Communist Cuisine? Up To You, Comrade!

May 6, 2022 Gagik Stepan-Sarkissian

The Book of Tasty and Healthy Food (Kniga o vkusnoi i zdorovoi pishche), Collective Work (Institute of Nutrition of the Academy of Medical Scientists of the USSR) (Food Industry Publishing House, 1939)

‘It is half-past ten, the breakfast hour, and we must go down to the dining-room. There isn’t much to say about the gastronomic pleasures of Russia. Rarely fresh, the food is prepared in too rudimentary a fashion for the palate of the French gourmand. The service is slow and clumsy, but, during our entire trip, we shall have plenty to eat. Only one drink is possible – tea. Beer and wine are unthinkable and outrageously expensive.’ These are word of Denise Émile-Schreiber, printed in Vogue magazine in 1932 in an article entitled Let’s Go to Russia.

This testimony rings true given the context. In the 1920s, Bolshevik preoccupations were to rapidly industrialise the vast expanses of underdeveloped territories comprising the USSR and urbanise the illiterate, rural population. The break-neck modernisation worked, with millions getting educated and moving to the factories in towns, as later transpired, to the great harm of the countryside and communities. Early Soviet policy, ethnographer Ruzanna Tsaturyan’s study demonstrates on Armenia’s example, was aimed at emancipating the women, most of whom were stuck in the traditional role of the house-wife, and having them join the vital working classes. These needed to be well and cheaply fed. Consequently, the function of food was to be fuel to a healthy body for a healthy mind (witness white gowns of state-run canteen staff). It was only from the 1950s that aesthetic considerations and the language of pleasure started entering food talk.

In the dying days of the Soviet Union that I remember, food was not easily available, or affordable for average households. Queues for basics such as bread and dairy were the norm, as shortages were common. The joke went: a man asks at the grocery store, ‘Could you please cut me some salami?’. The salesperson’s reply: ‘Of course, I can, if you bring it to me.’

We did not starve, however, and both fridge and belly were full, though groceries ‘ate’ the bulk of the family budget: fresh market produce was supplemented by Konserva (tinned) or Polufabrikat (pre-made) and washed down with Kompot (fruit juice). The collective farms supplied, and women – for it was overwhelmingly women – magicked up various dishes from scarce, standard ingredients. As for public places, state-run canteens fed the masses of workers and restaurants (also state-owned), not accessible to the most citizens, The Soviet Union ‘just didn’t have a developed restaurant culture,’ says food historian Glenn Mack.

It is impossible to talk about Soviet cuisine without talking about the communist social order. One could be justified in dismissing it as an artificial creation of a state bent on homogenisation. Then there is the association with deprivation: surely, where there is the Gulag, there is no place for gourmandise. For people who lived there and remember the country, the emotional attitude towards the totalitarian social order may cloud objectivity. Consequently, a number of ex-Soviet people happily rejected the old, familiar and formulaic dishes and embraced the new, trendy and indulgent ones. (The somewhat ironic result is that craving variety, the world seems to be universally eating pasta and cheesecake.)

So why the increase in the number of books on Soviet food culture (pre-Ukraine War)?

One reason is that now that the USSR is far enough in the past to allow some distance and humour, its social aspects have a retro feel. Perhaps predictably, the empire nostalgia had also sparked a proliferation of Soviet-themed restaurants. From Berlin to Yerevan, Prague and Saint-Petersburg, and even to Hanoi in Vietnam, there is a USSR-themed dining establishment or a back-in-the-USSR experience tour of some sort. Books such as Please to the Table and Mastering the Art of Soviet Cooking by Anya von Bremzen et al, Kachka: A Return to Russian Cooking by Bonnie Frumkin Morales et al, and Mamushka: Recipes from Ukraine & beyond and Kaukasis The Cookbook: The Culinary Journey Through Georgia, Azerbaijan & Beyond by Olia Hercules, exercised a collective need for reflection and amnesty of sorts for a unique epoch.

Showcasing Soviet cuisine is the latest arrival on the cookery bookshelves. CCCP Cook Book: True Stories of Soviet Cuisine by a husband-and-wife team Olga and Pavel Syutkin (2015), is a collection of genesis stories, sixty updated recipes, and retro photographs. The Syutkins are regular faces on Russian television and have authored a number of research articles and books on the history of Russian and Soviet food in Russian. Some recipes are steeped in the Russian tradition, such as Pirozhki (pasties with various fillings), yet others go back to the 1950s, the abolition of rationing and Stalin’s expansionism.

So, what is dining Communist-style?

‘Medicinal’ could be one word, with names such as Doktorskaya kolbasa (Doctor’s sausage); ‘pretentious’ could be another, with Muzhskoy Ideal (Men’s Ideal) for a cake. What was an amalgamation of various national cuisines of the constituent republics (Uzbek plov, Georgian Kharcho, Ukrainian Borscht) was mixed with the imperial Russian (Beef Stroganoff/Stroganov) and peasant food (Solyanka), as well as Austria-Hungarian (Goulash) and French influences (Cutlet).

Yet all of this had an ideological foundation: The Book of Tasty and Healthy Food (1939), the communist manifesto of diet and lifestyle, compiled by none other than Nutrition scientists at the Academy of Medical Sciences of the USSR, and spearheaded by Anastas Mikoyan, the grandee of the Politburo, diplomat, then commissar of food, and the godfather of ice-cream and popcorn in the USSR. By the time I was old enough to remember, every Soviet (Armenian) household had a copy of this hardback, complete with advice on how to set the dinner table.

Later, constituent republics acquired their own, localised versions, and upon Mikoyan’s initiative, Armenian Cuisine also came out in 1960. My mother’s dog-eared copy is in Armenian – one of only 60,000 out of 350,000 (the rest in Russian). Though a family heirloom, I do not suppose that people still living in the former Soviet space would rush to consult or re-vitalise this book. Meanwhile, its many editions are gathering dust in countless apartments even if waiting to shake off dust too – of history, of associations, or baggage.

In our family, we continue to make the salads Olivier (known as ‘Russian’) though we are trying to move away from Soviet quantities of sour cream or mayonnaise used. Vinegret (corrupted from the French dressing) is another usual suspect on the New Year’s Eve feast table.

As well as traditional Dolma (stuffed vine leaves, cabbage leaves and vegetables), we roll Blinchiki (pancakes stuffed with mincemeat, mushroom or cottage cheese) for special occasions.

For comforting breakfasts, Oladi (puffy pancakes) are as natural as Pamidorov dz’vadzegh (tomato omelette), and for warm nights in, Georgian Chakhokhbili (chicken stew) and Ukrainian Vareniki (dumplings) are equally welcome.

As for dessert, years ago I was served ‘Armenian honey cake’ in a restaurant in England’s Windsor – made by an Armenian ex-pat’s firm in Czech Republic. And even though Medovik (honey cake) has many iterations across many ex-Soviet nations and features the quintessentially Soviet ingredient of condensed milk, according to Wikipedia, it goes back to the Russian empire of the 19th century. My version of choice belongs to my best friend’s aunt who has lived in Armenia’s northern Tavush province all her life.

So, though I will not be preparing the marinated Selyodka pod shuboy (Herring in a fur coat) that appears in CCCP Cook Book, I might crave Borscht and Ptichye moloko (Bird’s milk) cake every now and then.

Written by Naneh Hovhannisyan for “Breaking Bread With Neighbours”, a short series on culinary culture across the region.

Naneh grew up as a closet gourmand in the latter days of Soviet Armenia. She prides herself on taste - also called ‘gustatory’ – memory, and on her ability to survive on rounds of strong coffee alone. Cooking is for her an act of resistance, creativity and indulgence. She lives in England with her family, and in the time left from selling books for a living, tries to read them for pleasure.

Ahlan Wa Sahlan To Arab Hearth

April 23, 2022 Gagik Stepan-Sarkissian

The Arabesque Table: Contemporary Recipes from the Arab World by Reem Kassis (Phaidon, 2021)

In one of his many letters to Gostan Zarian, his admiring younger friend Lawrence Durrell suggests a trip to Beirut: ‘it is at the foot of a huge mountain going straight up into the sky; there is the most fantastic valley [on] the other side called the Bekaa which you must see: and the mountains are rich with running streams and rock-doves.’ This language, some would argue Orientalist, evokes images of the ‘Paris of the Orient’ in the days gone by. Yet, while politically, Lebanon - as much of the Levant - is in turmoil, culturally, the fascination with the East has not gone away. Witness the British Museum’s exhibitions – Inspired by the East: how the Islamic World influenced Western art (2020) and Epic Iran (2021).

On this background, enter The Arabesque Table, published bang in the middle of the current pandemic, though conceived well before. In fact, more than a cookbook, it is a dedication to home and heritage by a Palestinian emigrant who studied in the US, worked in business, had children, and for years collected her family recipes in an act of recovering lost comforts. In this, Kassis is part of a now established tandem of ethnically diverse authors such as Olia Hercules and Tiko Tuskadze, who entered food writing as cultural anthropologists, rather than trained chefs.

For this, Kassis stands out – with the research, the historic note, and the argument she is making. Still calling herself a Jerusalemite, this compatriot of Edward Said’s, of this Holy City’s famous Armenian potters from Kütahya, recalls the first recipe books since cuneiform inscriptions, written by Arabs, charts the course of certain ingredients around the globe, and asks ‘What is national cuisine?’.

She maintains that cooking practices and foodstuff distribution are regional things (i.e. Mesopotamia), not conforming to political boundaries. They are also ethnic, she says, talking of Armenians ‘who live across the world but share the same cuisine regardless of where they are’ (though some may contest this claim of uniformity). On the other hand, culinary culture is fluid, Kassis says, and, somewhat counter-intuitively, may include products not native to lands. Think of tomato in Italian dishes, chillies in Thai, and cocoa in Swiss chocolate – all products native to Mexico and South America, which reached Europe and Asia after the Spanish colonisation of the Americas.

With that said, we are plunged into a book divided according to main ingredients (e.g. grains and pulses, or pomegranates and lemons) which flags up vegetarian, dairy-free and other recipes, cooking time and portion numbers. Among the staples like mutabal and fatteh, basturma and sujuk, which Armenians in the Diaspora and the Republic alike will recognise, we find shakshuka, in a nod to the Maghreb, the west of Arab countries. And no, we do not get into the ‘is shakshuka a Jewish dish?’ debate, in the spirit of the above-mentioned regional understanding of cuisine. After all, as Kassis says on another note, ‘We may think of shawarma and falafel as unique to the Middle East, but can you find one culture across the world that does not take a kind of meat or vegetable and wrap it in some form of bread?’

*Lentil Bulgur Salad with Marinated Beet*

There is no tagine recipe, but we have been warned that the book reflects the author’s personal connection to the Levant.

My own introduction to the Arab cuisine came a roundabout way, later in life. In post-Soviet Yerevan opening up to wider world (incidentally, I was studying Arabic then), there was the odd shawarma bistro, the best-known being in Tumanyan Street, which my friends and I frequented. Nevertheless, considering Armenia’s proximity to the Middle East, foodwise, the dominant imprint on my upbringing, excluding Armenian home cooking, was Soviet and Russian.

Shortly after the breakout of civil war in Syria, Arab food stores started opening in my native Yerevan. They sold za’atar and tahini and a plethora of other things. These were new ventures of Syrian Armenians who had fled the country that had provided a safe haven to their forefathers fleeing persecution in Ottoman Turkey almost exactly a century before. In time, with eateries like Zeituna or New Kessab, they would also transform the restaurant scene in Yerevan. As here in England, supermarket shelves and restaurant menus have been transformed by hummus and tabbouleh.

From The Arabesque Table, I tried the Herb, Garlic, and Chili Stuffed Chicken Thighs, which smelled divine and looked appetizing, but had too much salt and chili and did not specify whether to cover the pan or not, so the end result had a lesser look but a rich taste and texture.

I also made the Lentil Bulgur Salad with Marinated Beet – a very wintry, substantial salad, which looked gorgeous and tasted good too. Here’s an extract from its introduction: ‘Overlooking the shores of the sea of Galilee, where the ancient city of Magdala once stood, now stands Magdalena, a restaurant named for the ancient city and birthplace of Mary Magdalene.’ Reminded of a lentil and raw beetroot salad that my mother makes, I had to stop myself from adding cumin seeds – an affliction to over-spice that may or may not pay off.

For armchair culinary travellers among you, looking for crossover with especially Western Armenian dishes, you will not be disappointed: a modern spin on a recipe for halaweh, or halva, awaits you. So does one on hareeseh, or harissa, a stew of wheat with meat. A variation of the latter from Armenia can also be found in Lavash by Kate Leahy et al.

A conservative when it comes to structure, I would have preferred to have chapters separated according to the daily meals (i.e. breakfast, lunch, and dinner) or types of course (starter, main, dessert), but the illustrations, the wealth of background information into the history of the ingredients, the exhaustive list of the source materials, and the easy-to-use index, make this criticism pale into insignificance. While my friends back in Yerevan complement their lahmajoon with kadayif, I am eyeing up the Reem Kassis Lemon Rosemary Semolina Cake – a variation on the Italian torta I once had at a Sicilian restaurant in London. But then, as was said before, whose recipe and where from is an ever-moveable feast.

Written by Naneh Hovhannisyan for “Breaking Bread With Neighbours”, a short series on culinary culture across the region.

Georgia on Our Mind, Georgia on My Plate

April 16, 2022 Gagik Stepan-Sarkissian

Supra: A Feast of Georgian Cooking by Tiko Tuskadze (Pavilion, 2017)

Growing up in 1980s’ Armenia, dinner parties with extended family on special occasions were a popular thing. On our long table – actually, several, joined together – were red and black Caspian caviar, tinned Latvian sprat, home-made spicy Georgian ajika and Russian Stolichny salad; sometimes also Uzbek plav, back then all belonging to one and the same country.

Among our guests was Aunt Alla, our glamorous neighbour. An ethnic Armenian from Georgia, a sister Soviet republic, she fitted the stereotype of a Tbilisian woman, the Parisian of the Transcaucasus, Queen Tamar personified - graceful, regal posture, elegant dress sense and culinary prowess. In summertime, she received sunny citrus fruits from her family in Georgia’s Black Sea coast; in wintertime, she made chicken satsivi, the Georgian equivalent of the Christmas turkey – my first Georgian main dish.

Since then, I have had countless slices of khachapuri (cheese bread) in Yerevan, varieties of lobio by my mother’s Laz friend, and platefuls of khinkali (dumplings with meat or alternative fillings) – in pre-pandemic Krakow, of all places.

All three dishes feature in Supra: A Feast of Georgian Cooking by Tiko Tuskadze, the London-based Georgian restaurateur. Through sketches of the life and times of Georgians of the late Soviet period, Tuskadze recalls school holidays at her family dacha and her gourmand grandmother’s myriad bean dishes during the early 1990s’ post-Soviet food shortages, civil war and energy crisis.

So how does Georgian cooking, as presented in Supra, compare with its nearest peers and those further afield?

If sofrito is the base in Italian sauces, the ground spice and walnut purée mixture is indelible in the Georgian ones. There is less rice than in a typical Iranian feast, fewer grains than in Turkish cooking, no lentils (other than red kidney and black beans) as found in the Armenian cuisine, and no pickles, in contrast to the Russian one. As for Soviet influences, mayonnaise and soured cream make several appearances.

Then there is the pomegranate, which others in the region (not least Armenians and Iranians) venerate and lay claim to it as being their national symbol. The initiated might notice other shared culinary creations, such as dolma, the stuffed cabbage or vine leaves named slightly differently around the Eastern Mediterranean, or lavash, the unleavened Armenian flatbread included on UNESCO’s list of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. Indeed, the concept of supra - a feast - with a procession of dishes, blurred boundaries between courses, and toasts and music, is a cultural feature of Georgia’s neighbouring Turkey (sofra) as well as Iran (sofreh).

*Author’s take on Tiko Tuskadze’s Kidney Bean Salad with Walnuts*

Lovers of high-carb foods will find filling, tasty breads, such as Adjaruli khachapuri, shaped like a boat, owing to Ajaria’s seaside location, with the egg in the middle signifying the sun. However, for a coastal country, Georgian cuisine is not associated with fish. Among desserts, uniquely in West Asia, you will find pelamushi - a purple jelly based on grape juice. When I had it at a London restaurant, it included pomegranate molasses and, in true Georgian fashion, added red wine. No grapes are used in the Supra recipes, so get used to sour green plums, found for instance in the tangy Tkemali sauce.

The abundance of herbs may take some getting used to for the Western palette: by Tuskadze’s own admission, walnut recipes are overwhelmingly numerous. However, the book has a clear structure, short instructions, and a great hack: rather than removing the sautéed onions, push them to the side of the pan before adding tomatoes to the centre. Warning: most portion sizes are too large (for a house-full of supra guests?). There is hardly anything that would be hard to source or execute for an average, if experimental, cook like myself. Two exceptions are dried marigold and blue fenugreek, an herb endemic to Georgia, required for the suneli spice mix and tricky to find.

*Author’s take on Tiko Tuskadze’s Borscht*

I tried the satisfying Nigvziani Ziteli Lobio (kidney bean salad with walnuts), using cranberries instead of pomegranate seeds, and Beetroot Soup (yes, the Slavic influence). The vegetarian Borscht, my first carrot- and potato-free one, substitutes cabbage with fennel and Bramley apples in a nod towards Tuskadze’s changed geography. The result is tart and light on the digestive system. Because food gets adopted and adjusted (remember when curry became Britain’s national dish?), Tuskadze, having tried her recipes through living in England and running her restaurants called Little Georgia, also recommends alternatives – including an alternative to sulguni cheese - one portion of feta with half a portion of mozzarella.

Georgia, the land of polyphonic singing, of Rustaveli, Pirosmani and Parajanov, is becoming an accessible tourist destination, while its food is making waves abroad. One Georgian restaurant I recently visited in London was full of Russian speakers; another had an overwhelmingly British crowd. Then again, Georgian cuisine had for decades been revered throughout the Soviet empire, owing in no small amount to Stalin’s roots and culinary preferences, and so Aladebi (or Oladi in Russia) breakfast pancakes, Chakhokhbili (chicken stew) and ajapsandali vegetable stew with aubergines, a staple in the Caucasus and Levant alike, have long since entered the Armenian household. The latter is garnished with purple basil, which Tuskadze calls ‘pink’.

As is typical of first-generation immigrants, underlying Supra is a recollection of lost social and familial moorings, an attempt to re-create tastes and smells of one’s homeland. Yet, whilst vignettes affectionately paint a picture of a bygone world, its main function is to give the English-speaking cook an easy-to-follow introduction to the cuisine of ‘the other Europe’. It does this without being overbearing, with sweet illustrations, retro family photos and stylish photography of somewhat Eastern-looking food, like the rounded, intricate, ornamental letters of the Georgian alphabet. But then what is cooking if not a "landscape in a saucepan", as food writer Claudia Roden termed it (quoting Catalan author Josep Pla)? And what is food if not culture on a plate?

Written by Naneh Hovhannisyan for “Breaking Bread With Neighbours”, a short series on culinary culture across the region.

Imagine Iran: Quest for Modern Persian Cuisine

April 9, 2022 Gagik Stepan-Sarkissian

The Saffron Tales: Recipes from the Persian Kitchen by Yasmin Khan (Bloomsbury, 2016)

When I bought my first jar of saffron – empty-looking, with few precious strands sealed in cellophane - I knew that I was serious about cooking: not even a kitchen novice like me makes such an investment unless they mean business.

Saffron flowers only for ten to twelve days a year, strictly needs to be picked on the day the flowers open, plus each crocus has a mere three stigma. And Iran is the world’s largest producer of this labour-intensive and most expensive spice of all.

*Yoghurt with Beetroot and Mint (Borani-ye Laboo)*

Nuggets like this populate British-Iranian broadcaster and author Yasmin Khan’s The Saffron Tales. A familiar name on the cookery shelves in the UK bookshops, her work challenges stereotypes of the Middle Easterners with recipe-and-story compilations such as Zaitun and Ripe Figs, which feature her travels in Palestine and the Eastern Mediterranean respectively. She is also a human rights campaigner, famously cooking in refugee camps at the centre of the (pre-Ukrainian) migrant crisis, such as on the Greek island Lesbos.

Raised in an Iranian family in Britain, Khan recalls grandparents bringing foodstuffs on their visits to England and visiting Iran herself as a child over the years. These stays with family exposed her to the colours, tastes, smells and textures of the food from Iran’s diverse regions. Regions, which she, who has ‘an obsession with pomegranates’, traversed for the book, conversing with the locals and testing their recipes.

It has been said that there are only three great cuisines in the world: French, Chinese and Turkish, and that all the others are variations on these themes. The markers that made these cuisines dominant include a multicultural imperial heritage, access to spices, and sheer geographic reach. Professional chefs do not trust these sweeping statements but point out the main difference between them: the French make sauces separately, the Chinese minimise sauces and prefer stir frying, while in the Turkish cuisine main ingredients are cooked with sauces. The Persian method, judging by The Saffron Tales, veers towards cooking all together in one pot, which resembles the Turkish and even Indian technique. Process aside, some tastes also, such as fenugreek leaf (not seeds), known as methi in India, bring the Silk Road to mind.

Khan’s treasure trove of recipes is enough for many a sofreh (a table laden with various dishes without a clear separation between starters and mains or side dishes). Among them is tahdig (crispy rice crust), various kuku (a type of frittata), as well as sabzi (a fresh herbs platter, as is traditional in Armenia). There are show-stoppers such as Pomegranate soup (Aash-e anar), Lime and saffron chicken kebabs (Jujeh kabob), and Orange blossom and date pudding (Ferni). But the novelty for me were dried limes: these tough brown balls that go in stews whole and gradually release their intense flavour and juices, have now entered my spice cupboard.

I made Yoghurt with beetroot and mint (Borani-ye Laboo) – a pretty, pink salad, perfect for the winter. However, feta cheese on top of yoghurt felt excessive, so I improvised with pomegranate seeds instead. As a main, I made apricot and prune and chicken stew (Aloo Mosamaa) with aromatic, pestle-and-mortar ground saffron, which gave the juices a blood orange hue. I served it with rice, and it was delicious, with plenty left over.

A Kickstarter project, the names of the publication’s backers are listed, in a gesture similar to that of the authors of Lavash, who credited everyone who enabled their own travels and community-supported book. The instructions are clear, the dishes practical, and ingredients such as barberries (the variety native to the region) or dishes such as Stuffed aubergines (Dolmeh) would strike Armenians (especially from the Republic) as familiar features of our shared culinary landscape.

*Apricot and Chicken Stew* *(Aloo Mosamaa)*

Among the Armenian community in London, a fair number are from Iran. Most of them emigrated in the immediate post-1979 period. Many have fond memories of life in pre-revolutionary Iran. Every Saturday, we used to meet at the Armenian School and gossip while our children had lessons. Notes on food – as different as our backgrounds - soon became a standing item.

‘’Have you not tried eggy date?! Not heard of Gheysavah?!’’ Shakeh from Tehran asked once, in a demonstration of the diverse culinary backgrounds we Armenians have through living far and wide. ‘’Date… and… egg?’’ I said. Growing up in Armenia, the tomato omelette was the eggy dish of choice, known as Pamidorov dz’vadzegh in common, Russified vernacular.

Ferdowsi reading "Shahnameh" poem to Shah Mahmud of Ghazni by Vardges Surenyants (1913, copyright National Gallery of Armenia)

Now I have tried Yasmin Khan’s version of the Date and cinnamon omelette (Gheysavah). Shakeh was right – it was filling, as well as tasty in its sweet-and-savoury combination of ingredients. But then contrast is adventure for the palate, and also something the Persian cuisine relishes. Examples include the Persimmon (the sharon fruit), goat’s cheese and rocket salad; the Whole baked fish stuffed with walnuts and pomegranates (Mahi shekampor), alongside a fantastic range of recipes with beans and pulses, leafy greens and vegetables, grains and dried fruits.

The Saffron Tales is a user-friendly hardback, in a beautiful cover with an Islamic pattern. It has a comprehensive section on the Persian - or Iranian – (used inter-changeably) store cupboard, photographs glimpsing the modern life in the now-not-so-accessible Islamic Republic, and a strong sense of the riches of its gardens, fields and mountains. Do you want tea? They grow it over there. Pistachios? No problem. Rice and fruits of every stripe, and spices, spices, spices too. Some simple chapter headings are Breakfast, Soups, and Salads, yet within each, we are taken to a different part of Iran: the olive groves on the Caspian Sea, or to Hafez’s homeland Shiraz, or to Bandar Abbas in the south-east, on the shores of the Persian Gulf. Though the chapter headings and recipes (sadly lacking in preparation and cooking time indications) do not strictly reflect the region they delve into, my curiousity peaked reading about young filmmakers, farmers and pharmacists Khan meets and learns from. As for names like Isfahan and Shiraz, their musicality conjures up images of runny honey and flowing rose water, which is made by simmering rose petals in barrels of water and collecting and condensing the rising steam. And this is yet another nugget from this arm-chair travel, or rather kitchen stool travel of a book.

Written by Naneh Hovhannisyan for “Breaking Bread With Neighbours”, a short series on culinary culture across the region.

Armenian Cuisine? Which Armenian Cuisine?

February 21, 2022 Gagik Stepan-Sarkissian

Lavash: The Bread that Launched 1,000 Meals, Plus Salads, Stews, and Other Recipes from Armenia by Ara Zada, Kate Leahy et al (Chronicle Books, 2019)

In 2018, American-Armenian journalist Liana Aghajanian – originally from Iran, now living in the US - hit the nail on the head with a question-and-answer title to her article for Anthony Bourdain’s Parts Unknown on CNN. The premise of Aghajanian’s piece, called ‘What is Armenian Food? Depends on Who You Ask’ and based on interviews, was that what is classified as our national food ranges significantly from Armenian to Armenian.

This is no surprise to Armenians: we come in different stripes – from the diaspora (mainly descendants of Western, aka ‘Turkish,’ Armenians, as well as places in-between, such as Iran), to today’s Republic (aka ‘Eastern,’ or ‘Russian,’ and Nagorno Karabakh, known as ‘Artsakh’). To explain this, we have to go back in time. Until a little over a hundred years ago, the majority of the nation lived within the Ottoman, the rest within the Tzarist Russian one. Post-genocide, with the survivors dispersed, our gastronomic heritage, that most portable marker of identity, also spread across the world. The Western (Turkish) and Eastern (Russian) branches somewhat lost touch, but throughout seventy years of Soviet rule and in the decades after, the Great Repatriation (up to ninety thousand people moved to Armenia from Iran, the Middle East, North America and Europe in the mid- to late-1940s), the 1960s Thaw, and the 2000s’ immigration from Syria, injected new elements such as coffee, lahmajoon and hummus into Armenia’s gourmet habits and changed the look of dinner tables.

The other day, my Ethiopian Armenian friend served me what she called Aintab tanabour with kofte (Yoghurt soup with meatballs on a stock of whole boiled chicken) – a recipe inherited from her grandmother who had moved from Cilicia to Addis Ababa. It was delicious – rich and filling winter food. I told my Lebanese Armenian friend about it. She did not recognise the recipe: hers is without chicken, just lamb. I told my Yerevantsi mother about it. She did not even recognise the dish – we in Armenia make yoghurt soup without meat and with barley rather than bulgur. This is Armenian cuisine in a nutshell: historically conditioned, geographically scattered. Then again, this is food culture in a nutshell too: forever subject to interpretation and change with time and place and movements of people.

Talking of time and place, as a child in the 1970s and 1980s, I liked Pamidorov dz’vadzegh (tomato omelette) for breakfast and Bovats plav (vermicelli browned on butter) for dinner. Most days, we had chunky soups, Soviet pasta called makaron, varieties of plav with grains or lentils, roasted or fried vegetables, and kebab and dolma for special occasions, followed by Middle Eastern and Russian desserts. Street food was pirozhki (pasties) and ponchik (donuts). While the 1990s were a time of chronic shortages, in 2000s, supermarket shelves became populated with corn flakes and quinoa, tiramisu and cheesecake. These days, children in Armenia are just as likely to enjoy lasagna and lahmajoon.

Globalisation aside, Armenian cuisine does have traditions that tell a story and set a nation – or in our case, its fraction - aside. These are showcased and developed, for example, by a most cutting-edge, eccentric kid on the block, historian Ani Harutyunyan’s Arm Food Lab in Dilijan. Or by agritourism businesses sprouting in Armenia. And as food anthropology has become a research topic, those traditions and stories are highlighted, by Ruzanna Tsaturyan among others.

The year after Anthony Bourdain’s programme, an English-language cookbook entered the debate about what is Armenian food. This book with possibly the longest subtitle ever, focuses on the Republic of Armenia and (pre-2021) Artsakh. Lavash: The bread that launched 1,000 meals, plus salads, stews, dips, and other recipes from Armenia by a trio of food writers Kate Leahy, photographer John Lee and chef Ara Zada – all three US-based, is really a journey. Travelling round Armenia and Nagorno Karabakh, the authors meet locals and learn (and adapt) recipes that nourish the nation, affectionately sharing their hosts’ names and stories. A welcome introduction to the country’s geographic, historic, and culinary diversity, the book uniquely hones in on how Armenians in modern Armenia feast and is a tribute to those on the ground who assisted in this supposedly challenging project both logistically and financially.

As I work my way through the recipes, I agree that Armenian cuisine has, as the book says, a frugal, ‘modest approach’ to seasoning (salt and pepper and bay leaf) and a liberal, lavish one towards fresh herbs - both kitchen and wild ones. Despite some long instructions, I have now made Khashlama (beef or lamb stew), Urfa Kebab, and even the iconic Khash - during the hedonistic and insular lockdown months, asking our local butcher in the English Midlands to source us cow’s trotters. [This, somewhat unexpectedly, is referred to as a Georgian dish by Olia Hercules.]

Apart from being pleased by the Eggs with Basturma recipe a great deal, our neighbourhood and shared history being what it is, I was not surprised to see a variation as Sujuk Fried Eggs, similar to one in The Arabesque Table. However, I did not recognise Panrkhash, Eech, Konchol, or Chikufta. Also, contrary to my experience of growing up there, you will not find recipes with lentils, split peas, or green beans; nor would you find pomegranate or quince in recipes in Lavash. A non-gastronomic point: the book is tinted with euphoria about the so-called Velvet Revolution of 2018, which dates it as well as saddens.

Lavash triumphs when it comes to Gata (described as ‘coffee cake’ with walnuts, though there is no coffee in it), Goris Baklava and Tjvjik (sauteed liver, offal, and onions) recipes. Pickles, Ghapama and the gorgeous trout recipe, with the addition of tarragon, strike as authentic, while Harissa (wheat berry porridge with chicken) is rightfully included and conveniently simplified. And because these authors went and saw and ate what the locals eat, Salat Vinaigrette (beets, beans and potato salad) and Jingalov Hats (flatbread filled with greens) attest to very real and current Russian and Artsakhi connections too.

As an Armenian from Armenia, living in the Diaspora, I layer these ties with new ones. When my daughter fancies a comfort breakfast, I brown some flour in a pan and try but fail to make my great-grandmother’s Khavits (she was from Western Armenia), a sweet and buttery, tanned porridge, whose phenomenal aroma seeps and lingers in every corner of the house. My daughter’s dessert of choice is honey cake - specifically, my friend’s recipe from Armenia’s Tavush region in the north. But these days, I have to stop myself from adding cinnamon or berries in the layers: a compulsion to make food healthier or more colourful. One day someone may, then someone else will not recognise the recipe. The South Australian government website, by the way, has an Armenian Q’rchik recipe in which it is suggested to substitute bulgur wheat with quinoa for a gluten-free option.

So, Armenian culinary identity, not quite this, similar to that, half-this, fractured as the nation itself, is like a Byzantine mosaic. From Cairo to California, from feast to famine, rapture characterises our history. In a stark contrast to, say, French or British cuisines, which are geographically clearly defined, ours now is a web pointing to relations – to empires, colonisation, exile and trade, rather than a single locale that our ancestors had.

Back in Armenia, on my returns, my mother treats me to her cabbage salad with carrot, apple and herbs – all grated, raw, crunchy, colourful and tart. If ill in bed, I crave her chicken and rice soup with carrot, coriander and potato (pieces floating, never blended). Whatever national cuisine is this?

Written by Naneh Hovhannisyan for “Breaking Bread With Neighbours”, a short series on culinary culture across the region.

Easter Egg Methods You Should Try

March 31, 2021 Gagik Stepan-Sarkissian

Dye Your Eggs With Crepe Paper

Join Noemi to learn how to dye Easter Eggs as easy as this with paper!

Tools needed....

1. White eggs

2. Some colourful crepe paper, cut into squares.

3. 5 TBS of white vinegar

4. Tablespoon of salt

Check the video above for more information.

Dye Your Eggs With Onion Skin

Our director Tatevik Ayvazyan grew up in Soviet Armenia where the onion skins were used to colour eggs as there were very few other alternatives.

She still uses this method to date using both red and brown onions skins.

Check a recipe for this here.

Paint Your Eggs

If you dong have any craft materials readily available, fear not! Some simple watercolour paint will do the trick just fine! Silva Keondjian (pictures of her creations above), boils her eggs and then paints on top to give a more personal touch to them.

The Art Of The Egg Smashing Game

Olivia Melkonian shares her Mother’s experience with Easter eggs in her household. “ Growing up, my mother was always very practical and creative and found many solutions, games and activities to bring us together and teach us new skills. One tradition that she marked within our family was egg decorating and the following egg smashing game. I remember the days we used to go find these eggs, which wasn't always easy, and the excitement upon returning home with all the equipment. We would decorate the eggs as a family, but each person would have their own egg. The main Easter celebration was done at my aunt's house, and we would transport all the eggs there. Each person would choose an egg that seemed trustworthy or decorate their own if supplies lasted with luck-bearing symbols. Our game commenced in pairs, each person had one turn to smash the other egg by placing it above and choosing the right force to bring it down: of course, one could end up breaking their own egg and losing the game if they went too hard! Children and parents alike were all hungry to win and to be the designer and bearer of the winning egg. I remember the year I won, it felt magical, and my uncle gave me a fresh tenner to commemorate it. I kept that lucky egg in an air-tight glass jar on a shelf above my bed for a while...until it could take no more and had to be disposed of, but that was the best trophy I ever won”.

Share your methods and designs for Easter and how you celebrate it with us - email anoushka@armenianinstitute.org.uk

Lavash: the bread that launched 1000 meals

February 24, 2021 Gagik Stepan-Sarkissian

We are really looking forward to cooking demonstrations by the Lavash team, Kate Leahy and Ara Zada, on March 25 (Lavash: the bread that launched 1000 meals). Kate and Ara will also be talking with our evening’s host, Ed Stambollouian, about their travels and conversations around Armenia and Karabakh, meeting people, collecting recipes, and learning about the wonderful foods they encountered. From the recipes they gathered there, Kate will demonstrate how to make Jingalov Hats and Ara will show us Lavash-wrapped Trout. You might also enjoy our new magazine, Zanazan, where we feature an article about Jingalov Hats, the Karabakh women who make it even during wartime, and an excerpt from Lavash about the green ingredients.

Please note, this time our cooking event will not be a workshop where we work alongside the chefs but we do hope these will inspire you to try making them later. We have tried other recipes from the book and they are indeed delicious.

Lavash-Wrapped Trout with Tarragon

Serves 2 generously, 4 as part of a larger meal

We learned how to make this recipe from Nara Davtian, who in turn learned how to make it from her mother-in-law. Think of this dish as the French en papiotte style, wrapped in parchment paper, but even better because instead of paper, we’re using lavash. Other than the method of how the fish is cooked, what’s notable is the use of tarragon as the main seasoning for the trout, which gently imparts its anise flavour. If tarragon is out of reach, cilantro makes a good alternative, with a very different flavour.

It is an easy recipe to make for more people; just add more fish and lavash and increase the seasonings. If the fish are very large, you may want to cut them into thirds rather than halves. You can make this dish with bone-in trout, but be sure to warn family and friends that they’ll be taking the bones out of their fish parcels. We have also had success making this with salmon and other rich fish. Serve it with a green salad.

1 Tbsp sweet paprika
1 1/2 tsp kosher salt
2 butterflied and deboned trout, head and tail attached (about 1 lb [455 g] total)
2 large sheets purchased lavash or 4 sheets homemade Lavash (from the book)
1/4 cup [57 g] unsalted butter, plus more for spreading
1 bunch tarragon
Lemon wedges for serving

Preheat the oven to 400ºF [200ºC]. Line a half sheet pan with parchment paper or lightly oil it.

In a small bowl, mix together the paprika and salt.

To prepare the trout, trim off the fins with scissors, then cut the trout in half. One portion will have the head and the other half will have the tail. Rub the salt blend inside and outside of the pieces, using all of the blend.

Trim each piece of lavash into a rectangle about 12 inches [35 cm] long and 10 inches [25 cm] wide. For each portion, place 1 tablespoon of butter and 2 sprigs of tarragon into the fish cavity, removing any tough stems if there are any.

Place each trout piece parallel to the base of the short side of the lavash. Fold the left and right sides of the lavash over the trout, then roll it up as if you were making a burrito.

Place the lavash packets, seam-side down, on the prepared pan and spread a little bit of butter on top. Bake until the lavash is browned and crisp, about 20 minutes. Serve immediately with a side of lemon wedges. Lavash-wrapped trout is best the day it is made.

Jingalov Hats : Flatbreads filled with greens

"Hats" is bread in Armenian, and this particular "hats" is a flatbread filled with greens, many of which are foraged. To make the bread, you will need a heaping 8 cups of chopped greens. We recommend washing all the greens and letting them dry a day ahead. When it's time to make the bread, first mix the dough and let it rest while you chop the greens. Aim for a combination of neutral or earthy greens, sour greens, and herbal greens. Neutral greens include beet greens, chard, collards, or spinach. Herbal greens include chervil, cilantro, dill, parsley, and tarragon. Sour greens can be anything from dandelion greens, to sorrel and watercress. If you run out of greens, you have a couple of options: roll out the extra dough and griddle it to make unleavened lavash. Or make a sweet version by filling it with cinnamon, sugar, and a little butter.

Makes 4

Dough:

2/3 cup [140 ml] lukewarm water
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 1/2 cups [210 g] all-purpose flour

Filling:

8 cups [440 g] sliced greens and herbs such as:
4 cups neutral greens, such as beet greens, chard, or spinach
2 cups fragrant herbs, such as dill, cilantro, tarragon, flat-leaf parsley, and chervil
2 cups sour greens and herbs, such as sorrel, dandelion greens, watercress, and radish greens
3 green onions, sliced (white and green parts)
2 teaspoons paprika
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes
1 1/2 tablespoons [22 ml] sunflower oil or other neutral oil
1 tablespoon [15 ml] lemon juice

Make the Dough

In a large bowl, combine the water and salt. Add the flour, one cup at a time, mixing with your hands to incorporate. Knead briefly in the bowl. (It's okay if it's slightly sticky at this point.)

Dust a work surface with flour. Turn the dough out onto the surface and knead until the dough is still starting to become smooth about 4 minutes. Roll the dough into a ball, put it in a lightly oiled bowl, cover it with a kitchen towel, and let it rest while you chop the greens and herbs. It will soften and become smoother as it rests.

After at least 20 minutes (or up to an hour), place the dough on the floured counter and divide it into 4 equal pieces, about 3 ounces (85 g) each. To shape the dough, cup the palm of your hand over one portion at a time and move your hand in a circle. The friction from the counter will help form the dough into a ball. If there is too much flour on the surface and the dough is sliding around, give the counter a spritz of water and try again.

To make the filling, mix the greens with the green onions, paprika, salt, red pepper flakes (if using), oil, and lemon juice, mixing well with your hands to ensure everything is seasoned.

To shape the jingalov hats, lightly dust the counter with flour. Pat a ball of dough into a round. Using a rolling pin, roll the dough into a thin circle about 8 inches [20 cm] in diameter.

Place about 2 cups of the filling in the center of the dough circle. Sprinkle with pomegranate seeds, if using. Pick up two sides of the circle and pinch them together over the center of the filling, almost like sealing pie crust. Continue to pinch the edges together from top to bottom so that the middle is wide and the ends form points. When you get to the end, tuck in the tip so it’s sealed but ensure that there is filling all the way to tip.

Firmly press the seam with the edge of your hand to ensure the dough is sealed. Turn over and flatten the dough with the palm of your hand so that it resembles a deflated football. It should be 1/4- to 1/2-inch [6- to 12-mm] thick. If thicker, roll with a rolling pin to flatten.

To cook the jingalov hats, heat a 20-inch [50-cm] cast-iron griddle or pan over medium-high heat. Place the filled dough, seam-side down, in the center. Lower the heat to medium and cook for 2 1/2 to 3 minutes until it is evenly brown. Flip over and continue to cook on the remaining side for another 2 minutes. If the dough still seems a little pale or raw, adjust the heat to medium-high and continue to cook the flatbread, flipping it over now and again so it cooks evenly. While the first flatbread cooks, start rolling out and filling the dough for the second jingalov hats.

Using a spatula, transfer the cooked flatbread to a serving platter and repeat the process with the remaining dough and filling. Serve warm or at room temperature. Alternatively, cool completely and freeze for up to 2 months. Jingalov hats can be reheated by popping them in the oven at 400ºF [200ºC] for about 10 minutes or until hot and crispy on the edges. Otherwise, extra jingalov hats keep for a day at room temperature or in the refrigerator for 3 days.

Anoushabour (Armenian New Year Pudding)

December 14, 2020 Gagik Stepan-Sarkissian

Please check out the ingredients for our upcoming event Anoushabour with Silva Keondjian.

Here is the recipe from Silva, please read through prior to the event as some steps are to be prepared in advance.

Ingredients:

A packet of dried barley (or dried wheat berries/keshkek)

Cinnamon sticks (if desired)

Cinnamon (ground))

Cloves (ground) if desired

Sugar

Various dried fruita – raisins, apricots, sultanas, cranberries – your choice

Nuts – walnuts, blanched almonds, pistachios – your choice

Barley (or wheat berry) preparation

Please note: Anoushabour allows for variety in the amount of sweetening, fruits and nuts used – it’s up to you.

One day ahead - please carry out these steps on December 29

- 1 cup of barley (Pearl Barley preferable)

- 7 cups approx of water to begin.

- Place barley in a heavy pot or pressure cooker and soak for 2-3 hours in the water. Pour out the water and replace it with fresh water.

- Put I-2 cinnamon sticks to be removed later, if desired.

- Bring to boil and cook for about an 1 hour on LOW HEAT, STIRRING REGULARLY together with the cinnamon sticks. Add more water if required and let it rest overnight.

Next day (December 30 at 4:00 for this event)

- If water has been absorbed add more water and cook for approximately 15-25 minutes. KEEP STIRRING!

Ingredients to be added to the barley once above steps are completed:

- 1 to 1 ½ cups of sugar (I usually use only one cup as the dried fruits will add further sweetness naturally.)

- 1 to 1 ½ cups or raisins or sultanas or both mixed.

- 1 to 1 ½ cups of apricots chopped into small pieces

- ½ a cup of cranberries if desired

- 1 teaspoon of cinnamon.

- 1/2 teaspoon of cloves if desired.

Directions

Keep mixing all the ingredients until all the fruits swell.

Check taste and water consistency continually and add more water as necessary.

The texture needs to be gooey and slightly liquidy

Once the texture is to your satisfaction stir in

1 to 1 ½ cups of chopped walnuts. (Almonds can be mixed with the walnuts)

OPTIONAL - Take it off the fire and add 2 Tablespoons of rose water.

Cook all the ingredients together for a further few minutes (add more water if you think it necessary).

Pour the final mixture into one large or individual glass dishes. Sprinkle cinnamon on top. While warm decorate the top with walnuts & blanched almonds - (OPTIONAL glazed cherries/cranberries/sunflower seeds can be used as preferred)

Armenian Kofte (lamb and bulghur meatballs)

December 14, 2020 Gagik Stepan-Sarkissian

Please check out the ingredients for our upcoming event Kofte Night with Nouritza Matossian.

Here is a shopping list from Nouritza. Make sure you do step 1 (prepare the filling) ahead of time:

Also ahead of time, please prepare the lamb for the outer shell as described in step 2.

Ingredients

Inner filling:

1 lb minced lamb or beef

8 oz of chopped onion

3 oz butter or margarine

½ tsp each of cinnamon, cloves, ground black and red pepper, sweet paprika

1 oz walnuts and/or pine nuts

Outer shell:

2 lb lean lamb (from the leg) or lean beef

1 lb bulghur

1 small onion

salt and pepper

Picture from The Armenian Table by Victoria Jenanyan Wise.

Directions

Step 1 : The filling

Cook the filling, frying the meat and onion in the fat. Add the spices and fry another minute. Add the nuts, turn into a bowl and chill.

Step 2 : Outer shell

Sprinkle bulghur with enough cold water to moisten. Cut the meat into cubes, removing all fat, and reduce to a pink and fluffy puree in a food processor.

In a large bowl, thoroughly combine the meat, bulghur, salt and pepper. With a bowl of water beside you, knead the mixture for about 5 minutes, dipping your hands into the water as you work so that the mixture doesn’t stick. Keep sprinkling water over to lighten and moisten.

Take a walnut-sized piece of the mixture and, wetting your hands, squeeze, transferring from palm to palm. Hold the meat in one palm and gently make a hollow. Flatten the side to make a little cup. Put in a tablespoon of cold filling, then close gently by patting with the other hand, dipping your hands in cold water. The bottom of each ball should be flat the top rounded.

Use up all the mixture, laying each ball on a flat dish. Bring at least 4 pints of salted water to the boil and drop in the meatballs. Allow them to boil for 2 minutes. When they rise to the surface, they are cooked. Serve the kofte hot with a slice of lemon, which should be squeezed on the filling.

Nouritza adds:

“If you get your lamb from the butcher, you could ask to mince the lean beef meat twice."

For salads to accompany to make while waiting for the koftes to cook or with extra pair of hands;

1. Romaine lettuce, tahini, lemon, garlic, dried mint.

2. Jajik: cucumber, yoghourt, garlic, mint.

Make Armenian manti with us!

December 2, 2020 Gagik Stepan-Sarkissian

Some 50 households gathered in our cosy Zoom-kitchen on 6 June to learn how to make Manti with Nouritza Matossian. There was also a parallel demonstration by Tatiana der Avedissian for a gluten-free version.

Click here for the recipe.

Dolma Making with London Cooking

October 6, 2020 Gagik Stepan-Sarkissian

During lockdown, Theatre and Comedy Director Ed Stambollouian had time to expand his amazing repertoire of delicious recipes, as seen on his Instagram account, @londoncooking. In particular he took the time to explore his Armenian heritage through food: attempting his first basturma, sweet soujuk, lahmajun, lavash and eech. It also gave him time to develop his very own family dolma recipe (vineleaf dolma or sarma). Ed presented this workshop as a chance to share and talk about the different dolma or sarma recipes that Armenians and non-Armenians enjoy. See (our website) for more information.

His website: https://www.edstambo.com/

Ajabsandal

July 5, 2020 Gagik Stepan-Sarkissian

Ajabsandal (or ajabsandali) is a popular vegetarian dish from Caucasus, originating from Georgia. It is commonly made in Armenia and Karabakh as a delicious vegetarian main or side dish and can be served hot or cold.

The dish is so popular that its name – (աջաբսանդալ in Armenian) has acquired a colloquial meaning. It means something messy, made of many different parts. Gabriel Sundukyan, the Tiflis-based Armenian playwright, used it in his famous comedy, Khatabala, to describe of his characters: “His affairs were an ajabsandal”.

Ingredients

3 aubergines
2 courgettes
2 large onions
2 red peppers
500 g tomatoes
3 garlic cloves
Tablespoon of vegetable oil
Coriander
Basil (ideally the purple variety)
Parsley
Bay leaf
Pinch of red ground pepper,
Pinch of black ground pepper
Pinch of salt

Some recipes use potatoes and okra as well instead of the courgettes.

Directions

Chop the aubergines into 3-4 cm long pieces, put in a bowl with added salt to drain the liquid. Rinse and squeeze after 30 minutes.

Fry the finely chopped onions in oil, add the chopped aubergines, courgettes, peppers and the peeled tomatoes.

Add salt, pepper and bay leaf while simmering on low heat until the vegetables are tender. Add the chopped herbs in the end, before serving.

adzhab-sandal-v-mikrovolnovkie-основное-фото-рецепта.jpg

By Tatevik Ayvazyan

Image: https://georgianrecipes.net

Kharapaki Lobi

June 21, 2020 Gagik Stepan-Sarkissian

Green Beans in a yogurt and tomato sauce

This recipe comes from Frances Der Haroutunian. Until his untimely death in 1987, Frances helped her husband Arto not only with his restaurants but with the production of his many cookbooks, testing recipes and typing up the manuscripts.

Their son, Raffi Der Haroutunian, also enjoys cooking but now runs a gallery that specialises in contemporary ceramics and fine art ( blackmoregallery.com) in Cheshire . We are grateful to Frances for sharing this delicious dish with us.

Kharapaki lobi is an Armenian speciality from the Caucasus. It can be served as an hors d'oeuvre, part of a buffet or as a side salad accompanying roast or barbecued meat. It actually also makes a delicious hot or cold dish without the yogurt.

Directions

1. Half fill a saucepan with salted water, bring to boil and add beans

2. Simmer for 8-10 minutes or until beans are just tender

3. Drain and set aside

4. Heat the oil in a large pan, add the onion and pepper and cook, stirring frequently until soft.

5 Add the tomatoes and basil and cook for a further 5 minutes

6. Stir in the beans, cook for a few more minutes.

7. Season to taste with the salt and black pepper

8. Set aside to cool

9. Mix the yogurt with the garlic (if using) and stir through the vegetables

10. Serve warm or cold

Ingredients

450g green beans, fresh or frozen, trimmed and halved.

2 tablespoons oil

1 onion, thinly sliced

1 pepper, thinly sliced

3 tomatoes, blanched, peeled, deseeded and coarsely chopped

1.5 teaspoons dried basil

salt and black pepper to taste

300g plain yogurt

1 clove garlic, crushed (optional)

Eetch

June 13, 2020 Gagik Stepan-Sarkissian

On VE Day this year our neighbourhood planned an open-air party with drinks and nibbles with each household in their front garden. Social distancing was strictly observed. For the occasion, I made this “eetch”, inspired by the recipe in “The 40 Days of Lent: Selected Armenian Recipes” by Alice Antreassian (New York: Ashod Press, 1985).

Ingredients

1 cup fine bulgur wheat, rinsed in cold water and drained

½ tsp sugar

4 tbsp tomato paste

1½ cups boiling water

½ tsp salt

½ tsp chilli powder

1 tbsp sumac

6 tbsp olive oil

1 cup finely chopped red and green pepper

1 cup finely chopped medium red onion

½ cup finely chopped flat leaf parsley

½ cup finely chopped spring onions

juice of 2 lemons

Use gem lettuce leaves, cherry tomatoes and olives for garnish.

Directions

1. Mix sugar and tomato paste in the boiling water and together with salt, chilli powder and sumac add to the bulgur in a large bowl. Mix thoroughly.

2. Fry half the onion in 4 tbsp olive oil until golden, but not brown. Add half the green and red peppers and continue frying on low fire until the peppers are cooked. Add the contents of the frying pan to the bulgu mix and blend.

3. Add the remaining red and green peppers, onion, parsley, spring onions and the lemon juice to the bulgur bowl and mix well. Adjust the seasoning at this stage.

4. Shape the bulgur mix like a dome in the centre of a circular dish, garnish it with cherry tomatoes and olives and arrange the lettuce leaves all around the dome.

By Naïri Stepan-Sarkissian

Manti Mania

May 25, 2020 Gagik Stepan-Sarkissian

Please check out the ingredients for our next Saturday’s Manti Mania event, run by Nouritza Matossian and Tatiana der Avedissian.

Here is a shopping list from Nouritza, who learned how to make manti from her grandmother Hadjigul Nersessian.

To make the Garnish:

1/2 pint of stock

2 cloves garlic, crushed

1/2 pint Greek yogurt

1/2 pint tomato passata

1tsp Sumach

(from Greek or Middle Eastern grocers is essential)

Hot Cayenne pepper if liked

Ingredients for the Pasta:

1 lb plain flour

(For Gluten-free, use buckwheat with a mixture of other gluten free flours and bind with egg)

1/2 pint water

Pinch of salt

1 Tablespoon cooking oil

For the Filling:

1lb minced beef or lamb

2 medium onions

Salt and black pepper

Directions

Combine the flour, water, salt and oil, and knead well to make a smooth dough.

Mix the minced meat with the onions, salt and pepper. Roll out one third of the dough to the thickness of a 10p coin (20mm).

Cut into squares 1½ inches then sprinkle generously with flour. Take a square and a dab ¼ tsp of meat filling in the centre.

Take two corners in your left thumb and forefinger and two in the right and lift and pinch round the meat to make a boat, then press downwards to flatten the bottom. Repeat.

Put the boats into a large, shallow, circular ovenproof dish which you have oiled, arranging them in even circles. Sprinkle the boats with cooking coil and bake at 160 (325) for 20 minutes until meat is rosy.

Beat together the yoghurt and crushed garlic; warm through gently.

Dribble thinly over the boats. Sprinkle with sumach. Serve hot with Tomato sauce.

Heat the olive oil and add the puree and water. Let it simmer and reduce a little. serve warm with some yoghurt dribbled over the surface.

To make the Tomato sauce:

1 tbsp Olive oil

2 tbsp tomato puree

½ pint water

4 Nouritza FOOD ARTICLE MANTI p.3 copy.jpg

Images: Courtesy of Nourtiza Matossian, her personal archives and from Memories of Armenia article, published in Country Homes & Interiors magazine, March 1989

Mushosh

May 10, 2020 Gagik Stepan-Sarkissian

This recipe comes from Vegetarian Dishes from the Middle East by Arto Der Haroutunian, one of his many popular cookbooks. I’ve tried a number of his books and recipes and never found one that was less than delicious.

Arto sadly died far too early but managed to accomplish a lot in his lifetime. In addition to the cookbooks and restaurants in Manchester and London, he was also a painter, trained as an architect, loved music and even composed. Born in Aleppo, he migrated with his family as a child, settling in Manchester

Mushosh also works well as a vegetarian main course. I’m giving Artos’s measurements but --- do it to your taste and add whatever spices/herbs you enjoy.

Arto subtitles it “Lentil Salad” and writes that it is “an Armenian salad, and a fascinating mixture of lentils, walnuts and apricots – the national fruit of Armenia, Prunus armenicus.”

Dressing:

3 tbsp olive oil

1 ½ tbsp lemon juice

1 tsp salt

½ tsp black pepper

2 tbsp chopped parsley

Ingredients:

6 oz (175 g) brown lentils

1 small onion, chopped

3 oz (75 g) dried apricots, chopped

2 oz (50 g) walnuts, chopped

Wash the lentils and cook in lightly salted water until almost tender. Add a little more water if necessary. Make sure you do not overcook the lentils. Stir in the onion, apricots and walnuts and cook for a further 15 minutes. Strain the mixture and leave to cool. Transfer to a serving bowl.

In a small bowl, mix together the oil, lemon juice, salt and pepper. Add the dressing to the lentils together with the parsley.

Toss and serve.

By Susan Pattie

Fried Liver

May 3, 2020 Gagik Stepan-Sarkissian

Tjvjik (Tzhvzhik, Dzhvzhig, Տժվժիկ) is a popular Armenian dish, and Seta Arrowsmith has kindly shared her quick and easy recipe with us:

Ingredients

If desired, first sauté sliced onions in the frying pan.

1lb of lamb or calf liver

plain flour

tsp of salt

olive oil for frying

Preparation

Cut the liver into 1 inch cubes, mix the flour & the salt and toss the liver in the flour.

Place the olive oil in frying pan & heat it up. Put a layer of liver & fry turning the pieces with tongs, take care not to overcook. When ready remove with a slotted spoon onto a plate. Finish frying all the liver.

Serving suggestions

Serve the fried liver with this salad

Chopped tomatoes

Chopped parsley

Chopped spring onions

Mix all together, add some salt & serve on the same plate as the liver

Screenshots from Tjvjik (Fried Liver) film, 1962

Mante

April 26, 2020 Gagik Stepan-Sarkissian

This recipe is from Armenian Cuisine by Aline Kamakian and Barbara Drieskens: Cookery book from the Mayrig Restaurant, Beirut, Lebanon, introduced by Arda Eghiayan.

My birthday celebrations have become a chance for my friends to try fabulous Armenian and Middle-Eastern cuisine. The problem would come when they would ask me what was in each dish and I would struggle to find the English word for the spice or the grain—this book would have very much come in handy.

Armenian Cuisine, by the founders and chefs at the Mayrig restaurant in Beirut, has brought to market a stunning cookery book which would be a wonderful coffee table book in itself, but for the fact that it will get quickly stained by food through overuse. The chapters are typically divided by ingredient but more interestingly, throughout the book are interviews regarding the cuisine in a different region of historic Armenia and their specialties such as Urfa, Musa Ler and Cilicia, bringing together in one book dishes that remind me of my Lebanese—Armenian grandmother but also my Cypriot-Armenian grandmother and their cooking traditions. Like the best of these women, all the measurements are in cups and you can easily end up cooking for 20 people with one recipe—the only way for us.

Interspersed throughout the book are explanations on the ingredients—the garmir biber that we all know and love but I could not for the life of me find an English equivalent. In addition, are also some beautiful photos of food, landscape and the writer of the book and their families—as I say a coffee table book as much as an incredible cookbook.

Ingredients

Stuffing:

1/3 kg minced beef (twice minced and half fat)

2 onions, chopped

½ teaspoon salt

1/3 teaspoon seven spices

1/3 teaspoon red pepper powder

¼ teaspoon black pepper

Dough:

2 cups flour

2/3 cup water

1 teaspoon salt

Yoghurt:

3 cloves of garlic crushed

1 cup strained yoghurt

1/2 cup of water

Some sumac powder for garnishing

Sauce:

1 tablespoon butter

2 cups meat stock (or 1 cube solved in ½ l of water)

½ tablespoon tomato paste

½ tablespoon hot red pepper paste

Salt

Preparation

2h30 preparation time | 5 Portions

Blend the flour with the water and salt and knead together until you obtain a smooth mixture.

Let the dough rest for 1 hour.

Combine the ingredients of the stuffing and knead them together.

Open the dough and roll it into a thin flat surface (1 to 2 mm) and cut into squares of 5 x 3 cm. Place half a teaspoon of stuffing on each patch of dough and fold the rectangular in two, pressing the corners together. Then squeeze the sides under the corners together and inward to form a little boat.

Arrange the dumplings on a baking dish covered with a thin layer of sunflower oil. Place in the oven (preheated on 350°C) until they become golden.

Prepare the sauce by melting the butter on low heat and mixing it with the pepper and tomato paste. Add 2 cups of meat stock and some salt according to taste. When the mixture boils, remove it from heat and keep it warm.

Mix the yoghurt with the crushed garlic and dilute with some water to obtain a fluid mixture. Just before serving, pour the sauce over the dumplings, cover with a thick layer of yoghurt and sprinkle with sumac.

Or: place the mante in individual plates and serve the sauce and the yoghurt on the side so that each one can add sauce and yoghurt according to his or her taste.

And here are some images of Gagik Stepan-Sarkissian’s mante:

By Arda Eghiayan

Cypriot Marrow Dolma

April 19, 2020 Gagik Stepan-Sarkissian

Cypriot-Armenian Haig Varoujan Berberian, who is 89 and lives in West London, is an excellent cook. While during the lockdown I can’t taste his delicious stews and sauces, we are being very Armenian and still talking about food a lot during our Facetime chats. We recently remembered the giant Cypriot marrow, grown on his son Garo’s allotment. Haig makes a fantastic dolma from all sorts of vegetables, including marrows and shared the recipe with me for the AI blog. He and his sister Elise learned the recipe from their mother Luysapere, who was originally from Erzurum.

Marrows, courgettes and squashes are widely used in Cypriot cuisine – all called a ‘’kolodji’’, and used in pies, stews and other dishes too.

Of course, to cook a marrow like the one Haig is holding in his picture, you need several strong men and a saw, but for smaller sizes, they can be hollowed, stuffed with mince meat and tomatoes and cooked in the oven. For an average-sized marrow, Haig suggest to use a few for a family meal and divide them into 3-4 large parts, and the giant ones like in the picture can be cut horizontally in halves.

Ingredients

200gr rice

400gr ground (minced) lamb or beef

1 large onion, finely chopped

3 garlic cloves, finely chopped

parsley, finely chopped

2 tomatoes, chopped

Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

Directions

Place the onions, garlic, tomatoes, parsley and spices in a bowl, then stir in meat and rice. Season with salt and black ground pepper, kneading this mixture well with your hands.

Cut and clean the marrows, scoop out the seeds and membrane from the inside, and stuff them with the prepared filling, leaving a bit of space for the rice to expand.

Make a few holes in the marrow for the water to leak out. Arrange in a baking dish with some water or cover it and place in the oven. Cook on moderate heat for 40-50 minutes, depending on thickness and size of the marrows. They can also be cooked in a pressure cooker (although Haig says that stuff tomatoes are best done in the oven).

Written down by Tato Ayvazyan

Easter Choreg

April 12, 2020 Gagik Stepan-Sarkissian

This holiday bread is quite similar to the Jewish Challah. Fethiye Çetin, in My Grandmother, mentions a special bread being exchanged between certain women each spring in her grandmother’s village. Only later did she realise this must have been cheoreg, a sign of remembered Armenian heritage made by the women, now mothers and grandmothers in Turkish and Kurdish families. The tradition continues today around the diaspora with small variations. Some families place a coin in the loaf, bringing luck to the person who gets that special slice. Many share their loaves with others. Here’s a recipe to try – adjusting sugar, salt and butter to your own taste.

This recipe makes 4 large loaves but 8 smaller ones allow you to share more. Halve the recipe if you want to try a small batch first.

Image: Cheoreg made by Sara Calian Kaprielian and her children — Image: Choreg made by Sara Calian Kaprielian and her children

Ingredients

840 grams flour plain flour – and more for kneading

2 Tbsp of dry yeast – sprinkle into 125 ml warm water to dissolve (or follow instructions for “easy blend yeast”)

200 grams sugar

450 grams melted butter and/or margerine (I use half and half)

225 ml milk warmed (just pour it in with the hot melted butter)

5 eggs

1 – 2 tablespoons ground mahleb (or a bit of cardamom if you don’t have mahleb)

a bit of salt

1 beaten egg and sesame or nigella seeds for topping.

Directions:

Melt the butter and margerine in a pan, add the milk let it rest until slightly above room temperature.

Place sugar, mahleb, salt and half the flour in a large bowl, making a hole in the centre.

Beat the 5 eggs into the warm (not hot) milk and butter and pour into the center with the yeast.

Beat with a wooden spoon (or on your KitchenAid or Kenwood!) until well mixed.

Add flour and continue stirring with spoon. You will have to leave the spoon aside eventually and mix with your hands. The dough should be soft but not very sticky.

Dust the counter top with flour and place the dough on it. Knead about 10 minutes, adding flour as needed. It should remain a soft dough but not sticking to your hands.

Let the dough rise until doubled in a warm place., covered with a dish cloth.

When it has risen, divide the dough into as many loaves as you wish to make. Knead each of these balls to remove the air bubbles.

Divide each ball of dough into 3. With your hands, roll each small ball into a rope, starting with both hands at the middle and rolling outwards. Place the 3 strands side-by-side and braid them. Place on greased baking sheet.

When all loaves are finished, cove with a dish cloth and let rise until double again.

Preheat oven to 180 C.

Beat the egg and brush loaves with it, sprinkling them with sesame or nigella seeds. Some people like slivered almonds on top.

Bake approx 20 – 30 minutes, depending on the size of your loaves – they should be golden and toasty brown when finished (check the bottoms too).

By Susan Pattie