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Culinary myths and legends
For as long back as I can remember, I've been fed an urban legend, a long-assumed belief in the specialness of special food. This is the kind of food that is served to extended family on special occasions, or to visiting guests “from abroad”, and plated on literal silver platters.
To be clear, these are not casually prepared meals for two on a Thursday, but feasts reserved for something special and most commonly on the most sacred of all days: Sunday.
Having said that, in my most recent years, I have had the pleasure of being graced by the wonder of this specialness simply by virtue of arriving from another country, all for the low cost of an international plane ticket. Living abroad, I always looked forward to coming home to my favourite meals lovingly prepared and waiting for me.
Rites and rituals
Vine leaves are often a few days in the “making” which, as I came to learn later, consists of mostly “planning” and “discussing”, and always lovingly fussed over by the matriarch of the family.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that the very epitome of these dishes is stuffed vine leaves (ورق عنب) which, due to the hours of hand-rolled prep, takes the cake when it comes to specialness.
Now, of course, I look forward to these meals as much as any other person, and often so much so that I skip breakfast and maybe dinner the night before in anticipation of the tasty hand-wrapped mystical morsels.
On these most special of Sundays, it used to be my late grandmother Teta Renée at the helm, dutifully assisted in sous-chef mode by the next generation of females down. With the guests taken care of in the living room, busied with hors d'oeuvres of fatayer (spinach pyramid pies) and sfiha (mini meat pies), the women of the household are at work in the kitchen. Any younger ladies loitering around are usually given the option to peek at what is going on, which is usually a little bustling and a lot of gossiping.
Once all the cooking is done, and at the very last moment, the most physically capable male member of the family (usually the patriarch’s eldest son) is enlisted to come in and carry the platter out. In the case of vine leaves, this male specimen is expected to do the honours of flipping the big imposing pot over the expansive platter, and deftly removing it with the aplomb of a rabbit-in-the-hat magician. The ta-da moment reveals a marvellous towering arrangement of stuffed vine leaves, crowned with a fan of lamb chops, and dotted with stuffed courgettes.
(It is worth noting that the gentleman entrusted with this pivotal role often gets far more credit than he deserves for the platter arriving at the table, however in a culture that has always valued the presence of a man at home, there is never any shame displayed in the disproportionate amount of praise he receives. He also often gets his pick of the first lamb chops.)
The truth is out there
Stuffed vine leaves are venerated but familiar. In theory, I know how they are made, what goes in them, and how they are cooked, but over the years, I have convinced myself that there must be some alchemy or magic that is attached to them, giving them that special status.
I have spent much time wondering when I will finally be invited to the sacred circle of culinary trust, and to be (under cover of night, I’m sure) taught the ways of the vine leaves. But the days come and the days go and no such invitation arrives. As I inch closer and closer to my late-30s (and away from my mid-30s) I begin to wonder if that day will ever come.
One cold March afternoon, it becomes clear that it’s time to take matters into my own hands.
Once I decide to “do it” the sobering practicalities of cooking set in. After a few verbal consultations with my mom in Beirut, a quick “tell me what you know” conversation with my cousin and his wife in New York, and a couple of helpful voice note tips from my aunt Diana, I feel more or less prepared for an attempt. It’s daunting, and while I am not expecting to make the best meal that I've ever tasted, I feel at least somewhat prepared to try.
The key is to this meal is two-fold: the shopping and (obviously) the prep. I start by gathering the ingredients that I need, some harder to get than others. Thankfully I happen upon a package of preserved vine leaves on a recent trip to Munich where a fellow foodie friend takes me on a much-appreciated excursion to a district of Middle Eastern stores, packed with familiar ingredients and even more familiar exchanges between shoppers and store-owners.
I also manage to get hold of the name of a butcher hidden in the meandering depths of Vienna’s Naschmarkt, a butcher that (a very discerning friend assures me) will give me the best versions of the cuts of meat I will need; in this case, lamb chops and some minced beef.
Luckily, I also have the right short-grained rice, having stumbled upon it in a sprawling market a few months prior when I had first mused about making this dish; my confidence in the purchase is reinforced by the little picture on the package, which is of none other than the dish I am planning to make.
Making my way home, meat in hand, and a spring in my step, I marvel at how few ingredients I actually need to put all this together and, realising that all the “planning” and “discussing” is over, a mellow sort of panic sinks in as I realise it’s finally time to tackle the “making”.
Rollin’ in the deep (a.k.a. the “recipe”)
The meat mix is where finesse is initially required. There is a lot to get right here: the proportioning of meat to rice, the soaking of the rice prior (ten minutes is what I’ve been advised), the spicing and the salting (good luck and pray to the vine leaf gods), and of course, any secret family ingredients that make their way in (I’ve been sworn to secrecy, sorry!)
Then it’s showtime. I initially think about putting on an episode of the Handmaid’s Tale to entertain me as I roll but then worry I’ll relate too much to the Marthas, so instead I settle on an episode of FRIENDS, where I can channel Monica’s obsessive energy into perfect-ish rolls.
The technique itself is simple and meditative (a cooking cliché I simply can’t seem to get away from) and after rolling about ten or fifteen leaves, I fall into a soothing rhythm—a flow—and I feel like I absolutely have to keep going; that even a small pause would mean giving up the progress I have made so far. Honing my technique becomes rooted in obsessive detail, like identifying the optimal size of a leaf, calibrating the optimal amount of filling, and settling on the optimal tightness of the roll. I keep going, until I’ve run out of filling, and the rows of similar but not quite exactly equal morsels sit before me, resplendent like a newly woven carpet that has flaws only the maker can see.
I set the always ready Le Creuset on the stove, wishing it an audible “good luck” for the task it is about to embark on. I then turn to the lamb chops, which are looking so remarkably delicious I momentarily consider eating them as is, cavewoman style (I’m sorry vegetarians, please look away!)
I salt and pepper them generously on both sides, and soon they’re ready to marry the butter. Over medium-high heat, I sear them on both sides, and in that moment of sizzle, I completely forget about the existence of the vine leaves. This in itself is a feast, and I make a mental note to return to this idea one day…
Once they have acquired an appetizing hue, I remove the whole pot off the heat and let it cool down for a minute or two before beginning assembly.
Unfortunately (or fortunately!) I miss the memo that I should transfer the chops to a new pot before layering the vine leaves over and instead end up cooking the whole thing in the butter, lamb fat juices, and all. Yes, life is short and sometimes we must live on the edge.
I try to make my arrangement pretty, but then settle on functional; a common theme in my cooking style. Once the vine leaves are layered and prepped, it’s time for The Plate. I have one picked out just for the occasion, to act as a heroic weight to keep the vine leaves in place as they cook. Then it’s back on the stove, medium heat, enough water and some lemon juice to scarcely reach the plate, and cover the pot. All that’s left to do now is prepare the laban (a yoghurt sauce made with chopped cucumbers, dried mint, and if you like, a crushed garlic clove) and snack on whatever fatayer are left.
Almost an hour later, when it’s almost time to serve, I look over at my one hungry guest and in a confident voice reminiscent of all the matriarchs that came before me, I invite him to the table to tuck in — “Tfaddal!”
P.s. If you’re wondering whether the afore-mentioned gentleman was required to flip the pot over onto a platter, the answer is no. An enamelled cast-iron pot is too heavy to risk it, and I am yet to be the proud owner of a silver platter. So in a break from tradition, I make the tough choice to leave out that drama this time around!
Catch up on the internet with me
The Julia (Child) Jubilee event by Cherry Bombe, hosted by Ina Garten and Stanley Tucci. Join me!
Mission ImPASTAble, a podcast series from Dan Pashman of The Sporkful — this 5-episode arc tells the inspiring tale of a man on a mission to make something, and in this case, this means inventing, making, marketing, and selling a new pasta shape!
Did you know about Carbonara Day? It is celebrated annually on April 6, and this year unintentionally (but marvellously) by Alison Roman (I have yet to make this one, but follow me on Instagram @forage_with_me for when I inevitably make this for a midnight snack one night.)
Life & Thyme is my most recent foodie find, sent my way by the ever-tasteful Tala Soubra. Both beautiful and meaningful, and a pleasure to scroll through, with a video series I’m really enjoying.
Here’s an important brain-tickler from CNN to fuel your foodie soul-searching. It’s something to keep in mind the next time you or someone around you complains about “all that stuff” you have to read before you get to the free recipe you found, lovingly and thoughtfully shared on someone’s blog. This is a really important debate and conversation, and one which I’ll be thinking about and reading about more and more. If you have thoughts, hit reply. I’d love to discuss and share mine too!
For those of you hanging out with me in the New York Times Cooking Community group on Facebook, Vice wrote about us! For the rest of you, read to learn more about the drah-mah. As an active member of this group, I also (of course) have many mixed feelings on this topic, which I’ll save for a rainy day (or podcast).
Finally, and the perfect segue from the previous item is maybe the most internet-y thing on the internet that I can remember reading in recent history: a story in the New Yorker about an unlikely group of people brought together in the middle of a pandemic by their joint taste in couches. That’s all I’ll say. (Also, sign me up for the Netflix show.)
Ciao
Thank you for reading. Thank you for sharing. Thank you for cooking.
Before I say “ciao” for I don’t know how long, I’ll leave you with a last bite—the most special of leftovers: devoured cold from the fridge, dipped in the last of the yoghurt sauce, and eaten by hand as I stand at the kitchen island—grateful, happy, and as special as can be.
Beans, I absolutely adored this Newsletter! Warak Anab is such a special dish! It's always on everyone's top 5 dishes they love. I can think of nothing more fun than rolling some vine leaves together :) Thank you for the inspiration. I must make this dish during Ramada (I should be leaving work earlier). I will keep you posted. (btw what's the family secret?) Some people add ground coffee beans to their meat. Imagine that. Love you.
Hello