Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Title Page
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One: Dolmeh
Chapter Two: Red Lentil Soup
Chapter Three: Baklava
Chapter Four: Dugh Yogurt Drink
Chapter Five: Abgusht
Chapter Six: Elephant Ears
Chapter Seven: Lavash Bread
Chapter Eight: Torshi
Chapter Nine: Chelow
Chapter Ten: Fesenjoon
Chapter Eleven: Migraine Headache Remedy
Chapter Twelve: Pomegranate Soup
Epilogue: After Dinner Lavender-Mint Tea
Marjan’s Recipe Box
Dolmeh
Red Lentil Soup
Baklava
Dugh Yogurt Drink
Abgusht
Elephant Ears
Lavash Bread
Torshi
Chelow
Fesenjoon
Migraine Headache Remedy
Pomegranate Soup
After Dinner Lavender-Mint Tea
Copyright
For the inhabitants of the damp little Irish town of Ballinacroagh, the repertoire of gastronomic delights has never extended farther than the limp meals of the local inn’s carvery. But things are about to change when the beautiful Aminpour sisters – Marjan, Bahar and Layla – arrive, determined to share the magic of their kitchen with the friendly locals.
Opening Babylon Café, right in the heart of town, they begin serving up traditional Persian dishes and soon the townsfolk is lured to the new premises by the tantalizing aroma of fresh herb kuku, lamb abgusht and elephant ear fritters, washed down with gallons of jasmine tea from the old samovar.
Not everyone welcomes the three women with open arms, though. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, as they say, and the women of Ballinacroagh want their men back ...
Filled with recipes, mouth-watering fragrances and mysterious spices, Pomegranate Soup is a heart-warming tale of romance, friendship and exotic food.
Born in Tehran, Marsha Mehran escaped the Iranian Revolution with her family and moved to Buenos Aires, where her parents set up a Middle Eastern café. She has since lived in Australia and New York City and now lives in the west of Ireland with her husband, Christopher, who is constantly called upon to taste her experimental cooking. She is currently at work on her next novel.
Ingredients:
30-40 canned vine leaves
2 onions, chopped
250g ground meat, lamb or beef olive oil
⅓ cup fresh summer savory, chopped
½ cup fresh dill
⅓ cup fresh tarragon
¼ cup fresh mint
½ cup fresh lime juice
2 cups cooked basmati rice
1 tsp salt
½ tsp ground pepper
Rinse vine leaves and lay aside. Fry onions and meat in olive oil over medium flame until meat is brown. Add chopped herbs to pan and fry for three minutes. Remove from heat. In a large bowl, combine the meat, onion and herb mixture with rice, lime juice, salt and pepper. Lay one vine leaf, vein side up, on a clean surface. Place one tablespoon of rice and meat mixture in middle of leaf, then roll from base up, tucking the sides to form a tight pocket. Repeat until all leaves are stuffed. Line a greased, deep baking dish with stuffed leaves, pour in ¾ cup of water, cover with foil and cook for 45 minutes in oven at 110°C.
Ingredients:
2 cups dry, red lentils
7 large onions, chopped
7 garlic cloves, crushed
1 tsp ground turmeric
4 tsp ground cumin
olive oil
7 cups chicken broth
3 cups water
salt
2 tsp nigella seeds1
Place lentils in a saucepan, cover with water and bring to a boil. Cook, uncovered, for 9 minutes. Drain and place aside. In a large stock pot, fry 6 of the chopped onions, turmeric and cumin in olive oil until golden. Transfer lentils, broth and water to the pot. Add salt, nigella seed or pepper to taste. Bring soup to boil. Lower heat, cover and simmer for 40 minutes. Fry remaining onion in olive oil until crisp, but not blackened. Add as a garnish over individual bowls of soup.
1 ground black pepper may be substituted
Ingredients:
4 cups brown sugar
1 cup water
½ cup rose water
500g shelled pistachios, chopped
500g blanched almonds, chopped
2 tbsp cardamom
1 tsp ground cinnamon
15 frozen filo pastry sheets
½ cup unsalted butter, melted
Bring 2 cups of sugar, water and rose water to boil in a medium saucepan. Set aside to cool. Grind pistachios, almonds, cardamom, cinnamon and remaining 2 cups of sugar in a food processor for 1 minute. Set aside. Lay 5 sheets of buttered filo pastry into a greased, 13 × 9 inch pan. Spread a thin, even layer of nut mixture, then cover with 5 more buttered sheets of pastry. Repeat until all mixture is used. Cover with 5 more buttery sheets. With a sharp knife, cut across and diagonally to form diamond shapes. Bake in oven at 180°C for 1 hour. Pour cooled sugar and rosewater syrup over top. Let cool before serving.
Ingredients:
2 cups plain yogurt
3 cups mineral or spring water
3 tbsp fresh mint, chopped
1 tsp salt
½ tsp ground pepper
Mint leaves for garnish
Mix ingredients in a large pitcher or jug. Add ice slowly as you stir. Garnish with mint leaves.
Ingredients:
2 kilos boned leg of lamb, save bone
5 large onions, chopped
1 tsp turmeric
10 cups of water
1 cup yellow split peas
1 tsp paprika
4 tsp salt
1 tsp ground black pepper
5 large potatoes, peeled and quartered
7 tomatoes, sliced
2 tbsp tomato paste
1 dried lime
2 strands saffron dissolved in
7 tablespoons hot water
2 tsp advieh1
Brown meat, 1 onion and turmeric in a large stock pot. Add water, split peas, paprika and bone. Lower heat and simmer, covered, for 2 hours. Add remaining ingredients. Simmer, covered, for 40 minutes. Remove bone. Remove all vegetables and meat and mash them together in a large bowl. Serve mash in a separate bowl alongside remaining broth.
1 optional: equal amounts crushed rose petals, cardamom, cinnamon and cumin, mixed
Ingredients:
1 egg
½ cup milk
¼ cup sugar
¼ cup rose water
½ teaspoon cardamom
3¾ cups all-purpose flour
6 cups vegetable oil
Garnish:
1 cup icing sugar
2 tsps ground cinnamon
Beat egg in a bowl. Add milk, sugar, rose water and cardamom. Slowly mix in flour, kneading into a dough. Roll out on a clean surface with a floured pin until it is paper-thin. Using the rim of a wide-mouthed glass or cup, trace and cut out a circle. Pinch the centre of the circle with your thumb and forefinger to form a bow. Set aside. Repeat until all circles (approx. 15) are done. Heat oil in a deep pan. Fry each ear for 1 minute. Lay pastries on paper towels to cool. Sprinkle with sugar and cinnamon mixture.
Ingredients:
1 tbsp quick-rising yeast
½ cup warm water
¼ cup olive oil
1 cup milk
2 tbsp sugar
2 tsp salt
4 cups all-purpose flour
½ cup poppy and sesame seeds
Preheat oven to 260°C. Mix yeast and water. Set aside for 15 minutes. Combine yeasty water, oil, milk, sugar and salt in a large bowl. Slowly mix in flour. Knead into a dough. Divide into 3 even balls. Cover with a clean towel and leave to rise for 30 minutes. Roll out one ball of dough on a clean surface with a floured pin until it is paper-thin. Sprinkle with poppy and sesame seeds. Place on a buttered baking tray and cook in oven at 260°C for 5 minutes. Repeat with remaining balls of dough.
Ingredients:
2 large eggplants, cubed
500g small cucumbers, cubed
500g carrots, cubed
2 large white potatoes, cubed
8 garlic cloves, peeled
3 cups cauliflower florets
500g pearl onions, peeled
250g green beans
3½ litres white wine vinegar
4 cups chopped fresh herbs
(parsley, basil, tarragon, mint, coriander)
2 tbsp salt
2 tsp black pepper
½ tsp cayenne pepper
1 tbsp nigella seeds
Torshi all-spice mix (½ tsp turmeric,
1 tbsp ground cumin, 1 tsp ground saffron,
1 tbsp ground cardamom, 1 tsp ground cinnamon)
* makes 5–6 small jars
Wash vegetables and dry well with paper towels. Combine all ingredients in a large bowl. Ladle out the mix into sterilised pickling jars. Leave lidded jars in a dry, cool place for a minimum of one month.
Ingredients:
3 cups uncooked, long-grain basmati rice
6 cups water
2 tbsps salt
½ cup olive oil
Place rice in a large bowl and wash under lukewarm water. Drain, then repeat two more times. Bring water and salt to boil in a stock pot. Add clean rice, cover and cook for 30 minutes, or until al dente. In another large pot, heat the oil. Spread an inch-thick layer of cooked rice at the bottom of the second pot. Slowly scoop cooked rice into the pot, forming a pyramid shape so that the top layer is the point. Cover pot and cook on low heat for 30 minutes. Tadig will form at the bottom.
Ingredients:
500g shelled walnuts, chopped olive oil
1,250g skinless chicken breast, cubed
3 large onions, sliced
6 tbsp pomegranate paste, dissolved in
2 cups of hot water
½ teaspoon salt
½ tsp ground black pepper
1 tbsp sugar
2 tbsp lemon juice
Grind walnuts in food processor for 1 minute. Fry in olive oil for 10 minutes, stirring constantly. Set aside. Sauté chicken and onions in a deep pan until golden. Add walnuts, pomegranate juice, and remaining ingredients. Bring to a boil. Lower heat to a simmer, cover, and cook for 45 minutes or until the pomegranate sauce thickens. Serve with chelow.
Ingredients:
1 tsp ground nutmeg
1 tsp ground cardamom
1 teaspoon ground cloves
1 cup warm water
In a clean jar or glass, mix spices thoroughly. A soft brown powder should form. Take 1 tablespoon of medicine, making sure to swallow quickly. Wash down with warm water. Repeat, if necessary, every 4 hours.
Ingredients:
2 large onions, chopped
2 tbsp olive oil
½ cup yellow split peas, rinsed twice
6 cups water
1 tsp salt
½ tsp ground black pepper
1 tsp turmeric
2 cups fresh parsley, chopped
2 cups fresh coriander, chopped
¼ cup fresh mint, chopped
1 cup fresh spring onions, chopped
500g ground lamb
¾ cup rice, rinsed twice
2 cups pomegranate juice
1 tbsp sugar
2 tbsp lemon juice
2 tbsp angelica powder1
In a large stock pot, sauté the chopped onions in olive oil until golden. Add split peas, water, salt, pepper and turmeric, bringing it all to a boil. Lower heat and simmer, covered, for 30 minutes. Add parsley, coriander, mint and spring onions. Simmer for 15 minutes. Meanwhile, roll ground lamb into medium-size meatballs. Add meatballs and remaining ingredients to the pot. Simmer, covered, for 45 minutes.
1optional
Ingredients:
2 tbsp honey
3 tsp fresh lavender flowers
1 cup fresh mint leaves, chopped
½ lemon, cut into thin wedges
Boil a little less than 2 litres of water. Heat teapot with half of the water. Discard. Fill teapot with honey, lavender leaves, and mint. Add the hot water. Cover and steep for 10 minutes. Serve with a slice of lemon.
Ingredients:
30–40 canned vine leaves
2 onions, chopped
250g ground meat, lamb or beef olive oil
⅓ cup fresh summer savory
½ cup fresh dill
⅓ cup fresh tarragon
¼ cup fresh mint
½ cup fresh lime juice
2 cups cooked basmati rice
1 tsp salt
½ tsp ground black pepper
FOR MARJAN AMINPOUR, the fragrance of cardamom and rose water, alongside basmati, tarragon and summer savory, were everyday kinds of smells; as common, she imagined, as the aromas of instant coffees and dripping roasts were to conventional Western kitchen corners.
Despite being born in a land of ancient deserts, where dry soil mingled with the crumbled remains of Persepolitan pillars, Marjan had a great talent for growing plants. She had learned from an early age how to tempt the most stubborn seedlings to take root, even before she could spell their plant names in Farsi. Guided by the gentle hands of Baba Pirooz, the old bearded gardener who tended the grounds of her childhood home, young Marjan cultivated furry stalks of marjoram and golden angelica in dark mounds of earth. The dirt drew its moisture from melted mountain snow, which trickled down from the nearby Alborz into Tehran’s wealthier suburbs, before flowing into the Aminpour’s large octagonal fountain. Bubbling at the centre of the walled garden, the pool was lined with turquoise and green Esfahani tiles.
While Marjan trained her eye to spot the first yellow buds of tarragon, or to catch a weed’s surreptitious climb up the stalk of a dill plant, Baba Pirooz would recount the long line of celebrated gardeners who had been born on Persian soil. ‘Avicenna,’ Baba Pirooz began, clearing his throat, ‘Avicenna was the most famous plant lover of them all. Did you know, Marjan Khanoum, that this wise physician was the first man ever to make rosewater? He squeezed the soft petals for their oils, then bottled the precious liquid for the world to enjoy. What a Persian, what a man!’ the old gardener would exclaim, pausing only long enough in his lectures to ignite the strawberry tobacco he smoked in a knobby little pipe.
As an adult, Marjan carried the warm memories of Baba Pirooz and her childhood garden with her wherever she went. Not a day went by that she was not on the lookout for some mound of soil to plunge her fingers into. Using her bare knuckles, engraved with terracotta dust and mulch, she massaged her chosen herb or flower into the soil’s folds, whispering loving encouragements along the way. And no matter how barren that slice of earth had been before, once Marjan gave it her special attention, there was no limit to all that could blossom within its charged chambers.
In the many places she had lived – and there had been quite a few in her twenty-seven years – Marjan had always planted a small herb garden, consisting of at least one seedling of basil, parsley, tarragon and summer savory. Even in the gloomy English flats she and her sisters had occupied for the last seven years since leaving Iran, Marjan had successfully grown a rainbow of cooking herbs in the blue ceramic flowerpots lining her kitchen windowsill. Always the consummate professional, no amount of rain clouds could tempt her to give up planting.
Marjan tried to keep her past perseverance in mind now as she stood in the old pastry shop’s kitchen mixing a second batch of dolmeh stuffing. She wished she’d had more time to cultivate a healthy ensemble of fresh tarragon, mint and summer savory to add to the dolmehs that she and her younger sisters, Bahar and Layla, were making. Perhaps if she had planted something here in Ballinacroagh, she could have avoided the anxieties that were now creeping up her spine. Well, it was best not to have such regrets, Marjan reminded herself, especially when she couldn’t do anything about them. There was still one more batch of the stuffed vine leaves to go – not to mention half a dozen other mouthwatering delicacies – and Time, that cantankerous old fool, was not on her side.
The Babylon Café was set to open in less than five hours. Five hours! In this new town that she could hardly pronounce, let alone spell. Ballinacroagh. Ba-li-na-crow. A whole town full of people who would come to taste her fares with questioning eyes and curious tongues. And, unlike her other stints in the kitchen, this time she would be responsible for everything.
Marjan’s heart quickened as she browned the ground meat and onions together over the low, dancing flame. The satisfied pan hissed as she introduced dried versions of her precious herbs, which, if soaked overnight, worked almost as well as their fresher relatives. Working her entire torso, she mixed the herbs with the cooked rice, fresh lime juice, salt and pepper. She stirred with all her might despite the unrelenting ache in her shoulders, for such strong rotations were necessary to the dolmehs’ harmony.
Rubbing her tired arms, Marjan glanced across the old bakery’s kitchen at her sister Bahar, who was rolling up the first batch of dolmehs. With her wide and piercing eyes, Bahar always looked intense when she worked in the kitchen – as if her life depended on whichever vegetable or herb was being sacrificed on the chopping board before her. Surprisingly, out of the three Aminpour sisters, it was petite Bahar who possessed the greatest upper-arm strength. Fragile in most every other way, Bahar had shoulders and arms that were as powerful as those of a man twice her size, which came in handy whenever jars needed to be opened or there was mixing to be done.
Marjan picked up the wooden spoon and returned to the dolmeh. Her sister looked too busy now to help her beat the remaining stuffing, for not only was Bahar concentrating on rolling her own vine leaves but she was also keeping Layla’s work in check. No matter how many times Marjan was reminded of the differences in her younger sisters’ personalities, there was nothing like the simple act of rolling dolmeh to show her how poles apart Bahar and Layla really were.
Bahar, guided by a stern inner compass, smartly slapped each vine leaf (vein side up) on the chopping board. It was a consistent, methodical march that started with a no-nonsense scoop of stuffing with her left hand, followed by a skilled right-handed tuck of the vine leaf. Then, bringing the dolmeh to a clean surrender, she briskly rolled the vine leaf from the bottom up. Despite her rather gruff manner, Bahar’s method for rolling dolmeh was always successful; she ensured that her little bundles of good fortune were secure on the road up, lest all that she had gathered should fall asunder.
Rolling was always where Layla faltered, for her method was more carefree and altogether too trusting. Although Marjan and Bahar demonstrated the right way endless times, Layla would still leave her dolmehs vulnerable to the elements. One could always tell which bundles were hers, for if neither of her older sisters was quick enough to catch the spill of stuffing, re-rolling the vine leaf while shaking her head, the moment of truth came an hour later with the opening of the oven door. Among the neat, aromatic green fingers expertly tucked by Marjan and Bahar would be the younger girl’s unmistakable burst parcels of golden filling. And for some strange reason, they always smelled of Layla’s signature scent – rose water and cinnamon.
It was a familiar enough smell, this faint perfume that accompanied Layla’s every move, but odd for a recipe that did not contain either ingredient. The cinnamon-rose dolmehs never really surprised her sisters, though. Layla had a way of raising expectations beyond the ordinary.
When Thomas McGuire’s spits and curses hit the pavement outside the old pastry shop, Bahar was in the middle of removing a tray of cooked dolmehs from the oven. After forty-five minutes they were as perfectly symmetrical as the greatest Persian carpets; the tray a clean loom upon which the stuffed vine-leaf fingers were lined in even clusters and patterns. Although the kitchen was at the back of the shop, Thomas’s vulgar excretions carried clearly to Bahar’s sensitive ears. Gasping with surprise, she reached for the hot tray of dolmehs with bare hands and paid dearly for her distraction with the start of smoking blisters.
‘Quick! Get under the cold water! Layla – aloe vera! Bahar, stop squeezing your thumb like that!’ Marjan yelled, pushing Bahar towards the sink. As the eldest of the three, Marjan was accustomed to directing her sisters in emergencies.
Bahar shuddered as the cold water ran over her scorched thumb. In the upstairs flat, a small one-bedroom residence that the Delmonicos had used as an office and storage area, Layla scrambled through open cardboard boxes looking for the green bottle of soothing gel.
‘I can’t find the aloe! Are you sure you packed it?’ she yelled down to the kitchen.
‘Yes!’ Marjan hollered. ‘Look in the small box that says “Miscellaneous”!’
‘Don’t worry. It’s stopped already. See? I’ll just put an ice cube on it,’ said Bahar, sticking out her horrified thumb so Marjan could see the rising welts.
Bahar tried to put on a brave face, but inside she felt a lot like that thumb of hers. Born, as her name indicated, on the first day of the Persian spring, she had the superstitious nature of people whose birthdays fall on the cusp of changing seasons. She was forever looking over her shoulders for fear that she had stepped on cracks or wandered under ladders. Bahar’s inherent nervousness had escalated to a deeper malaise in recent years, the result of unspeakable events that had left indelible scars. Although her neurotic tendencies often irritated the more hardy teenager Layla, Marjan’s heart just softened a bit more every time she saw her sister jump so.
‘Are you sure you’re all right? Listen, I’ll finish the dolmeh. Just mix the rice for me, okay?’ Marjan gave Bahar an ice cube wrapped in a torn piece of newspaper and placed the piping tray of dolmehs on a low, wooden island in the middle of the kitchen.
Made especially for a man of Napoleonic measurements, this rectangular table had been the centrepiece of Luigi Delmonico’s kingdom, where he rolled, powdered, slapped and whipped the exquisite paninis and chocolate-filled brioches he would later showcase in his beloved Papa’s Pastries. It was also where Estelle, his bride of forty-five years, had found him dead – three hours after the bowl of meringue he was preparing had stiffened into a pink, cotton-candied tutu.
Of course, Estelle failed to mention this last point when she had shown the three sisters around the place five days ago; though, in reality, it probably would have made little difference. The girls’ battered boxes were already shipped over and waiting to be picked up in Castlebar. Besides, the shop, complete with all the appliances and utensils of a working kitchen (albeit outdated and a bit rusty), was perfect for what Marjan had in mind. And it came at a bargain price.
‘My niece told me that you are the best chef she has ever seen. Gloria, she’s a very good girl, no?’
Mrs Delmonico had stood in the kitchen after the grand tour, the dying afternoon rays entering lazily through a narrow, stained-glass partition in the back door and illuminating the dust particles floating above her peppery hair. All surfaces, from counter tops to the stacks of pots and dishes, were cloaked in a good inch of the snowy stuff.
‘Oh, Gloria was very good to us when we arrived in Lewisham. A great friend,’ Marjan said. Behind her, Bahar and Layla both nodded in agreement. ‘But, I think she was exaggerating a bit on my abilities. I was only a sous chef. She was the real talent at the restaurant.’
‘Yes, Gloria knows how to cook parmigiana and manicotti, but who doesn’t? Maybe to those English that is gourmet, but you should have seen my grandmother cook! Pfff! If she was still alive today she would be rich from her cooking, I tell you!’
Estelle Delmonico laughed and placed her chubby hands on her hips. The good-natured widow cocked her head and offered a smile to each of the three young women. Fate had it that, although blessed with the welcoming girth of child-bearing hips, she had never been able to give Luigi a baby of their own. It was one of her few regrets in an otherwise fortunate and colourful life. Thankfully, her barrenness had never turned to resentment; a blessing Estelle often accredited to her niece, on whom she was able to practise all the loving criticisms her own mother had lavished upon her. Gloria was a great source of release for Estelle Delmonico, and now she had sent her three darlings to look after as well.
‘Okay, then? You will take the store, eh?’
Marjan turned to Bahar and Layla, both of whom appeared to be asleep standing up. Their drawn, exhausted faces had the look of torshi, pickled onions that have been pulled from their bed of vinegar and salt. Who could blame them, really? It had been a long four days since they left London, shipping off their hastily packed boxes and throwing a few personal belongings into two worn, tartan suitcases; the same suitcases that had seen them through the Iranian desert a long time ago. The plane ride from London to Knock had been painfully tedious; Immigration and Customs even worse. Answering the same questions about their religion and ethnic background over and over again. Then two days holed up in a backpackers’ hostel in the nearby town of Castlebar, waiting for their boxes to arrive while they survived on white bread and some hard cheese that Marjan had bought from a corner grocery. Layla, of course, had complained all the way (such was the prerogative of her age), but Bahar had remained sullen, her big doe eyes wet with frightened tears.
But, thought Marjan, the worst certainly seemed behind them. Especially now that they were standing in this dusty little kitchen, with this generous Italian woman. It was time for a new start, time for them to take all the money they had in the world and finally make something of those years of hardship.
‘You stay, yes?’ Estelle Delmonico pulled a heavy, corroded key from a hidden pocket in her black dress. Toothy and archaic, it was the kind of key that would have released Pandora’s own demons.
‘Yes.’ Marjan nodded, accepting the key. ‘We’ll stay. How would you like the rent paid? Monthly or weekly?’
‘Agh, don’t worry about that now. You give it to me whenever you have it, yes? I think what is more important is to get you a big bowl of my minestrone soup. That would put some energy in this pretty face, eh?’ Mrs Delmonico walked over to Layla and lightly patted her left cheek.
Marjan, determined to keep up the momentum that had carried them from London, over the Irish Sea and into this land of crazed sheep and dizzying roads, shook her head, more to her sisters than to the jolly widow.
‘Thank you, but I’m afraid we can’t. There is so much to do. Bahar and Layla have to unpack, and I have to get to Dublin as soon as possible for ingredients. It would be much quicker than trying to find some of the food we need here, I suspect,’ she said.
‘Hah! You are right! My Luigi would sometimes get so red in the face about these village markets. Mini-markets, they call them! I could find more in my mama’s back garden in Napoli than in most of these mini-markets.’
‘Yes, Naples – Napoli, sounds beautiful. I hear the erberias there are filled with the most wonderful vegetables. I hope I’ll be able to find everything we need for our menu in Dublin. We want to open the café by next Monday. The first day of spring,’ said Marjan.
‘Monday? Five days only? No, no. You will give yourselves more time, I think. Why the rushing? Wait a few more days,’ said Mrs Delmonico, shaking her head in matronly disapproval.
‘Monday is Bahar’s birthday,’ Layla piped up, suddenly awake.
‘And it’s No Rooz, the Iranian New Year. That’s when Persians start their calendar year, the first day of spring,’ Marjan explained. Originally a Zoroastrian holiday marked by thirteen days of feasting and merriment, No Rooz, or ‘New Day’ is now celebrated by all Iranians. It’ll be a good omen to start things off fresh on such a day. And I think we’ll make it, if we get started soon,’ Marjan said pointedly.
‘Oh, you young girls. So much ambition! I will leave you alone to do what you have to do. Maybe I come by on your New Year’s, yes? I will tell you a little about the crazy people that live here. To prepare you. Okay?’ Estelle Delmonico planted a departing kiss on each of their cheeks, holding their faces in that warm Italian way of hers that took them all by surprise.
Five busy days had passed since the little widow turned over the key to the old pastry shop, and the girls had worked a great deal of magic in that time. While Marjan took the tortoise CIE train across the endless, grassy-knolled countryside to Dublin, Bahar and Layla set about the arduous task of transforming Papa’s Pastries into an Eastern-flavoured oasis. With its ashy white walls, peeling posters of gondoliers, a burnt-out neon Lavassa coffee sign, faded flags and maps of the boot-shaped country, the old shop had needed a lot of work.
Two large, wooden display counters occupied most of the terracotta-tiled floor. When Papa’s Pastries first opened in 1946 a younger Estelle had covered the countertops and the shop’s four metal tables with tartan tablecloths. The green and red check had turned a sickly yellow and orange in the intervening decades, and much of the binding weave crumbled into Bahar’s hands as she lifted the musty cloths from the tables. Estelle had fashioned the seating area as a place where customers would mingle, soaking the crusty edges of Luigi’s lovingly baked chocolate and anise biscotti in their cappuccinos as they listened to Billie Holiday croon on an old Victrola. But, in the thirty-four years the Delmonicos’ pastry shop was open, Estelle’s tartan tables were hardly used at all, except as a place for tired housewives to dump their grocery bags and rumpled children. These exhausted, sallow-faced women would pay nervously for their crusty country loaves – and an occasional macadamia biscuit to shut drooling infantile mouths – before rushing out again into the rainy streets. After the cappuccino machine broke down in the winter of 1956, its pipes frozen by a freak ice storm raging outside, Luigi did not bother fixing it. Instead, he used the gargantuan installation as extra shelving for the model Ferrari cars he built in his spare time.
The cars were long gone now, but the cappuccino machine had stayed. Bahar and Layla spent nearly three hours disassembling its parts before unscrewing the whole contraption from its base. Lifting the machine off the wall, the girls discovered the original colour of the centuries-old shop – an ugly greenish-brown that looked like cold turf. But that miserable colour was gone now, as was the whitewash of the other walls. Bahar and Layla had bathed the entire shop with the house paint Estelle Delmonico had given them, the day she showed them the space.
‘Take it, take it. There are paintbrushes and rollers too. I bought it all just before my Luigi died, from that good-for-nothing John Healy. He owns the hardware shop near the church. Pfff! I said to him, “Mr Healy, I need some good, white paint. No cream or yellow.” Luigi liked white. “Very clean,” he said, “makes everything big.” So that Healy man, he give me paint on sale. I bring here and open it and look!’
Mrs Delmonico prised the lids off of two paint tins in the corner of the upstairs flat. The paint, even in the dark room, pulsed out a vermilion that the three girls had seen in only one other place – within the incorruptible flesh of the fruits from the pomegranate tree in the garden of their childhood home.
‘I take it back and said to him, “Mr Healy, there is a big mistake. This is not white. A beautiful colour, but not white.” And do you know what he said to me, eh? “Mrs Delmonico, I can’t give your money back. You opened the tins already.” Can you believe this? I tell you, that man, he never had a wife. Has a big house with beautiful furniture, but all alone! Why? Because he is miserable! Agh, look, I am getting crazy all over again and it was five years ago! Maybe the paint is not so good any more, eh?’
But the paint was just fine. After a bit of a stir the colour regulated itself to an even brighter version than the spectacular vermilion Estelle had awakened. When the girls stripped the walls and gave them a taste of colour, the paint changed again, clotting into the dark crimson of Shiraz wine grapes.
On Saturday afternoon, after three days of coughing on sawdust and breathing paint fumes, Bahar and Layla both fell on to the solitary mattress in the upstairs flat. They slept through the whole night without stirring, and did not wake until Marjan’s return from her shopping excursion early on Sunday morning. Groggy-eyed and with bitter breath, the two girls stumbled down the staircase and followed their eldest sister out of the kitchen door. They crossed the small back garden – a fenced-in patch of soggy, overgrown grass – and stepped on to a narrow, cobblestone alleyway that was shared by all the businesses on the right side of Main Mall. There, in the pre-dawn moonlight, stood a beat-up, lime green van with peace signs painted on its side panels.
‘I found the van in the Irish Times. Paid some young kid five hundred Irish for it. Not the prettiest thing, I know, but it braved the rocky roads all right. And the brakes are good, too. I almost ran into a sheep – or at least I think it was a sheep – but stopped just in time. Come on, I bought as much as I could.’ Marjan motioned to the van’s back doors, and as soon as she opened them, the memories came spilling out.
A treasure-trove of spices that would have made the thieving Ali Baba jealous sat huddled in one corner of the van. The motherly embrace of advieh – a mixed all-spice of crushed rose petals, cardamom, cinnamon, and cumin – the warm womb of turmeric; and that spice worth greater in weight than gold – za’feran, saffron.
Like their home in Iran, their flat in Lewisham was always filled with these and other sumptuous grindings of barks and plant seeds. Though they had only left Lewisham a week ago, it seemed to be much longer. And no matter how intoxicating the smells were, this reawakening of the senses came with the price of memories none of them wanted to think about. At least not yet.
Bahar and Layla helped Marjan unload the boxes of spices, jars of vine leaves and bags of pistachios, almonds and dates she had found in an Algerian grocery on the outskirts of the capital city. Marjan had also purchased five kilos of feta, but she informed her sisters that this would be the last shop-bought cheese for a while, as they would start making their own to save time and money. Layla groaned at the thought of squeezing dripping cheesecloth, but Bahar didn’t mind; she would make feta every day if it meant Marjan would not be leaving them again for another cross-country shopping trip.
The last of the van’s inventory came in the form of two long fold-out tables and twelve wooden chairs, which Marjan had found at a second-hand shop in the town of Mullingar. The long, communal-style tables would complete the cosy look she had in mind.
Marjan made one more trip in the green hippie van early that Sunday morning, driving to the storage facility outside Castlebar where the shipping company had deposited their eight boxes and four Persian rugs. Unrolled now in the shop’s front room, the two larger Qashqui rugs told stories of primary-coloured villagers who poured endless cups of golden tea and danced in honour of their sun god. These two covered up most of the shop’s cold tile floors, while two smaller rugs – woven slowly by blind old men – hung opposite one another so that their delicate, filigreed patterns could be fully appreciated. The vermilion walls complemented the new art work wonderfully, bringing out the roses that bordered the corners of one rug, while contrasting with the mint-green leaves of the other.
From the weary cardboard boxes came the shining tools of their new trade – what would truly set them apart from the rest of the businesses on Main Mall. Bahar unwrapped the items that she had collected over the years from Salvation Army sales and the odd suburban car boot sale around London. There were ceramic teapots in aubergine, mustard and midnight blue (good for one, sweeter still when shared between two drinkers); and forty small, thin glasses with curved handles, set in gold- and silver-plated holders etched with arabesque swirls. Bahar gingerly lined the tea glasses up on the counter where the cappuccino machine had been stationed. She tucked the teapots into the counter’s glass-panelled belly, where they sat prettily next to twenty glass containers of loose-leaf teas, ranging from bergamot to hibiscus to oolong.
The larger counter, which sat closer to the shop’s front door, had yet to be filled with Marjan’s sweet creations. On the wall behind the counter ran a dark wooden shelf. Layla, the tallest of the three, was given the unsavoury task of scrubbing it, driving spatula and sponge through the stony clumps of baguettes and bread loaves that had petrified after the Italian baker’s death. The shelf was now spotless and exhibiting better preserved artefacts: etched copper and brass trays, a framed woven calligraphy that read ‘Tea’ in Farsi, five old-style samovars (one belonging to the girls’ grandmother, which Bahar had bundled up in her coat that day they left Iran for good), and a large print of a painting showing a traditional Iranian tea house (men only), complete with indoor fountain and hookah pipes.
The other brass samovars on display belonged to an older generation, precursors to the large, electric machine sitting on the counter next to the tea glasses. The diuretic samovar was plugged in and ready to be filled with water that it would boil and labour out into tea-filled pots. It was this very samovar, with its enticing golden gleam, that Thomas McGuire had just glimpsed through the cracks in the newspapered window.
The second tray of dolmehs were rolled and ready to submit to the will of the hot oven. Marjan pushed them into the heat and sighed.
‘Well, that should last us the next few days. What do you think?’ She fanned herself with an oven glove. The baklava they had baked earlier that morning was sitting on the kitchen island next to the first tray of dolmehs, but there was still so much left to do. And they only had four hours left before opening! She’d have to get started on the red lentil soup next.
Layla clunked down the stairs, pausing on the low landing as she leaned over the banister, swinging her legs. At fifteen, she was already fully aware of the effects these long, exquisite limbs had on men of all ages.
‘I couldn’t find the aloe anywhere. It wasn’t in that box like you said.’
‘It’s all right. It stopped hurting.’ Bahar held her thumb slanted, like a reluctant hitchhiker. ‘So much for a good omen.’
‘Bahar, please. No negativity right now. We need all the luck we can get our hands on. Look how far we’ve come already,’ Marjan said, waving her wooden spoon around the warm, inviting kitchen.
Bahar and Layla set aside their own private thoughts to survey the fantastic bounty of tastes and colours around them. The ambrosial food