by Jen Lin-Liu
“Pretty good, eh?” Mr. Soltani said. “But I think they could be improved with something sour.” He first thought of lemon, then thought better of it. “I know what will work.” He reached into a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of sumac. Shaking the red powder over the dumplings, he took a bite and smiled. Things were always better a little sweet and a little sour.
After dinner, one of the Soltanis’ relatives offered to drive us to the hotel. Rather than donning a head scarf, I covered my head with the hood of my jacket and walked out of the cooking school for the final time. We got into a Smartcar parked in the alley, and Yasmin and her parents waved good-bye. Just as we were pulling away, Yasmin knocked on my window, noticing that my hood had accidentally slipped off.
“Jennifer, please put on your hood. It’s always better that way,” she said. Because even though it was dark and very late, you never knew who was watching.
CHELOW (PERSIAN RICE)
Serves 6
4 cups long-grain rice, Thai jasmine or Indian basmati
2 quarts plus ½ cup water, plus more for washing the rice
1 tablespoon salt
1 cup sunflower or canola oil
1 teaspoon ground saffron, diluted in ¼ cup hot water
2 tablespoons yogurt
Wash the rice in warm water, stirring the grains with your hands to loosen the starch, and changing the water several times. When the water is fairly clear, soak the rice for 4 to 12 hours.
In a large stockpot, bring 2 quarts of water to a boil. Add the salt. Drain the rice and add it to the pot. Boil for 6 to 8 minutes (depending on how long you cooked the rice), stirring occasionally. Test a grain by holding it between your teeth—it should have a bit of give but still be fairly firm, like al dente pasta. Drain the rice and rinse it with cold water.
In a medium bowl, mix together ½ cup oil, ½ cup water, a few drops of saffron water, yogurt, and 2 cups of the soaked rice. Wash and dry the stockpot and spread the mixture over the bottom of the pot, packing it down firmly with your hands.
Place the rest of the rice in the pot, mounding it. Cover the pot and cook the rice for 10 minutes over medium-high heat to form the golden crust.
Mix ½ cup oil and ½ cup hot water. Pour over the rice. Drizzle the rest of the saffron water over the top. Wrap the lid with a clean dish towel and cover firmly. Cook for 1 hour over medium-low heat, or until the rice is fluffy. Remove from heat and allow it to sit, covered, for 5 minutes. Uncover and invert the pot over a dish. Use a spatula to gently loosen the rice from the pot. Serve immediately with either Gormeh Sabzi or Fesenjun.
GORMEH SABZI (LAMB AND KIDNEY BEAN KHORESHT WITH FRESH HERBS)
Adapted from Najmieh Batmanglij’s Food of Life
Serves 6
6 tablespoons oil
2 large onions, peeled and thinly sliced
2 pounds lamb shank, bone in
2 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 teaspoon turmeric
4½ cups water
½ cup dried kidney beans, soaked in warm water for 30 minutes
4 whole dried Persian limes, pierced
4 cups finely chopped fresh parsley
1 cup finely chopped fresh scallions or chives
1 cup finely chopped fresh cilantro
3 tablespoons dried fenugreek leaves, or 1 cup fresh fenugreek leaves
¼ cup freshly squeezed lime juice
1 teaspoon ground cardamom
½ teaspoon ground saffron, dissolved in 2 tablespoons hot water
In a heavy pot or Dutch oven, heat 3 tablespoons oil over medium heat and brown the onions and meat. Add salt, pepper, and turmeric. Sauté for 1 minute.
Pour in 4½ cups water. Add the drained kidney beans and dried limes. Bring to a boil, cover, and simmer for 30 minutes over low heat, stirring occasionally.
Meanwhile, in a wide skillet, heat 3 tablespoons oil over medium heat and sauté parsley, scallions (or chives), cilantro, and fenugreek for about 20 minutes, stirring constantly, until the herbs are very fragrant and aromatic. Do not burn the herbs.
Add the sautéed herbs, lime juice, cardamom, and saffron water to the pot. Cover and simmer for another 2½ hours over low heat, stirring occasionally.
Adjust the seasonings, adding more salt or lime juice if necessary. Remove from heat, discard the dried limes, and serve with Chelow (Persian Rice).
FESENJUN (CHICKEN IN WALNUT-AND-POMEGRANATE SAUCE)
Serves 6
2 cups finely ground walnuts (a food processor works well for this)
¼ cup canola oil
1 medium onion, diced
½ teaspoon turmeric
2 pounds chicken or duck thighs and drumsticks
½ cup pomegranate molasses
2 tablespoons sugar
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon ground allspice
¼ teaspoon ground saffron, dissolved in 1 tablespoon boiling water
Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
Place a skillet over medium heat and add the ground walnuts. Toast them, stirring frequently, for 6 to 8 minutes, until they are browned and fragrant.
Heat the canola oil in a Dutch oven or other heavy-bottomed pot. Add the onions and turmeric and sauté for 3 to 4 minutes, until the onions are soft. Add the poultry and sauté for 5 minutes more, turning to brown the poultry on all sides. Add the walnuts, pomegranate molasses, sugar, cinnamon, allspice, saffron water, salt, and black pepper and simmer over medium-low heat for 1 hour, partially covered, stirring occasionally. Adjust the seasonings, remove from the heat, and serve with Chelow (Persian Rice).
TAH-CHEEN (BAKED SAFFRON RICE WITH CHICKEN AND BARBERRIES)
Serves 4
2 cups long-grain rice, Thai jasmine or Indian basmati
½ pound boneless chicken breasts, sliced into 1-inch strips
1 onion, halved and sliced thinly
1 teaspoon turmeric
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 cup water, plus 2 teaspoons water
3 eggs
1 cup plain yogurt
½ teaspoon ground saffron, diluted in 1 tablespoon boiling water
½ cup dried barberries (available from Middle Eastern grocers or online)
2 tablespoons sugar
2 teaspoons sunflower or canola oil, plus more for coating the baking dish
1 tablespoon ground cinnamon
8 tablespoons (1 stick) butter
Wash, rinse, and soak the rice. Cook it for 8 minutes, drain it, and rinse it, as in the recipe for Chelow (Persian Rice).
In a medium saucepan, combine the chicken, onions, turmeric, and ½ teaspoon each of the salt and black pepper. Add 1 cup water, bring to a boil, and simmer over medium heat until the chicken is cooked through, about 8 minutes. Remove from the heat and strain off the liquid. Shred the chicken and place it and the onions in a bowl; set aside.
Beat the eggs in a medium bowl and add the remaining ½ teaspoon salt and ½ teaspoon black pepper, along with the yogurt. Add half the saffron water and mix thoroughly. Pour this mixture over the chicken and onions and place in the refrigerator to marinate for at least 30 minutes.
Preheat the oven to 300 degrees Fahrenheit.
Put the barberries, sugar, remaining 2 teaspoons water, and 2 teaspoons of the sunflower or canola oil in a saucepan and place over medium heat. Cook for 8 minutes, stirring occasionally. Remove from the heat and set aside.
Coat a medium-sized round Pyrex or other baking dish liberally with oil. Strain the marinade and fold it into the rice. Spread half the rice mixture in the baking dish and sprinkle with the cinnamon. Spread the sweetened barberries in a uniform layer over the rice, followed by the chicken and onions. Dot the chic
ken with half the butter. Cover the mixture with plastic wrap and firmly and evenly press it down. Remove the plastic and place the rest of the rice over the chicken. Melt the rest of the butter and drizzle it over the edges of the baking dish, along with the rest of the saffron water.
Cover tightly with foil and bake for 1 hour. Remove from the oven and let cool for 10 minutes. Then loosen the sides with a knife and invert the rice onto a large serving plate. Cut into pie-shaped wedges and serve immediately.
BAGHOLI POLOW (DILL AND FAVA BEAN PILAF)
Serves 4
1½ cups long-grain rice, Thai jasmine or Indian basmati
2 cups fresh fava beans or 4 cups frozen fava beans (or edamame), shelled
1 teaspoon salt
Sunflower or canola oil
2 small potatoes, sliced thinly
4 tablespoons (½ stick) butter
½ teaspoon ground saffron, diluted in 2 tablespoons boiling water
1 teaspoon ground cumin
2 teaspoons fresh dill, or 1 teaspoon dried
Wash and rinse the rice and soak it as in the recipe for Chelow. Drain the rice. Bring a large pot of water to a boil and add the rice. Boil for 5 minutes, then add the fava beans or edamame and boil for another 3 minutes. Remove from heat and drain the rice and beans through a colander. Rinse with cold water and drain again. Season with 1 teaspoon salt.
Slick a Dutch oven or other large, heavy pot with a thin layer of sunflower or canola oil. Spread just enough potato slices in the bottom to cover the surface. Melt the butter and drizzle a third of it over the potatoes, along with a third of the saffron water. Spoon half the rice over the potatoes in an even layer, then sprinkle on half the cumin, half the dill, and another third of the butter and the saffron water. Add the rest of the rice, along with the rest of the cumin, dill, butter, and saffron water. Press the rice down firmly, cover the pot with a dish towel or other cloth and a lid, and simmer over low heat for 1 hour. Remove from heat and let the pot stand for 10 minutes. Then uncover it and invert the pilaf onto a large plate. Serve immediately, making sure each serving has some rice crust (tah-dig).
SAFFRON FRIED CHICKEN
Serves 4
4 chicken quarters (thighs and drumsticks or breasts)
½ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
½ medium onion, cut into 8 wedges
½ teaspoon ground saffron, diluted in ¼ cup hot water
Vegetable oil for frying
2 egg whites
2 cups panko or other unseasoned bread crumbs
Mix the chicken in a bowl with the salt, black pepper, onion wedges, and saffron water. Place in the refrigerator and marinate for 1 hour.
Fill a deep fryer or other large pot halfway with vegetable oil and heat to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.
Place the egg whites in a bowl and beat just until foamy. Coat each piece of chicken with egg white, then dredge it in the bread crumbs. When the oil is hot, carefully add the chicken and fry for 8 to 10 minutes for breasts and 13 to 15 minutes for the legs, until fully cooked through. Drain on paper towels and serve immediately.
9.
It seemed odd that one of my first objectives in Istanbul was to track down a good hunk of pork. Through western China, Central Asia, and Iran, I’d been deprived of my favorite meat, and Turkey, I expected, would be no different—it was 98 percent Muslim. I wasn’t particularly craving the meat, either, as I’d arrived from China just a couple of days before. But the Turkish foodies for whom I was cooking a Chinese dinner made it clear: they wanted to eat pig.
“Are you sure?” I asked Selin, my new Turkish friend, again on the morning of the meal. She would be the only non-Muslim at the dinner, but as a Jew, she was, in theory at least, subject to the same restrictions. There was still time to change the menu.
Don’t be silly, read the look on Selin’s face. “Jews and Muslims have a special fondness for pork!” she half-joked. And she knew just where to source it. We got into a taxi, coasted down the hills of , the upscale neighborhood where she lived, and pulled up at a Shell station. Just beyond the pumps was a small, unmarked shop. I believe it was my first time entering a speakeasy for pork.
Behind a glass counter sat everything I’d craved through Central Asia and Iran: vacuum-sealed packages of bacon and prosciutto; oversize tubes of salami and mortadella; light pink cuts of pork loin and chops. One of two brothers who owned the shop ran the mortadella through a deli slicer and offered me a thin piece. I gobbled it quickly, hoping that no one refilling their gas tanks would catch me in the act.
Kozma had olive skin, a long nose, and a nest of gray hair. He made the sign of the cross to show he was Greek Orthodox. He was one of the few Greeks left in Turkey after the Great Exchange, a period in the early twentieth century when Christians in Turkey and Muslims in Greece were uprooted and moved to the opposite countries.
Kozma took us to a warehouse behind his shop where several pork carcasses were resting on wide stone counters. The pork bellies were so fresh that indentations still marked where the ribs had been. Here it was an all-or-nothing proposition—if you wanted pork belly, you bought the entire thing, not just a few pounds, the way I normally purchased it. I pointed to the most marbled one. Kozma picked it up, tucked it under his arm as if it were a humongous textbook, and walked over to a scale, where he dropped it with a thud. The needle registered four kilograms, almost nine pounds. We gave Kozma seventy-five dollars—a reasonable figure, especially since he was the only player in town.
Kozma’s butchery was, in fact, one of the few places in all of Turkey where the public could buy pork. How did it feel to be one of the few pork butchers in Turkey? I asked him. “Maybe people talk behind my back, but then, I wouldn’t know,” he said with a shrug. “We used to have a long line out the door every Easter, but after the financial crisis, things haven’t been as good.” A small flow of customers, mostly European expatriates and restaurateurs who served European, Chinese, and Thai food, frequented his shop.
I would later see bacon on the menus of several international restaurants in the fancy parts of Istanbul, but, in general, pork was a rarity—and becoming more so. Though eating it wasn’t actually illegal, it was beginning to feel like a crime. A decade before, there had been ninety official pork farms in the country; Kozma said there were now only three. Turkey had been experiencing a creeping Islamization since Prime Minister Recep Tayyip was elected in 2003, with officials cracking down on non-Muslim practices. But it was Turkey’s conflicting desire to be accepted by the West that kept Kozma’s business open.
“The government wants to be part of the European Union,” Selin explained. “They can tell the EU, ‘See? We allow pork.’”
• • •
After a winter hiatus, I’d restarted my trip in Istanbul in the early spring of 2011. From Istanbul, I would fly to Turkey’s eastern border with Iran, for continuity’s sake, and make my way west until I reached the Mediterranean. From the coast, I would take a boat through Greece to Italy, where, after exploring pasta in the south and north, I would end in Rome.
I restarted the trip reluctantly. I was alone, as Craig was busy with his own book project, which required him to travel as well. He promised to join me somewhere, though when and where were left up in the air. I hadn’t realized how much the journey took out of me, mentally and physically. Even though I was an experienced traveler, my longest previous trip had been a summer of backpacking through Europe, and I’d called it quits after ten weeks, weary of hostels, tourist sites, and Internet cafés. As much as I loved exploring, I couldn’t quite relate to the hardcore vagabonds I’d met on the Silk Road, like the family traveling in the ambulance we’d met in Iran or a man we’d encountered who’d started his adventures with his wife four years before and divorced while on the road. I wasn’t a wanderer by nature, even though I traveled plenty for work and had l
ived abroad for so many years. By the time Craig and I had reached Tehran, I’d been relieved not only to exit Iran but to return back to Beijing, the closest thing we had to a home.
Back in our tiny apartment in the hutong, I reveled in mundane pleasures. I stuffed my washing machine with dirty garments and detergent, overjoyed at the prospect of clean clothes with the twist of a knob, rather than endless scrubbing and wringing in hotel sinks. I appreciated the steady stream of Q-tips. I slept soundly, rather than occasionally waking in the middle of the night, having forgotten what city or country I was in. In the mornings, I rose in anticipation of fresh drip coffee, rather than dehydrated coffee particles. Best of all, Craig and I enjoyed settling back into our routines: walking through the narrow alleys and chatting with neighbors, socializing with our expatriate friends, and eating at our regular hole-in-the-wall restaurants and snack stands. I ate a lot of pork and we made the rounds of the favorite international restaurants, still trying to exorcise those monotonous meals of plov.
The cooking school was also keeping me busy. It was growing quickly. Despite its success and a wonderful staff whom I trusted without reservation, I also had to put in time to allow the chefs themselves to travel. A restaurateur in Bali recruited Chairman Wang to teach her home-style Beijing dishes and dumplings, while the celebrity chef José Andrés invited Chef Zhang to Las Vegas for a guest stint. For my chefs, it was their first time traveling overseas. Chairman Wang enjoyed the tropics, collecting samples of various exotic fruits and smuggling them back to China, where her husband attempted to grow them in his garden. Despite Chef Zhang’s lack of English, he’d made friends with everyone who crossed his path in America, from the doorman in the luxury apartment building where he’d stayed to Andrés himself to various customers, including one who left him a hundred-dollar tip. I asked him what he thought of America. “Las Vegas is small. Why are there so few tall buildings?” he sniffed. He was even more nonplussed by Washington, DC. “I didn’t like it. All the buildings are old.”