Everybody Loves Salsa

 Mustard and Vinegar Sauce

خل وخردل

The perfect salsa for your grilled dishes:

In modern Iraq what first comes to one’s mind at the mention of the words sauce and salsa is a store-bought bottle of steak sauce similar to A1, which we use primarily with hamburger sandwiches. We think of salsa as a loan word and a foreign concept. Other store-bought sauces are more commonly known by their names, such as khardal (yellow mustard sauce), ketchup, and mayonnaise. Homemade dips and sauces are usually given names, such as hummus bi-thina, jajeek (yogurt sauce), etc.

The general consensus nowadays regarding the etymological origin of salsa and sauce is that they have been borrowed into English from Spanish and French, respectively, and that both ultimately come from Latin salsus ‘salted,’ which stems from sal ‘salt,’ which indeed is an important ingredient in making sauce and salsa (see American Heritage Dictionary 4^th edition). BUT:

Etymology aside, serving dishes with some sort of sauce, relish, or condiment is an ancient custom going back to the ancient world. In one of the Babylonian recipes preserved on cuneiform tablets written around 1700 BC, there are directions for the cook to send the dish to the table accompanied with “garlic, greens, and vinegar” (Jean Bottéro, Mesopotamian Culinary Texts 12). 

Given the high level of sophistication the ancient Mesopotamian cuisine achieved, it is likely that these ingredients were presented in the form of a relish, or what we call today salsa, i.e. chopped and mixed with vinegar. Otherwise, there is no logic in imagining that these ingredients were actually presented to the aristocratic diners in separate containers, so that they munch on whole garlic cloves and vegetables, and sip vinegar from a bowl. In fact, judging from the Akkadian herbal texts and related medicinal practices, such relishes and sauces were indeed meant to function as appetizers and digestives.

Later on, the ancient Greeks and the Romans showed the same tendencies, as exemplified in Apicius, the only cookbook which came down to us from classical antiquity, believed to have been compiled around late 4^th or early 5^th century AD. The book abounds with sauce recipes called oenogarum. They were served with all kinds of meat and vegetables, such as in the recipe “Herb sauce for fried fish:

Prepare, wash, and fry whatever fish you like. Pound pepper, cumin, coriander seed, laser root [asafetida], oregano, rue, pound again; pour on vinegar, add date, honey, defrutum [reduced grape juice], oil, flavor with liquamen [fermented fish sauce]. Put into a pan, bring it to heat; when it is simmering, pour it over the fried fish, sprinkle with pepper and serve. (Grocock and Grainger, Apicius 301) 

 

Evidently, the tradition of serving meat and vegetable dishes with the suitable dips and sauces continued well into the medieval times. In the Islamic-Arab medieval world, the general Arabic word used designating such condiments was إدام idam and صباغ  sibagh. To my knowledge, the earliest record occurs in the Qur’an (revealed between 610 and 632 AD), where the olive tree is said to provide people with oil used as sibgh (صِبغ) condiment (Al-Mu’minoun, Chapter xxiii: verse 20). Indeed, olive oil along with vinegar was deemed the most basic of all condiments. We still relish a dip of seasoned olive oil with bread, and think of it as being an exclusively Italian simple dip.

Now, we come to the earliest extant Arabic cookbook, which is al-Warraq’s tenth-century Baghdadi cookbook Kitab al-Tabeekh كتاب الطبيخ  . It covers the Abbasid cuisine from late eighth to mid- tenth century. This cookbook contains many recipes for condiments called sibagh (صباغ), which are similar to what we have in Apicius. They are served as dips and sauces with meat, fish, and vegetable dishes, as an aid to digestion, particularly with grilled dishes, as they were thought to be hard to digest. Fish was deemed especially bad for the digestion, due to its cold properties, unless aided with the suitable sibagh.

In al-Warraq’s chapter dealing with fish dips, the book explains that sauces cooked with asafetida, onion, and spices aid digestion and sauces cooked with raisins and pomegranate seeds whet the appetite and help purge the food out of the system fast. The best were sauces cooked with sumac and almond because they digest very fast.  

The gourmet prince Ibrahim bin al-Mahdi (d. 839), half-brother of Harun al-Rasheed, composed a poem on a perfect fish dish served with sibagh (al-Warraq, Chapter 33):

وطاه اتى في يوم قيظ بصحفة     وفيها من الشبوط كالجدي احمرا

قد احكمه شيّا وصير حشوه      كرفسا وكراثا وزيتا وصعترا

وهيّا له من بعد ذلك صباغه     عصارة رمان ولوز وسكّرا

وخلا ومريا وانجذانا وفلفلا      وزيتا ركابيا وجوزا وكزبرا

فجاء بها كالشمس لونا وبهجة     تعاطيك انجوجا ومسكا وعنبرا

On a hot summer day, the cook brought us a dish of shabbut (carp) fish, a golden kid-roast resembled.

Masterly roasted; with parsley, leeks, olive oil, and thyme stuffed.

Then its sibagh he made of pomegranate juice, sugar, and almond,

Vinegar, murri, asafetida leaves, black pepper, olive oil, walnut, and coriander.

He brought it in looking like the sun, a radiant delight, redolent with aloe wood, musk, and amber (My translation, in Annals of the Caliphs' Kitchens)

Sibagh was sometimes served as a dip alongside the grilled or fried dishes. It was put in small bowls called sakarij. They were used communally by the eaters, which necessitated that they should stay clean. Diners were strongly cautioned against what today is called double dipping -- dip a morsel into the sibagh bowl, have a bite, and dip it again (as happens in one of Seinfeld's episodes). Such a person back then was disparagingly called القطّاع al-qattaa’ ‘the cutter.’

Etymologically, one of the medieval meanings of sibagh was ‘a dip,’ from the verb sabagha صبغ  'to dip.’ Interestingly, this term was also applied to the Christians’ rite of baptizing children, and explains why John the Baptist, for example, was given the name Yohanna al-Sabbagh يوحنا الصباغ.

It turns out the word ultimately derives from the ancient Mesopotamian language. In the Akkadian dictionary, the verb sapu (variant saba’u) means ‘to soak, drench.’ Interestingly, this also sheds light on the meaning of the name of an ancient religious group that still exists in modern Iraq, the Sabians (الصابئة). In the Iraqi dialect, they are called Subba, followers of John the Baptist, who choose to live close to rivers.    

To resume the subject of sauces and dips, as we come to the thirteenth century, we notice some kind of development. In al-Baghdadi’s cookbook Kitab al-Tabeekh, sibagh recipes given were no longer poured all over the cooked meat and vegetables. Instead, they were presented as separate appetizers to be eaten with bread. According to al-Baghdadi, they were given between dishes, to cleanse the palate, sharpen the appetite, and aid digestion.

In the rest of the extant medieval Arabic cookbooks, which belong more or less to the same era as that of al-Baghdadi's, such as the Aleppan Al-Wusla ila ’l-Habeeb الوصلة الى الحبيب by the Syrian historian Ibn al-‘Adeem and the Egyptian Kanz al-Fawa’id كنز الفوائد, we come across condiments known by the name صُلص/ صلوصات suls/ sulusat (singular صَلص sals).

From the many recipes given in these books, we realize we are dealing with condiments — in content and function — similar to those of sibagh. However, from the sulusat recipes we infer that the dips and sauces started to be made smoother and uniform in consistency. The ingredients were pounded in a mortar until they resembled marham (ointment), as one of the recipes specified. The cook was also instructed to adjust the liquid added until the mixture attains قوام الصلص qiwam al-sals (sauce consistency), which I take to be neither runny nor too thick, the eater should be able to pick up some of the sauce with a piece of bread. Some of the sauces were meant for immediate use, such as the one prepared by mixing yogurt with pounded garlic and mint. Others were sealed in containers for up to a month. In one of the recipes, the prepared sauce was kept in one-time-use bottles because the sauce would mold after the bottle was opened. Here is its recipe from the Egyptian cookbook Kanz al-Fawa’id, recipe no. 491, called sals Kamili (صلص كاملي), most probably after the Ayyubid King al-Malik al-Kamil, who ruled 1218 to 1238:

12-century glass bottle, probably Syrian.
Credit: MET Museum, 2005,318,
Friends of Islamic Art Gifts, 2005 

Recipe for Sals Kamili:

Take the very tender leaves from the tips of citron stems (qulub al-utrunj), soak them in fine-tasting water, and then [drain them and] take one part, and pound them in jurn al-fuqqa’i. Take a similar amount, by weight, of chervil (baqdunis), and another similar amount of rayhan turunji (lemon balm). Pound them in the same manner, and mix them all; sprinkle on them crushed Andarani salt (rock salt), and squeeze in what is needed of lime juice.

Empty the sauce into glass bottles, and seal their surfaces with sweet olive oil. In each bottle, there should be an amount enough for a single table. Before serving the sauce, [a mix of] galangal, ginger, cloves, and black pepper—all crushed, are sprinkled on it to give it a delicious flavor. Some people choose to use it without adding these spices (My translation). 

It is still unresolved whether the suls dipping condiments were indigenous to the Middle Eastern region, etymologically and in substance, or whether they were an imported concept during the time of the Crusades. However, I venture here to side with the former. The condiment in all its varieties has a long established history in the region. Besides, the name, after all, might not necessarily have been Latin in origin (from salsus and sal). In the major medieval Arabic dictionaries, salas (pl. suls) is descriptive of the consistency of ‘soft mud,’ which indeed is applicable to the consistency of the sauces, described above. 

Clearly, the history of salsa needs to be revised in light of what is being discovered of the medieval Arab cuisine. Meanwhile here is a simple medieval recipe to enjoy for a condiment, usually served with grilled meat, from al-Baghdadi’s thirteenth-century cookbook كتاب الطبيخ Kitab al-Tabeekh. It is called Khal wa Khardal (vinegar and mustard): 

Take sweet almonds, skin them, finely pound them, and mix them with very sour vinegar, adding enough of it to thin down the mix. Finely pound mustard seeds and add, as much as you wish of it to the the almond mix, along with the spice blend atraf al-teeb (My translation).     

Mustard and Vinegar Sauce

(Khal wa Khardal)

خل وخردل

This is my adaptation of this recipe: 

            ½ cup (2 ounces) whole almonds, toasted and cooled

            1 cup (2 ounces) chopped parsley

            2 cloves garlic, coarsely chopped

            ¼ cup olive oil

            ¼ cup vinegar

            2 tablespoons mustard sauce

            1 teaspoon thyme or za'tar

            ½ teaspoon salt

            ¼ teaspoon black pepper

           

1. Put almonds, parsley, and garlic in a blender or food processor. Blend, adding oil gradually until mixture is well pureed.

 

2. Add vinegar, mustard, thyme, salt, and pepper. Pulse mixture for a few seconds to blend.

Delicious with all kinds of grilled meat. 

Eggplant Sandwich 

 لفّة بيتنجان

Laffat Betinjan

Vegetarians' paradise!

Eggplant makes easy but bewitchingly scrumptious sandwiches. They are quite popular in Iraq, eaten especially at dinnertime, the time for the smaller meal of the day (for lunch, more serious stuff is offered). Interestingly, Iraqi Jews used to eat it for the Sabbath morning meal, and they simply called it laffa (wrap sandwich), and they are the ones credited for making it a popular sandwich in Israel today, where it is more popularly known as sabich. 

Sabich, the name, is most probably derived from the word subuh 'morning', which hearkens to the old times of Baghdad when the sandwich was a Sabbath morning staple. (Have a look at Vered Guttman's interesting article)

To prepare laffat batinjan, piping-hot fried slices of eggplant with slices of tomatoes and pickles (especially amba 'pickled mango') are wrapped in the tannour-baked flat bread khubuz). Laffa, lit. a wrap, eventually gave its name to all types of sandwiches, wrapped and otherwise, such as when sammoon bread is used instead, by slashing it open and stuffing it. 

Khubuz

Sammoon is traditionally shaped into diamonds and baked in the commercial brick oven.

Iraqi sammoon (photo by Bryan Schatmaat)

A Bit of History:

It is believed that the Eggplant has been growing in the Mesopotamian region since ancient times. According to the Assyriologist Jean Bottero, author of The Oldest Cuisine in the World, eggplant was one of the items offered to guests of the most famous feast held by the Assyrian King Ashurnasirpal II in the ninth century BC (p. 103). 

Besides, in a monograph on the Assyrian vegetable drugs The Assyrian Herbal, based on 600 Assyrian cuneiform tablets, Campbell Thompson, the translator of these ancient Akkadian documents, is of the opinion that the plant pi(l)lu perhaps refers to Solanum Melengena L, eggplant. Pillu, at that time, he says, was also used to designate 'egg' and the mandrake fruit, which itself belongs to the same family as that of the eggplant. It is the 
nightshade (Solanaceae), a family of dubious history.

Mandrake fruit

The mandrake itself has long been associated with witchcraft and magic rituals and potions. It was mentioned as a ‘love plant’ in the Bible (Genesis and Songs of Songs).

In classical Arabic, the word luffah (لفّاح) designated both the eggplant and the mandrake. Medieval Arabic sources also called the eggplant badhinjan, a name we still use today. It is said to have originally been beidh al-jinn بيض الجن), that is 'eggs of demons', which may be linked to the ancient Assyrian name pillu 'egg', mentioned above.

In the medieval Arab-Islamic world, the eggplant was the least favorite vegetable among their physicians, who unanimously condemned eating it, and the bitterness of the vegetable has a lot to do with this. It was said to generate black bile, cancer, melasma (kalaf), and blockages.

But people ate it and loved it anyway. To gastronomes, it was the most acclaimed and inspiring vegetable. Medieval cookbooks offer a generous number of sumptuous eggplant dishes, the most famous of which were Buraniyyat named after Buran (d. 884), wife of Abbasid Caliph al-Ma’moun. Poetically, it was pictured as a black pigeon nesting in a vibrantly green orchard, with its emerald beak picking up sesame seeds and entrusting them in their ambergris gizzards.

Here are some verses by the famous tenth-century Abbasid gourmet poet Kushajim (in Kitab al-Tabeekh by al-Warraq, Chapter 45, my translation):

وللباذنج في الافواه طعم        كطعم الريق جاد به الحبيب

جمان ضمّه سبح عليه          زبرجدة تضمّنها قضيب

تميّز طعمه من كل طعم     فمعجله ومنضجه يطيب

وتاقت انفس الظرفاء طرّاً      اليه لانه شيء عجيب

فليس يعافه الاّ عيّ     وليس يحبّه إلاّ أريب

Eggplant has a taste like saliva a generous lover offers.            

A pearl in a black gown, with an emerald set on it, from which a stem extends.

In taste, ‘tis like no other, whether hurriedly cooked or done well.

Yearning for this little wonder, the witty in hosts hasten to it.

Fools only have no appetite for it. As for the smart, they just love it.

Eggplant illustrated in 14th-century Tacuinum Sanitatus, based on Taquim al-Sihha (تقويم الصحة) by Ibn Butlan, 11th-century Arab Christian physician from Baghdad  

To lessen the harms of eggplant, the medieval physician al-Razi (d. 923) for instance, recommended parboiling it before incorporating it into the dishes, as this would get rid of most of its harmful stuff. The best way for cooking it after this initial step was frying it in light oils such as almond oil or sesame oil. He also recommended peeling and slashing the eggplant then stuffing it with salt and soaking it in cold water for a while, before using it. Grilling was not recommended because it would not rid the eggplant of its bitter, hot, and sharp taste. This explains the absence of recipes for grilled eggplant in extant medieval sources. The closest recipe we have to our modern baba ghannouj was a 13th-century Buran dish, in which fried eggplant was mashed and mixed with garlic, coriander seeds, salt, and yogurt (in Kitab al-Tabeekh by al-Baghdadi).

In Iraq today eggplant is a summer crop, which though quite popular, is still maligned, such as when people lose their temper, they put the blame on eating eggplant; or cautioning distressed people against eating it; otherwise it will cause hives.

But see this article for modern day views on eggplants (and more recipes).

Eggplant illustrated in 14th-century Tacuinum Sanitatus, see above caption

Here is how to prepare the eggplant to make sandwiches with it:

Fried Eggplant

بيتنجان مقلي

(Betinjan Maqli)

(Makes 5 to 6 servings)

Eggplant slices simply fried in oil can get quite oily. To prevent them from soaking up oil like a sponge, sprinkle the slices with a little flour before frying them as this will help block most of the pores. Our medieval ancestors used to do the same thing.

           

1 large eggplant (about 1½ lb)

About ¾ cup flour for coating

Oil for frying

For assembling sandwiches:

2 tomatoes, sliced

1 garlic clove, grated

¼ teaspoon chili pepper

¼ cup chopped parsley

2 tablespoons lemon juice, or vinegar

½ cup drained yogurt (aka. Greek yogurt), optional

1. Cut off stem of eggplant, and peel it lengthwise to give it a striped look. Cut it into 2 parts crosswise, and then cut each part into ¼ in-thick slices lengthwise.

2. Soak pieces in salted warm water and top with a plate to keep them submerged. Set aside for 30 minutes. Soaking the eggplant in this way will prevent it from absorbing lots of oil while frying.

3. Drain eggplant pieces, and coat them with flour on all sides. Fry pieces in ½ in-deep oil until golden brown, turning once,  about 7 minutes. Drain on a rack or in a colander to prevent fried pieces from getting soggy.

4.  Brown tomato slices in a small amount of oil. Or use them raw.    

5. Arrange eggplant pieces on a big platter in one layer. Arrange tomato slices on top. Sprinkle them with garlic, chili pepper, parsley, and lemon juice or vinegar. Dot with drained yogurt if wished.

Serve the arranged platter as a side dish by itself, or make into sandwiches by filling a piece of bread with some of the layered vegetables.

Breaded Eggplant

(Makes 5 to 6 servings)

As in the previous recipe, this way of preparing and frying the eggplant yields crispy pieces, with the minimum amount of oil absorbed. In the 13^th-century Andalusian cookbook Anwa’ al-Saydala (p.145), slices of eggplant were parboiled in salted water first, left to drain, and then dipped in a batter composed of white flour, eggs, black pepper, coriander, saffron, and a small amount of murri (fermented sauce, similar to soy sauce); and fried 

1 large eggplant(about 1½ lb)

2 eggs, beaten

1¼ cups breadcrumbs seasoned with ½ teaspoon salt, ¼ teaspoon black pepper, and ¼ teaspoon garlic powder (optional)

Oil for frying

For garnish:

¼ cup parsley chopped

1 medium tomato, thinly sliced

Fresh hot chilies, or any kind of pepper

          

1. Cut off stem of eggplant, and peel it lengthwise to give it a striped look. Cut it into 2 parts crosswise, and then cut each part into ¼ in-thick slices lengthwise.

2. Soak pieces in salted warm water and top with a plate to keep them submerged. Set aside for 30 minutes. 

3. Drain eggplant pieces, and dip each in beaten eggs, then coat with seasoned breadcrumbs. When both sides are well coated, press each piece down against the crumbs in the plate with your palm, and then turn it and press down on the other side.

4. Fry pieces in ½ in-deep oil on high to medium-high heat until golden brown, turning only once, about 5 minutes. Drain fried pieces on a rack or a colander to keep them crisp.

5. Arrange pieces on a platter, garnished with parsley, sliced tomato, and pepper slices. Serve as a side dish or make into sandwiches, as described above. 

Sparrows' Heads in 

Pomegranate-Walnut Sauce

Rummaniyya b'ras il-'Asfour

رمانية براس العصفور

Typical Iraqi spicy and aromatic small meatballs called ras il-'asfour (sparrows' heads), simmered in delectable pomegranate sauce.

In Iraq and Iran today similar dishes are more generally known by the Iranian name fasanjoun (فسنجون) and fasanjaan (فسنجان). The earliest record of a dish by this name is found in 19th-century court chef Mīrzā ʿAlī-Akbar Khan Āšpazbāšī’s Persian cookbook Sofra-ye aṭʿema, where ten varieties of what was called fasūjan are given (see Encyclopedia Iranica).

The dish is claimed to be ancient in origin going back to the era of the Persian Empire, but this is still unsupported by evidence. It is also still unknown how it acquired its name. However, it seems to me that it might have been associated with a Persian city in the mountainous central region. Its name is Fesenjan (فسنجان), mentioned in several medieval documents, such as Mu'jam al-Buldan (معجم البلدان) by 12th-century geographer Yaqut al-Hamawi (1977 ed., vol. 4, p. 266)                                       

Names aside, the dish itself -- meat of some sort simmered in sweet and sour pomegranate sauce and thickened with crushed nuts -- was a well-established way of cooking in the medieval Muslim world. It was known as rummaniyya, after the fruit rumman (pomegranate), and we are fortunate to have a variety of recipes for this dish, included in the extant medieval Arabic cookbooks from Baghdad and Egypt.

Here is a recipe I found in one of the copies of al-Baghdadi's 13th-century Kitab al-Tabeekh (British Library Manuscript, fol. 16r, see image below, this same recipe is also featured in the anonymous 14th-century cookbook Kanz al-Fawa'id, recipe no. 10 in my English translation Treasure Trove of Benefits and Variety at the Table):

Rummāniyya Mukhaththara (thickened pomegranate stew):

Cut pieces of meat are added to the pot with water. When the pot comes to a boil, the scum is removed, and cassia, mastic, ginger, and some sesame oil (shayraj) are thrown into the pot. Meatballs of pounded meat, made as small as hazelnuts, are added as well. Use a small amount of liquid so that when it is all done nothing remains but a little bit of a nice rich sauce.

Next, sour pomegranate juice, which has been balanced with rose petal jam made with sugar, is added to the pot along with some mint leaves. Pistachios are pounded to thicken the sauce, and a bit of saffron is added for color. The pot is sprinkled with a small amount of rosewater before it is removed from the fire.

The small meatballs used in the recipe above were commonly known as bunduqiyyat (i.e. small and rounded like hazelnuts). It is interesting to see how these small medieval meatballs found their way westwards to Spain and later to Mexico and South America, where they retained their original name-- Spanish albondiga. In the Middle East today, however, they are generally known as kufta/kefta/kafta, and in Iraq, we call them sparrows' heads (ras il-'asfour). Interesting how things might change and yet do not change!

Here is a modernized version of the dish, I only use meatballs in making it, and add the cut onion:    

RUMMANIYYA MUKHATHTHARA

(Based on the 13^th-century Baghdadi cookbook Kitāb al-Ṭabīkh)

Makes 6-8 servings

¼ cup sesame oil (or canola)

1 onion, medium, diced

½ teaspoon cinnamon

¼ teaspoon crushed mastic

½ teaspoon ginger

1 teaspoon salt

 For the meatballs (bunduqiyyāt):

1 pound ground lean meat

1 medium onion, coarsely chopped

½ cup chopped cilantro

1 teaspoon crushed coriander

½ teaspoon cumin

1 tablespoon murrī (may use soy sauce)

½ teaspoon black pepper

½ teaspoon cinnamon

 For the pomegranate sauce:

2 tablespoons pomegranate syrup diluted in ¼ cup water

¼ cup rose petal jam

2 fresh mint sprigs

½ cup ground pistachios

A pinch of saffron

Rosewater, for sprinkling

………………………………

1. Fry the onion in oil until transparent, and stir in rest of the spices and herbs. Add 2 cups hot water and let it boil.

2. Prepare the meatballs: In a food processor, put the meatball ingredients and grind the mix into a paste. Form into small balls (like hazelnuts buduq, the amount will make about 45 meatballs). Add the meatballs to the cooking liquid and carefully stir the pot. Let them cook gently until done and only a small amount of the liquid is left.

3. Prepare the pomegranate sauce by mixing all its ingredients. Add it to the pot and let it simmer until the sauce nicely thickens.

4. Sprinkle the top of the pot with a small amount of rosewater and serve it hot with bread or rice.

..............................................................................................

Rummaniyya, in one of its medieval versions, survived in the Levantine cuisine, especially in Palestine, cooked with eggplant, instead of nuts, thickened with a bit of tahini.

Here is my recipe: (Makes 4 servings)

(Winner of the Guardian's Readers' Recipe Swap: Meatballs)

  

For the sparrows' heads (meatballs):

8 ounces of ground lean meat
1 small onion, grated
3 tablespoons flour
2 tablespoons finely chopped parsley
¾ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon black pepper
½ teaspoon crushed coriander seeds
¼ teaspoon each, allspice, ginger powder, curry powder, chili powder
For the sauce:
2 tablespoons oil
1 medium onion, coarsely chopped
½ teaspoon turmeric
1 cup toasted walnuts, pulverized in a food processor until oily
3 cups water
¼ cup pomegranate molasses
1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon crushed cardamom
¼ teaspoon black pepper
½ teaspoon chili powder

12 ounces diced potatoes, lightly browned in some oil or brushed with oil and baked or broiled

1. To make meatballs: Combine all the meatball ingredients and knead lightly. With wet fingers, form it into small balls (as small as sparrows' heads). Shallow-fry them, or arrange them in one layer on a greased baking sheet, and broil or bake them in a preheated oven at 400°F. Turn pieces to brown on all sides, about 10 minutes. Set aside. 

2. In a medium pot, fry the onion in oil until transparent, about 5 minutes. Add turmeric and pulverized walnuts and stir for about a minute. Add the meatballs, as well as the rest of the sauce ingredients. Stir the pot gently, bring it to a quick boil, and then reduce heat, and let it simmer gently for about 30 minutes, or until the sauce is nicely thickened.

3. Ladle it into a deepish plate and garnish with chopped parsley and pomegranate seeds when in season; otherwise, chopped red pepper will be equally nice.

Scrumptious served with white rice.

Recipes from Baghdad: 

The First Cookbook in the History of Modern Iraq

Front of dust jacket

In 1946 a cookbook titled Recipes from Baghdad was published. It was by far the first cookery document to have been written in Iraq after a long silence of almost seven hundred years.

Back of dust jacket

To be sure, documenting cookery in Iraq has a very long history, which goes as far back in time as ancient Mesopotamia, when our ancestors the Babylonians immortalized their cooking on cuneiform tablets around 1700 BC. Also, from medieval Arabic sources we learn that a lot of cookery books were written in Baghdad during the Abbasid era between the ninth and thirteenth centuries, by professional chefs, gourmets, physicians, princes, and even the caliphs themselves. Unfortunately, only a couple of cookbooks survived the ravishes of time, one was written in the tenth century by Ibn Sayyar al-Warraq and the other, in the thirteenth century by Muhammad bin al-Kareem al-Katib al-Baghdadi, both titled Kitab al-Tabeekh (cookery cook). After that, our records remain silent until 1946. But this time around the cookbook was written in English. Recipes from Baghdad was its title, published to raise funds for the Indian Red Cross. It was printed at the Government Press in Baghdad. The second edition was published by the Red Crescent Society (Women’s Branch) in Baghdad in 1952, and the third and last edition was done by the privately-run El-Ani Press in in Baghdad in 1961. Obviously, the book was pretty popular. 

Inner title page

Besides its culinary significance, this book is a rare social document from Iraq written in collaboration with a host of Baghdad residents just after WWII. It was edited by May H. Beattie (B.A., Ph. D.), an Englishwoman from Sheffield England, who later established herself as the world’s top rug scholar until her death in 1997. (See for instance her book Carpets of Central Persia: With Special Reference to Rugs of Kirman)

May Beattie

In editing the book Beatie was assisted by Bedia Afnan, an eminent Iraqi educator who later worked for the UN; Renee Al Kabir, a member of a prominent Baghdadi Jewish family; and Helen Gaudin (B.S., MA.) and Ann Walter, two English or American ladies whom I have not been able to trace.

Lady Margaret Cornwallis, wife of the then British ambassador to Iraq, Kinahan Cornwallis, wrote the Foreword (March, 1945). In it, Lady Margaret stated that the purpose of writing this book was to raise funds for the Red Cross. She also saw in it a chance for a cultural exchange. With its ‘oriental’ and ‘occidental’ collection of recipes, she explained, the book would enable Westerners who enjoyed the Arab delicacies of the table to make them for themselves, and introduce the Eastern readers to Western food. The book was “the result of friendly co-operation between Iraqi and British housewives, with help from the ladies of other nations.” Indeed, the Acknowledgment list the book provides of contributors included no less than 118 names of Baghdad residents, which besides the ‘housewives’ Lady Margaret mentioned, included professionals, physicians and institutions, such as ‘Home Arts School’ for girls, and ‘Painforce Schools of Cookery.’

The book reveals a mid-twentieth-century cultured metropolitan Baghdad, rarely depicted in documents dealing with this era in the history of Iraq. At the head of the contributors list were the names of two Iraqi female royalties: Queen mother of Iraq Aliyya bint Ali (1911-1950), spouse of King Ghazi and mother of Faisal II, the last of the Iraqi kings, and Queen Nafisa bint Abd al-Ilah, who is Aliyya’s mother. Queen Nafisa provided recipes, but Queen Aliyya’s involvement in the project went beyond offering recipes. She was the one to write the Introduction for the book, enthusiastically endorsing it as a ‘scholarly’ work, “artistically executed and exceedingly interesting.” Recommending it, she adds,

I find that it meets an urgent need and fills an existing deficiency. I was delighted with the variety of dishes dealt with and I admire the accuracy and originality with which the recipes are explained.    

After acknowledging the emergence of the ‘art of cooking’ as a respectable field in this modern age, Queen Aliyya embarked on summarizing the background to the interest of the Arabs in cooking, which goes back to the times when they entered into settled life and civilization, She supported her claim with references to medieval books such as Kitab al-Diyarat by al-Shabushti, and more importantly al-Baghdadi’s thirteenth-century cookery book Kitab al-Tabhk [sic], mentioned earlier, which at the time was a relatively new discovery. It was published in Mosul in 1934, and translated into English in 1939 by the British Orientalist A. J. Arberry.

Queen mother of Iraq

The book’s 163 pages cover a lot of territories. Baghdad is depicted as a ‘cosmopolitan city’ which “has drawn its customs from the west as well as the east in recent years.” An amusing fusion of east and west can be seen in their choice of a cocktail drink called ‘Abu Nuwas’, the famous ninth-century Baghdadi poet famous for his khamriyyat ‘wine poems.’ Shopping in Baghdad is vividly described, and is supplemented with a bilingual list of the most common spices used. Its 457 recipes deal mostly with Iraqi dishes, but a good number also come from countries like Turkey, Iran, Levant, Egypt, Tunisia, Morocco, India, England, Poland, Monaco, France, Switzerland, Italy, and China.

Abu Nuwas Cocktail:

1 part Vodka

1/2 part lemon juice

1/2 part pomegranate juice

1 part Cyprus Cointreau

Add a dash of orange bitters and the white of a fresh egg to the shaker. Shake well and do not trust it too far. (p. 92)

The recipe directions are briefly described but the amounts of ingredients are given in exact measurements, using kilos, teaspoons and tablespoons, and tins. The measuring unit of the tin was chosen by the editors as a substitute for the standard American measuring cup, which was difficult to obtain in Baghdad. It was the Players or Gold Flake 50-cigarette canister, easily available at the time.

Illustrating measuring units in the end-papers

What is truly exciting about this book is the cartoon-style sketches, all 35 of them, dispersed throughout the book, done by Suad Salim, as stated in the inner title page. No further mention of this cartoonist was made in the book. Interestingly, I was under the impression that the artist was a woman since Suad is a familiar female name in the Arab countries. I was pretty amazed to discover that this Suad is no other than the older brother of the famous Iraqi artists, Jawad Saleem and Nazeeha Saleem. He was one of the pioneering cartoonist in Iraq. Surprisingly, little is written or known about him (here is a link to an Arabic interview with him in 1985), and no records of his artistic works are available in print. This is one of the reasons why this book is a truly precious rare find.

Here are samples of Suad Saleem's cartoons:  

Coffee house (Gahwa)

     

Tea-time

     

Masgouf

Baklawa and the inevitable flies

Cocktail party in Baghdad  

 

The chapter on cocktails was written by W. N. M. Hogg, author of the Canadian publication The first Ascent of Bush Mountains (1936).  He compares cocktails to Arabic verbs: "At first acquaintance they appear disarmingly simple but a close study leads to headaches."