Nuts in the Kitchen (14 page)
A Pistachio Family
We drive on from our orchard crew, turning down a dirt road, our tires roiling up dust behind us. Suddenly a chicken darts across the road. The driver screeches to avoid it, misses, then swerves on two tires into the yard of a nondescript building where two young boys watch with wide eyes.
Kamil descends from the car to greet a wiry man with a bushy mustache who has emerged from the building. I’m worried there will be a confrontation, and I see worry on Kamil’s face too, but the men greet each other like old friends and are immediately laughing together. Kamil pokes his head into the car. “He tells me a chicken is a chicken,” he says, as relieved as I am that there will be no retribution in this distant outpost.
The man, Mustafa Oguler, is chief of the tribe that lives in this area. Kamil doesn’t know him well, although he’s worked with him for nearly two years to improve the productivity of the tribe’s pistachio orchards. Mr. Oguler ushers us into the building, which is a large room with beautiful carpets on the floor, and matching pillows lining the walls. We are joined by his brother Lahti, and within minutes of our taking our seats on the pillows, the older of the boys returns enveloped in the aroma of the mint tea he carries in along with bowls of pistachio nuts. These he sets on the floor in the center of the room, then he pours everyone a glass of the sweet, heady tea and settles near his father to watch and listen. We are less than an hour from the urban center of Gaziantep, yet it feels as if we’ve traversed centuries.
The men talk pistachios, farming, and family, which represent, I think, the universe of this place. The conversation is punctuated by cracks of pistachio shells. I listen for a long while, occasionally asking a question, and then finally broach the subject of local cooking. An abrupt silence falls. It is as if I’ve entered forbidden territory as I ask about food, favorite dishes, important ingredients, who does the cooking and where. The men look at one another, converse, look at me, then converse some more, and pretty soon Kamil says, “They will take you to meet their wives.”
We walk from our room, which I’ve learned is the tribal reception area, through the new-fallen darkness to a large bungalow behind it. Kamil and I are left on our own for a few minutes, then we are joined by the chief and his brother, their wives and mother, and a large handful of children. It’s quite an audience, the atmosphere exceedingly friendly, warm, and lively as all those people with their range of eyes from nearly black to ice blue to pale green look from us
back to one another as they whisper and giggle loudly.
I ask about cooking, and the chief’s wife turns to her mother, they laugh, then she says, “It’s a big job; we are usually at least eighteen at table for meals.”
The children continue to stare as they jiggle, climb over and around one another, then finally fall silent. We are, apparently, fascinating. I’m busy asking questions, which Kamil is gamely translating, but it’s rough going. His English, though excellent, doesn’t include culinary vocabulary or the names of any ingredients. We talk, we hesitate, I ask about favorite dishes, everyone is smiling, and smiling, and smiling. Finally the chief’s wife approaches and takes my hand, pulling me gently to follow her. We go around the back of the house to a sort of shed that contains a countertop and a hole in the floor over which is set a big pot. This is the stove. A stack of
eckmeck,
freshly baked bread that is brushed with a mix of flour and water before it goes into the oven in the corner, sits on the counter. All the heat in this kitchen comes from wood.
I learn that the dishes issuing most regularly from this rudimentary kitchen are lamb stews with fruits or vegetables of the season; stuffed bulgur dumplings; salads of cucumber and tomatoes; hummus topped with boiling olive oil; chicken with pistachios; bulgur and yogurt soup. The women and children crowd into this utensil-less, potless, accoutrementless kitchen as they hasten to explain what they make.
I signal to Kamil that we must leave. He translates, and faces fall. They want us, expect us, to share a meal. I’m heartbroken. There is nothing I would love more, but I’m expected at an official dinner in the city, one I must attend. There is much conversation, much head shaking, many appeals, and then finally the chief’s wife asks Kamil to take a picture. “Of all us hardworking women,” she says, including herself, her sister, her mother, and me. She embraces me, hard, and we stand with our arms around each other.
“You’ll eat with us next time, and you’ll help me cook,” she said, her smile wide. “I need the help!”
I tell her I look forward to it, and I mean it. As we drive away I feel warmed by the welcome of this tribal family.
Back in Gaziantep I am ushered into a large and stately apartment and introduced to a small group of urbane residents of Gaziantep, including the mayor. I am taken into the kitchen to see dozens of dishes in mid-preparation, then back out to the dining room to chat politely through the apéritif hour. When dinner is ready, we go to the dining table, which is now laden with what I saw being prepared in the kitchen.
There is lamb with apples, stuffed bulgur dumplings, a beautiful olive and parsley
salad (Chapter Small Plates), orange flower water and pistachio wheat starch pudding, gorgeous clear jellies with candied fruits and nuts floating in them, and more. I wasn’t the only one exclaiming over the food’s goodness and beauty, its abundance and skilled preparation.
As I eat this exquisite food, each bite truly is better than the one before it, I think about where I had been in the afternoon. That spot where I’d stood and embraced a shrouded woman felt like an entirely different world from this one. Yet it was the same country, the same culture. When the common thread is food and cuisine, distances seem so very, very short.
Lamb and Apples with Pistachios
Makes 6 servings
A true classic of Antep cooking, from the east Anatolian area of Turkey, this dish is easy to identify for the classic bright green pistachios and rich-tasting dried pepper paste (available at Middle Eastern markets or at kalustyans.com), tender lamb, and a host of spices. All combined, the ingredients evoke a “wow” when the dish is served, for it is unusual, bright, satisfyingly delicious. I owe this dish to Mrs. Sermin Ocak, the recognized master chef of Gaziantep, Turkey, who served this to me as part of a sumptuous meal she prepared for a group of her friends.
This would be lovely with a white Burgundy.
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1¾ pounds (860 g) boneless lamb shoulder, cut into 1½-inch (4-cm) cubes
Fine sea salt
1½ pounds (675 g) white onions, cut into eighths
1 tablespoon Turkish pepper paste (biber salcasi)
¼ cup (60 ml) tomato paste
½ teaspoon freshly ground allspice
4 medium (about 3 ounces/90g each) rm, tart apples or quince, peeled, cored, and cut into 1½-inch (4-cm) cubes
1
/
3
cup (55 g) pistachios, lightly toasted
1 small, rm, moderately tart apple, preferably with very red skin, cored, skin on, very thinly sliced, for garnish
Fleur de sel (optional)
Note:
This is traditionally made with quince, but because they are hard to find, I adapted the recipe for apples. By all means, use quince if you have them. If using apples, try a firm variety such as Cox Orange Pippin, Fuji, or Pink Lady. The garnish of apple slices may seem tricky or fussy, but the slices atop this dish are beautiful against the lamb and the green of the pistachios. The apple garnish fits just as well if you’ve used quince in the recipe.
1.
Place the olive oil in a large, heavy saucepan over medium-high heat and add the lamb. Season it lightly with salt and brown it on all sides, about 8 minutes. Remove the lamb from the pan, reduce the heat to medium, and add the onions. Cook, stirring often, until the onions are golden and softened, about 10 minutes. If the onions are sticking, add 1 or 2 tablespoons of water to the pan.
2.
While the onions are cooking, whisk together ½ cup (125 ml) ltered water, the pepper paste, and the tomato paste.
3.
Return the lamb to the pan with the onions and the tomato paste and pepper paste mixture. Add the allspice, some salt, and the apples and stir well, scraping up any browned juices from the bottom of the pan. Bring the liquid to a boil, reduce the heat so it is simmering merrily, cover, and cook, stirring occasionally, until the lamb and apples are tender through, about 1½ hours. Check occasionally to be sure there is enough liquid in the pan that the meat and onions aren’t sticking and add a bit more if necessary.
4.
When the meat is tender, remove it from the heat. Taste for seasoning. At this point you may let this dish sit for several hours and then reheat it. It will just become more flavorful as it sits. If, once you are ready to serve it, it is soupy, increase the heat to medium-high and reduce the cooking juices until they are slightly thickened.
5.
About 5 minutes before serving, stir the pistachios into the dish. Set the apple slices for the garnish in the dish, laying them atop it, cover the dish, and let it sit for 5 minutes. The slices will steam just slightly in that time and absorb a bit of flavor from the sauce.
6.
To serve, carefully remove the apple slices and set them aside. Evenly divide the dish among six shallow soup bowls. Delicately arrange the apple slices atop each serving, so the colorful skin shows. Season with fleur de sel if desired and serve.
Roast Pork with Pistachios and Dried Apricots
Makes 6 servings
Pistachios originate in countries where pork is forbidden, yet they are often combined with pork in other cultures. In France, for instance, it is hard to find a pork pâté without the bright green of pistachio nuts studding its texture. The pistachios are added primarily for their counterpoint of color, but also for their soft crunch. In this recipe, apricots are added to the mix, along with a bit of cardamom, to give the dish another layer of flavor, sweetness, and flair.
Try a Château de Roquefort Côtes de Provence (Les Genêts) with this sumptuous dish.
½ cup plus 2 tablespoons pistachio nuts (90 g), toasted and skinned
One 2-pound (1-kg) boneless pork loin
4 ounces (110 g) dried apricots, diced
2 tablespoons floral honey, such as lavender
½ teaspoon freshly ground cardamom
Fine sea salt
Coarsely ground pepper, preferably a blend of white, green, and black
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
2 pounds (1 kg) red or white onions, cut into eighths
3½ cups (875 ml) full-bodied dry white wine
2 fresh bay leaves from the
Laurus nobilis
or dried imported bay leaves
Fresh herbs sprigs, such as sage, chervil, or rosemary, for garnish
Note:
Try to find pork that has been raised with care, from a small, preferably organic farm.
1.
Preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C).
2.
Coarsely chop all but 2 tablespoons of the pistachio nuts. Reserve the chopped pistachios. Using a small knife, poke as many shallow (½-inch/1.25-cm) holes in the pork roast as you have whole pistachios and insert the whole pistachios into the holes.
3.
In a small bowl, combine the chopped pistachios, apricots, and honey until thoroughly combined. Add the cardamom, ¼ teaspoon sea salt, and several grinds of pepper and mix well. Taste and adjust the seasoning.
4.
Place the pork loin on a work surface. Press it out or unroll it so that it is flat on the cutting board. If it is very
thick in one part, slice partway into that area and fold it out to make the piece of pork an even thickness. What you are looking for is a relatively even, flat piece of pork. Spread the filling over the meat, going to within about 1½ inches (4 cm) of the edges. Roll up the pork as you would roll a flat cake for a jelly roll, as tightly as you can, and tie it together using kitchen twine. You may need to use skewers as well to keep it in one piece.
5.
Place the loin in a roasting pan. Rub it all over with the olive oil. Place the onions around the pork. Pour 2 cups (500 ml) of the wine over and around the pork, place the bay leaves in the wine, season the pork lightly with salt, and roast it in the center of the oven until it is golden on the outside and cooked through (140°F/62°C), about 1¼ hours. Check the loin occasionally as it roasts, and add the remaining wine as necessary to keep the bottom of the roasting pan very moist and prevent the onions from sticking and burning (use water if you run out of wine).
6.
Remove the pork loin from the oven and transfer the pork to a cutting board with a trough to trap any juices that run from it. Let the pork loin sit for at least 20 minutes before slicing it, so the juices retreat back into the meat.
7.
Place the roasting pan over medium-high heat and cook, stirring up any browned bits from the bottom of the pan, and continue cooking until the cooking juices have reduced to about ½ cup (125 ml) and the onions are very tender through, almost like a marmalade, about 10 minutes. While the juices are reducing, add any juices that drain from the pork as it sits. Taste the onions and adjust the seasonings. Remove the bay leaves.
8.
To serve, slice the pork into slices ¼ inch (.6 cm) thick and either arrange them on a warmed platter and garnish with the onions and the fresh herbs or arrange two slices in the center of each of six warmed dinner plates, garnish with the onions and herbs, and serve immediately.