Syrian Food: Lifting the Veil
‘Good lady, are you absolutely sure you are not more hungered?’
Our waiter peered anxiously at us, before energetically slapping his belly in case we didn’t understand. Unfortunately, in Syrian culture, refusal of food is taken as a polite way of asking for more, and likewise, the concept of extreme fullness is often lost in translation. The Syrian stomach is insatiable, and with food as delicious as this, you can understand why.
Waving aside our protestations, he bellowed into the kitchen and within moments we were presented with two lahamajene, a bowl of yoghurt, and a fatherly pat on the back. I defy any stomach to refuse a lahamajene. It is the Middle Eastern answer to the pizza, a flat round of Arabic bread thinly layered with delicately spiced lamb mince, the flavours warmed with cinnamon and chilli, and offset with the bitter-sweet astringency of tamarind.
As is often the way in the Middle East, it is the dingiest and most unassuming backstreet joints that offer up the best fare. Avoid the brash hotels with their mistranslated English menus (‘Welcome, you are invite to eat the Middle Eastern foods in a European ambulance’), and head instead to the grubby, cramped workman’s caff buzzing with life. Throngs of noisy male diners leisurely smoke cigarettes and gesticulate over dishes of mezze, as vast tureens of stew steam at the counter and greasy overhead fans wheeze in the heat of the kitchen.
To say food is everything in Syria is an understatement. The clientele of these downtown joints know what they like, and what they do not. Consequently, nowhere can staple Syrian dishes be found closer to perfection. There is no messing about in these kitchens; there are no menus, no presentation and no pleasantries. The whole place heaves with testosterone, a riot of male bantering and jangling Syrian pop music, as old men roar at backgammon boards, chai glasses clink and sweaty waiters slam down food. Workers come during the high heat of the day, lean over the counter and ask for ladles of fasoolya, Syria’s traditional bean stew. Usually eaten at lunch, fasoolya is a meaty tomato-based broth full of large white beans, rich with olive-oil, and fragrant with herbs. It comes with thin strips of sour pickled cucumber, branches of fresh mint and a small saucer of garlicy yoghurt, while remnants of the stew are soaked up by folded discs of Arabic flat bread. Whole baby chickens are spit roast on long skewers which revolve slowly in the window. They are things of almost indescribable beauty. The skin alone is enough to make any Nando’s fan weep with envy. Sticky with rich, caramelised fat, crisp and brittle on the bronzed outside, but moist and tacky underneath, the skin of an Aleppian chicken is a wonderful thing. Before pulling it all off in one, the trick of the dab-hand is to take a circle of flat bread and vigorously rub the carcass of the chicken, as if sanding a desk, in order to soak up all the intense flavour of the juice and meat fat. The bread is then either rolled up long and thin, sandwiched with fresh mint, or dipped into platters of hummus and smoky baba ganouj, which are liberally seasoned with za’tar (a pungent Middle Eastern blend of thyme, sesame seeds and sumac) and peppery olive oil.