Spice: Flavors of the Eastern Mediterranean

650 Pages·2006·4.69 MB·English

by  Chaison

Dedication
In memory of my brave and loving father, Gary
Sortun,
who gave me creativity.

Contents
Dedication
Introduction
How This Book Is Organized
PART I: SPICES
1. The Three Cs: Cumin, Coriander, and Cardamom 2.
Saffron, Ginger, and Vanilla 3. Sumac, Citrus, and
Fennel Seed 4. Allspice, Cinnamon, and Nutmeg 5.
Favorite Chilies: Aleppo, Urfa, and Paprika 6. Three
Seeds: Poppy, Nigella, and Sesame 7. Gold and Bold:
Curry Powder, Turmeric, and Fenugreek PART II:
HERBS AND OTHER KEY MEDITERRANEAN
FLAVORS
8. Dried Herbs: Mint, Oregano, and Za’atar 9. Fresh
Herb Combinations: Parsley, Mint, Dill, and Sweet
Basil 10. Oregano, Summer Savory, Sage, Rosemary,
and Thyme 11. Flower Power: Cooking with
Nasturtium, Orange Blossom, Rose, Chamomile,
Lavender, and Jasmine 12. Rich, Creamy Flavor: Nuts,
Yogurt, and Cheese Resources
Acknowledgments
Searchable Terms
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher

Introduction
What makes each country’s food taste unique? What
gives it life? In the Arabic foods around the
Mediterranean and Middle East, the answer is spice.
In cooking school in Paris, I was taught that the way
to add flavor to a dish was with fat. The rule still lingers
that where there is fat there is flavor, and so French-
influenced chefs regularly use extra butter or heavy
cream to add richness to a dish. I have nothing against the
use of fat, but my experience has taught me that it is not
the only way to achieve flavor.
All chefs think about how dishes taste and appear, but
few consider how the food makes people feel after
they’ve eaten. In my travels to the eastern Mediterranean
region, I learned that the cuisines feel rich and are full of
flavor because of the artful use of spices and herbs,
flowers, nuts, and cheese. I’ve brought these lessons
home to Oleana, my restaurant in Cambridge,
Massachusetts, where we make dishes absolutely alive
with flavors that leave guests ready for a night of dancing
—not weighed down and ready for bed.
My journey as a chef started with my grandmother
Betty Johansen, who was an excellent home cook and
who instilled in me the love of eating good food. My
grandmother was a simple cook, but she made everything
from scratch, using the freshest seasonal ingredients,
straight from the family farm in Kent, Washington. She
made her own bread, butter, ice cream, salad dressings,
pickles, and canned fruits. The memory of her homemade
rolls—fresh and warm out of the oven, slathered with
homemade butter—still makes my mouth water.
At age fourteen, I started washing dishes in a small
neighborhood restaurant called the Santa Fe Café in
Seattle. That led to other kitchen work, and I soon began
assisting at a local cooking school in order to learn more
basic skills. Meanwhile, I studied French privately and
intensely for over two years, until I passed a fluency
requirement exam, and when I turned nineteen, I left for
Paris. It was there that I trained in classic, regional
French cooking and wine at La Varenne, while working at
the school to pay for my education. The best lesson I
learned in France is the importance of fresh, high-quality
ingredients. I learned to shop at farmers’ markets, where I
began to recognize the difference between truly fresh
vegetables and those that had been shipped.
Back in the United States, I worked for Moncef
Meddeb—a Tunisian-born chef famous for bringing
upscale, cutting-edge Mediterranean and French food to a
Boston dining scene steeped in traditional New England
fare—as the chef at Aigo Bistro, in Concord,
Massachusetts. Under his tutelage, I came to understand
how the Arabic world has influenced French cuisine.
Moncef pushed me toward a deeper understanding of
food and flavors. I was twenty-four at the time, working
out my own style and identity in the kitchen. One night
after work, he called, and I told him I was starving. He
told me that I should keep fruit around for late night
snacks, but all I really wanted was bacon and eggs. At
this point, Moncef launched into a 20-minute discussion
about oranges. He described in depth the fragrant spray of
oils releasing as the skin of the orange is broken and the
juices running down one’s hand as the fruit is peeled.
After listening to him, my hunger for that orange was
nearly unbearable. What happened to me that night as a
chef was a milestone: I understood food more intimately.
I was able to taste food when I thought about food.
As the chef at Casablanca restaurant in Harvard
Square, where I worked for five years, specializing in the
cuisines of the Mediterranean rim, I began to come into
my own. It was on my trip to Turkey in 1997 that I had a
revelation, and my journey in spice began.
That year, the owner of Casablanca, Sari Abul-Jubein,
sent me to Gaziantep in southeastern Turkey, the
country’s gastronomic capital. The very thought of
Turkey was foreign to me—I envisioned flying carpets
and covered women hidden deep in the veils of purdah. I
flew through Istanbul and went straight to Gaziantep,