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.

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.