first helping. The more you eat, the more pleasure and pride your host experiences, feeling they have done their job well in taking good care of you. Desserts are not usually eaten after a meal, although guests may enjoy fresh fruits and sweet pastries with their tea. This overwhelming generosity is not only the preserve of the wealthy; genuine hospitality is shown right across the social scale, sometimes even beyond a family’s means.
A culinary marriage
Growing up, I repeatedly heard my father quote the Chinese philosopher, Confucius: “Study the past if you would define the future.” This would become a philosophy to which I prescribe, especially when contemplating Middle Eastern cuisine. I am as fascinated by the history of our cuisine, its ancient recipes, techniques and rituals, as I am by the superb new dishes it can inspire.
This philosophy, though, is not always welcome when approaching such a deep-rooted cuisine. More than once, I have come up against relatives who have challenged the most miniscule alteration I have made to a dish, outraged by the fact that I dared to call it by the same name. “This is not how you make moghrabieh!”, “No, no, you cannot put cumin in kebbeh! What, are you crazy?” You see, although Middle Eastern and North African culinary traditions celebrate an abundance of regional variations that have been passed down over the years without precise measurements, each family and each village has become chained to its own set beliefs.
A few brave chefs have begun dabbling with modern Middle Eastern cuisine, among them Greg Malouf, though this is still a fairly new concept. The result is that we now have a large blank canvas to begin working on, and this is what excites me: cooking the foods of my childhood while knowing that there is a vast expanse of wonder and innovation to look forward to. All we need to do is to grasp the opportunity without fear or hesitation. We are not disrespecting our past or our traditions but, rather, admiring where they have brought us and, when coupled with our present, where they might lead us.
The jewelled kitchen
Developing the recipes for my first book has been both a revelation of the Middle Eastern and North African culinary traditions and a tantalizing glimpse at the possibilities that lie ahead. I like to think of this book as an ode to the treasured dishes of the past, embracing a creative and contemporary approach. I hope it will ignite (and feed) your curiosity as it has inspired and excited my own.
Over the following chapters you’ll find ideas for marvellous mezze, poultry, meat, seafood and vegetarian dishes. Some of these beautiful dishes can be thrown together from scratch in a matter of minutes, while more ambitious dishes are made easy with clear instructions and clever cooking techniques.
I have also indulged the sweet tooth of my childhood to tempt you with recipes for irresistible desserts and delicate pastries. The final chapter will help you master the cornerstones of the cuisine, with recipes for breads, dips, condiments, spice mixes, stocks, cheese and pastry, as well as advice on how to prepare and cook rice and chickpeas perfectly.
With this book you can explore the Persian love of herbs and fragrance, the hearty and comforting dishes of the Mediterranean, and the rich variety of ingredients celebrated by the cuisines of the Gulf, as you turn humble ingredients into a beguiling array of spectacular, contemporary dishes.
The Middle Eastern & North African pantry
All of the authentic ingredients used in this book are readily available online or from specialist grocers, but you may feel unsure about using some of the more exotic ingredients such as mahlab or Aleppo pepper. Don’t worry. The glossary at the back of the book will help you learn more about how to source, prepare and store any unfamiliar ingredients, as well as suggesting suitable alternatives.
It’s always best to use high-quality ingredients. Remember, too, that all ingredients are not born alike. A tomato in Britain will taste entirely different from one in, say, Lebanon, and that can affect the harmony of a tomato-based stew. An aubergine/ eggplant you purchased this week can taste very different from the one you enjoyed two weeks ago. The length of time your spice has been sitting on the shelf will, more or less, determine the quantity required, as its potency reduces over time. And then there is the fluctuating taste of lemons, some more acidic than others, while some of us have more or less tolerance for sour flavours. And let’s not forget the level of spice: if you are not an avid lover of spicy food and a dish sounds like it’s going to be too hot, reduce the quantity of spices and adjust as you cook. It’s all a matter of taste.
The breath of inspiration
Recipes, elaborate instructions, precise measurements; this is the stuff that fumbles me. For while I am very aware that many do not feel comfortable without these specifics, I become stifled, flustered in my own domain, stumbling as I try to stay true to a recipe.
Middle Eastern recipes are passed down over the centuries, most often from mother to daughter or within the female community, but precise weights and measures are rarely part of the instruction. A large spoonful of this, an Arabic coffee cup of that, a squeeze of lemon, just enough water ... these are the units of measure in a Middle Eastern kitchen, with the emphasis on constant tasting and adjustment.
In the Middle East and North Africa, cooking truly is an instinctive art form. In the Middle East we say a good cook has nafas which, directly translated, means “breath”, but when used in the context of cooking means “flair”; for there is an association with the sense of smell, too – of inspiration.
Although I have given precise measurements throughout, nothing is rigid or set in stone (baking aside). So rather than slavishly using scales or measuring jugs instead rely on the most powerful tools at your disposal: your senses. Listen to the bubbling liquid, look at the vibrant colours, feel the texture but, above all, smell the aromas and taste your dish as you cook – you can’t taste too much. Only then will you be able to see if your meal needs more nurturing or if it just wants to be left alone.
Whether you are cooking for your immediate family or a crowd of friends, the objective is to create an enjoyable meal that evokes comfort and happiness. As you’ve heard many others say, cooking is meant to be fun, not serious. Run with your senses and, most importantly, enjoy yourself.
Cooking and eating are among life’s greatest pleasures and as my uncle always says to me, “Kelé w nsee hammeek” – “Eat and you shall forget your worries.”
mezze
silky chickpea & lamb soup
During the holy month of Ramadan in North Africa, this silky textured soup is the first dish with which the fast is broken. It goes well with Pan-Fried Squares (see page 149).
SERVES 4
PREPARATION TIME: 30 minutes, plus preparing the starter, soaking the chickpeas, making the stock and preserved lemon (optional)
COOKING TIME: 1½ hours, plus cooking the chickpeas (optional)
2 tbsp rye flour (optional)
2 tbsp strong bread flour (optional)
350g/12oz lamb shank
¼ tsp ground cardamom
¼ tsp ground cumin
¼ tsp smoked paprika
¼ tsp ground coriander
¼ tsp ground cinnamon
700g/1lb 9oz tomatoes
20g/¾oz/4 tsp salted butter or smen
1 onion, finely chopped
4 garlic cloves, roughly chopped
5cm/2in piece of root ginger, peeled and finely chopped
2l/70fl oz/8¾ cups Vegetable Stock (see page 211)
a pinch of ground saffron (optional)
125g/4½oz/½ cup dried chickpeas, soaked overnight and cooked (see page 215), or 250g/9oz/1¾ cups canned chickpeas, drained and rinsed
250g/9oz/1⅓ cups brown lentils, rinsed
1 bay leaf
1 wedge of Preserved Lemon (see page 212), rind rinsed and finely chopped, or zest of half a lemon
1 tbsp chopped coriander/cilantro leaves, plus extra for sprinkling
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
a few pitted dates, to serve
1 lemon, quartered, to squeeze
warm Arabic Bread (optional, see page 217), to serve
1 If you are using the starter, which will give a thicker, smoother soup, early in the morning of the first day, put 2 teaspoons each of the rye and bread flour in a mixing bowl and mix together. Pour over a tablespoon lukewarm water and mix well. Cover the starter with paper towels and set aside in a warm place (22–25˚C/72–77˚F).
2 During the morning of the following day, “feed” the starter with the remaining flours and about 2 teaspoons lukewarm water, stirring very well to combine. Set aside, covered as above, for a further 8 hours.
3 Rub the lamb shank with the cardamom, cumin, smoked paprika, ground coriander and cinnamon and season with some salt. Set aside.
4 With a sharp knife, cut a cross in the skin of each tomato, then put them in a heatproof bowl and cover with boiling water. Leave to stand for 2–3 minutes or until the skins have split, then drain. Plunge into cold water to stop them cooking, then peel off the skins and discard. Slice in half and scoop out the seeds, then finely chop the flesh.
5 Melt the butter in a heavy-based saucepan over a medium heat. Add the onion, cover the pan and reduce the heat to low, then leave to sweat, stirring often, for 5 minutes or until softened.
6 Increase the heat to medium, add the lamb and any loose spices and sear for 3 minutes on each side. Add the garlic and ginger and cook for a further minute until aromatic, then add the tomatoes, stock, saffron, if using, chickpeas, lentils and bay leaf.
7 Cover the pan, increase the heat to high and bring to the boil, then reduce the heat to medium-low and simmer, covered, for 1 hour or until the lentils are soft and the meat is tender. Discard the bay leaf.
8 Remove the lamb from the pan and cut away the meat into small bite-sized pieces, then return the meat to the pan with the bone. You can extract the marrow with a narrow spoon or skewer, if you like.
9 Dilute the starter, if using, with 100ml/3½fl oz/scant ½ cup water, stir well, then slowly pour it into the pan, stirring for about 20 minutes or until the mixture has thickened. Stir in the preserved lemon and coriander/cilantro and season with pepper. Ladle into bowls, sprinkle with coriander/cilantro and serve with dates, lemon quarters and warm Arabic Bread, if you like.
kishk, lamb & kale soup
This dish celebrates the basic ingredients available to a villager in rural areas of Lebanon as well as in Syria, Palestine and Egypt during the winter months. Kishk is a fine powder made from bulgur that has been fermented with yogurt or water and left to dry in the sun for several days. Kishk can be found in some Middle Eastern grocers and can also be found under the Greek/Cypriot name trachana, which is usually served with grilled/broiled halloumi. Trachana is usually sold in a coarser grain resembling medium bulgur and can be ground in a spice grinder to a fine flour. In Lebanon, awarma (lamb confit) is usually added to the dish, but here I’ve used minced/ground lamb because it’s easier to source.
SERVES 4
PREPARATION TIME: 10 minutes
COOKING TIME: 20 minutes
50g/1¾oz/3½ tbsp salted butter
1 garlic bulb, cloves separated and finely chopped or crushed
1 tbsp Aleppo pepper flakes or crushed chilli flakes
1 tsp ground allspice 2 tbsp dried mint
400g/14oz minced/ground lamb
150g/5½oz kale or spinach, finely chopped
125g/4½oz/1 cup kishk
4 tbsp pine nuts
mint leaves, to sprinkle (optional)
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
warm Arabic Bread (see page 217), to serve
1 Melt the butter in a large heavy-based saucepan over a medium-low heat, add the garlic and fry for about 1 minute until aromatic. Add the Aleppo pepper flakes, allspice and dried mint and stir well to combine.
2 Add the lamb and cook for 4–5 minutes until browned, stirring often. Add the kale and mix well, letting it wilt for 1–2 minutes.
3 Sprinkle in the kishk and stir to combine. Heat through and then pour in 1l/35fl oz/4⅓ cups hot water a little at a time, stirring well to combine and remove any lumps. Keep adding water and stirring it in until the kishk is diluted and the mixture is creamy and brothy. Adjust the amount of water based on the desired consistency of the soup. Season to taste with salt and pepper.
4 Toast the pine nuts in a heavy-based pan over a medium heat for 1–2 minutes until golden and fragrant, shaking the pan often. Ladle the soup into bowls and sprinkle the toasted pine nuts and the mint, if using, over the top. Serve with some warm Arabic Bread.
Note: The soup thickens quickly, so if you leave it for a while, it may need further diluting with hot water.
spiced naked mini sausages
This maqaneq recipe is an ideal winter breakfast dish; just make sure you have some Arabic bread on hand to soak up every last trickle of sunshine on a plate. Traditionally, the sausages would be in casings, but shaping your own makes them more home kitchen friendly.
SERVES 4
PREPARATION TIME: 20 minutes, plus marinating
COOKING TIME: 12 minutes
200g/7oz finely minced/ground beef
200g/7oz finely minced/ground lamb
1½ tsp sea salt, plus extra for seasoning
5cm/2in piece of root ginger, peeled and finely chopped
2 tsp ground coriander
2 tsp white pepper
½ tsp ground nutmeg
1 mild red chilli, deseeded and finely chopped
½ tsp ground mahlab (optional)
½ tsp ground cloves
4 garlic cloves, finely chopped 3 tbsp pine nuts
5 tbsp white wine 3 tbsp sunflower oil
1 tbsp lemon juice or pomegranate molasses (optional)
8 eggs
sumac, for dusting
freshly ground black pepper
TO SERVE
tomato slices fresh greens
warm Arabic Bread (see page 217)
Red-hot Roasties (optional, see page 40)
1 Put the beef and lamb in a mixing bowl with the salt, ginger, ground coriander, white pepper, nutmeg, chilli, mahlab, if using, cloves, garlic, pine nuts and white wine. Mix well, cover and leave to marinate in the refrigerator for 24 hours (or up to 72 hours if you are preparing ahead).
2 When ready to cook, begin shaping the meat mixture into small, finger-like sausages about 5cm /2in long and 2.5cm/1in wide, or the size of an English cocktail sausage. You should be able to make about 40.
3 Heat the oil in a wide, heavy-based frying pan over a high heat until the oil is sizzling, then add the sausages. Reduce the heat to medium and cook the sausages for 5–7 minutes, tossing them gently every once in a while, until cooked through. Add the lemon juice, if using.
4 Carefully break one egg at a time over the sausages, keeping some space between each egg, though it’s fine if they just touch. You may need to do this in two separate frying pans. Let them settle for the first minute, then tilt the pan a few times to get the egg whites running before basting the eggs with the juice from the pan so they cook through. Season to taste with salt and pepper.
5 Cook for a further minute until the eggs have set to your liking, then sprinkle with sumac. Transfer the eggs and sausages to plates and serve with tomato slices, fresh greens, warm Arabic Bread and Red-hot Roasties, if you like.
eggs poached in a tomato and pepper stew
This recipe for the famous dish shakshoukah is a demonstration of the North African infatuation with cooked salads. The sauce in which the eggs are poached is great to make ahead because the longer it sits, the more the flavours develop.
SERVES 4
PREPARATION TIME: 15 minutes, plus roasting the peppers and making the sausages
COOKING TIME: 1 hour 20 minutes
500g/1lb 2oz mixed roasted peppers (see Roasted Vegetables, page 216)
1kg/2lb 4oz tomatoes
2 tbsp olive oil
1 garlic bulb, cloves separated and roughly chopped
1 tsp Aleppo pepper flakes or crushed chilli flakes
2 tbsp sunflower oil
¼ recipe quantity uncooked Spiced Naked Mini Sausages (see page 21) or sliced chorizo
8 eggs
1 tbsp finely chopped parsley leaves, to sprinkle
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Red-hot Roasties (see page 40), to serve
warm Arabic Bread (see page 217) or any good crusty bread, to serve
1 Slice off the tops of the roasted peppers, discard the seeds and cut the flesh into 2cm/¾in strips.
2 With a sharp knife, cut a cross in the skin of each tomato, then put them in a heatproof bowl and cover with boiling water. Leave to stand for 2–3 minutes or until the skins have split, then drain. Plunge into cold water to stop them cooking, then peel off the skins and discard. Slice in half and scoop out the seeds, then finely chop the flesh.
3 Put a heavy-based saucepan over a medium-low heat. Add the olive oil and the garlic and cook for about 1 minute or until the garlic is aromatic. Reduce the heat to low, add the tomatoes and Aleppo pepper flakes and stir to combine, then cover with a lid and bring to the boil. Reduce the heat to low and simmer, covered, for about 30 minutes, stirring often. Add the roasted peppers before adding salt to taste, then simmer for a further 20 minutes.
4 Put a large, non-stick frying pan over a medium heat, and heat the sunflower oil. Add the mini sausages and fry for 5–7 minutes until cooked through and golden on all sides, tossing them gently every once in a while. Pour the tomato and pepper sauce over the top and heat through for 2–3 minutes.
5 Make 8 small craters in the mixture and crack an egg into each one, making sure they are engulfed halfway by the tomato stew. Season the eggs with salt and pepper, cover the pan and cook for a few minutes until the egg whites have turned opaque and the yolks have set but are still soft. Sprinkle with parsley and serve with Red-hot Roasties and warm Arabic Bread.
kafta snugged scotch eggs
The key to a perfect Scotch egg is a pool of velvety yolk, a moist, meaty rim, and a robust, crunchy crust achieved here with a fine-grade bulgur. Hard-boiling the eggs is a sin!
SERVES 4
PREPARATION TIME: 25 minutes
COOKING TIME: 7 minutes
6 eggs
1 onion, quartered
1 handful of mixed herbs (mint, dill, coriander/cilantro and parsley leaves)
1 mild green chilli, deseeded and roughly chopped (optional)
4 garlic cloves, crushed with the blade of a knife
200g/7oz minced/ground lamb
1 tsp ground allspice
85ml/2¾fl oz/generous ⅓ cup Greek yogurt, to serve
½ tsp dried mint
sunflower oil, for deep-frying
40g/1½oz/⅓ cup plain/all-purpose flour
85g/3oz/½ cup fine bulgur wheat (grade 1)
2 tsp black cumin seeds
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
4 tsp pomegranate molasses, to serve
Red-hot Roasties (see page 40), to serve
1