T is for Turkey

T is for Turkey

Guys and gals, this is really the home stretch now, eh? It’s like when you turn 27 and think ‘blimey, I’m legit in my late 20’s…I should probably start thinking about adulty type things now’. Except in this case, I’m reaching the late ‘bet (as not a single person has ever called it) and should probably start thinking about food a tiny bit less. Or not. Most likely not.

All. The. Butter

After the unbearably drawn out process of creating Spanish food last week, I decided to go for something I felt a bit more at home with, lest I produce yet another rock-solid death weapon masquerading as bread. The letter T certainly offered up a few interesting candidates, such as Thailand (yessssss to all dem noodlezzzzz) and Tunisia, which would have seen me once again reaching for almost every spice I own. Delectable as these and many other T cuisines undoubtedly are, living in Germany means that in actual fact, I only had one real option. Can you guess what it is yet? Consider for a moment German fast food: Currywurst, Bretzel, Bratwurst...what’s missing? Any fast food fan worth their unhealthy amount of salt knows that the best and only ‘snack’ (if you can call something that would feed a small family for 3 days a snack) worth having here is the döner, leading me to conclude that this week, Turkey was the one.

Turkish food – and for the most part, flippin’ good Turkish food – is ubiquitous in Germany. Turkish food here is kind of the equivalent to Indian food in the UK: no matter what hole in the ditch you find yourself in after following some questionable sat nav directions, you are almost guaranteed to find Turkish food there. It’s basically the law. And hey, I work at the courts sometimes, so obviously I know what I’m talking about! I remember vividly the pure elation that friends and I felt when, a couple of weeks into our year abroad, we realised that it is socially acceptable to eat a döner during the day. IMAGINE! Rather than resorting to it as a last option on the way home after a night out on the tiles (or sticky dancefloor) – then promptly regretting it the second you wake up – in Germany, land of dreams, you just saunter down to your local döner joint on your lunch break and not a single person would suspect you of having some kind of booze problem! I mean, co-workers might object when you come back to the office honking of garlic and fried meat, but they’re just being precious. Plus, they’re probably just jealous that they didn’t go with you, the fools.

Baklava station

But why is Turkish food so popular here? Well, the nub and gist of it is that, back in the 50s, 60s and 70s, West Germany was in need of a whole host of workers in the industrial sector to help rebuild the country after the Second World War, so it signed bilateral recruitment agreements which allowed it to take on so-called Gastarbeiter (guest workers) in industry to do jobs that required fewer qualifications. Italy, Greece and Spain were the first countries to sign, and Turkey followed in 1961. The whole history of Gastarbeiter is super interesting, but this little bloglet is not the place to delve into the topic. Important to know is that, over the years, the population of Turkish people working and living in Germany continued to grow, reaching 4 million in 2010 – a significantly larger number than any other non-German nationality. In fact, Berlin is home to the largest Turkish community outside of Turkey and accordingly, the common consensus is that the closer you live to Berlin, the better the döner. Heck, the döner is even said to have been invented in Berlin, by an enterprising Turkish immigrant. The day that fella passed away, Germany lost a piece of its cultural history, and it knew it: national papers and journals covered the story, highlighting just how much of an integral part of the national cuisine his invention had become.

Of course, the Turkish food available in Germany is not representative of all the grub that Turkey has to offer. Just looking at the sheer size of the country makes that pretty clear - it’s almost four times the size of the UK, man! A country that big, you’re going to be able to pack in a LOT of different dishes. Not only that, but it straddles two continents, bringing in flavours from all over the shop and throwing them all in a mixing bowl together to produce some pretty spectacular results. However, I felt a little overwhelmed by the task of giving a “brief insight” into Turkish cuisine in general (plus, I would just get hungry for ALL OF IT), so, when choosing a dish to cook, I decided to look a little more closely at the Turkish food I know and love from my time here in Deutschland.

Ready to roll

If I head out for Turkish food here, I generally try (and generally fail) to ration myself during the day ‘cos I know dinner in a Turkish restaurant means getting a LOT of bang for your buck. Döner aside, lamb is undoubtedly the star of the show, especially since Germans don’t seem to appreciate it in any other context (one of the few downsides to living here). In most joints, lamb lovers will have their pick of whatever form of the meat they want, from hunks of it hanging out in a dish of saç kavurma (chunks o’ lamb fried up with onions, pepper and peperoni), a saddle of it in the form of hünkar beğendi (grilled, on a bed of aubergine puree) or minced, skewered and grilled to produce köfte. Obviously, other meat does make an appearance, but to be honest, if it didn’t used to look like a cloud with legs, I ain’t interested. If you aren’t so keen on tucking into a monster portion of cute little lambs, you’re in luck – Turkish food is an absolute party for vegetarians, too. You barely even need to move past the starter page in a restaurant menu to sort yourself out with a bloody good feed, full of beauties such as sigara böreği (filo pastry “cigars” filled with white beyaz penir cheese and various herbs), cacık (yoghurt, garlic and cucumber) and patlıcan ezmesi (pureed aubergine with garlic and yoghurt). Even though my love of lamb can at times be overwhelming, I had the feeling that I’ve been neglecting my sweet tooth so far in this blog. And so, to make up for allllllll the weeks of savoury goodness, I thought I’d give my tastebuds the sweet equivalent in a single, teeth-rottingly sugary explosion. Friends, loosen your belts – it’s baklava time.

Daaaayyyummmm, lookin good

The origins of beautiful, heavenly baklava are unclear, but common consensus states that it was developed in the imperial kitchens of the Topkapı Palace in Istanbul, with the Sultan getting his minions to roll out metres and metres of the stuff every 15^th of the month of Ramadan. Prior to this, it may well have developed from – sick bags at the ready, folks – Roman placenta cake (vommmmmmmmmmmm). Don’t worry, it wasn’t a cake made out of actual placenta, that was just a fun-time name for an ancient Roman dish of about a bajillion layers of dough, interspersed with a mixture of honey and cheese, then baked and covered in honey (almost as vomit-inducing as the idea of placenta cake, actually). Whatever the origins, baklava is a celebration of all that your dentist hates in life: sugary chopped nuts layered with buttery, crisp filo pastry and held together with either about a pint of honey or sugar syrup. There is an incredible variety of baklava to be had, featuring various nuts and ‘construction’ techniques, but for my own attempt I kept it simple, following a recipe in a fantastic book given to me by my big sis. After some initial scepticism about my capacity to create what I perceive to be the king of sweets, I was delighted to discover that simple baklava is precisely that: simple as you like! Sure, there are a lot of stages and it’s kind of time-consuming, but it is in no way complicated – a dangerous revelation. And my my my, was it worth the time and effort – Jesus, the SMELL in the flat was worth it alone! Hot, crisp and buttery out of the oven, I don’t know that I’ve ever produced any dessert that satisfying before. Whether my dentist would agree is another matter entirely.

S is for Spain

S is for Spain

Well, this was an overwhelming week in terms of choice. Truly, I was in something of a quandary when I looked up how many countries start with the letter S. There are 27 to choose from – the same number of EU Member States now (sob sob sob), to give you some idea of context. And boy, are there some GREAT places in this category: Sri Lanka was speaking to me in a big way after having read a recipe for so-called hoppers (Sri Lankan crepes, if you will); Switzerland of course has the healthiest of all the foods, cheese fondue; Sweden has all kinds of spicy buns (watch yourselves, those who are thinking the ‘bluer’ definition of buns – oo-er); Syrian cuisine is brimming with many of my absolute favourite foods, and Singaporean food is a melting pot of delights I’d quite happily dive face first into and lollop around in for…well, forever. While all these places had me drooling all over my keyboard, I felt that, having spent several years of my life studying the beautiful language of Spanish, I had no other choice but to dedicate this week to España. Vamos, chicos!!!

The beginnings of the pan

I have a kind of complicated relationship with Spanish. For some reason, although I know I am quite competent in it, it requires a gargantuan effort for me to actually reel off anything more than just ‘hola’. German has a delightful phrase to describe the notion of getting over your inhibitions, which, when literally translated, becomes ‘to overcome your inner pig-dog’ (den inneren Schweinehund überwinden, in case you were wondering). Friends, the Spanish language is my personal pig-dog: for all the best will in the world, I simply freeze up when it comes to speaking it. There is a large school of thought that considers it one of the easier languages to learn, which I’m sure is true in many ways; however, having accustomed myself early on to the rigidities of the German language, the slightly simpler grammar rules of Spanish leave me floundering in a sea of sangria. That said, I still enjoy a good bit of Latin pop and am thrilled when I can actually decode what Enrique Iglesias is singing about (hint: it is often sexy Latinas and dancing).

Having a right laugh with my pepper

The Spanish cuisine is famous the world over, and with good reason. Before you even get to looking at the human history that has influenced the country’s food, you have to do nothing more than caste an eye over the geography of the country to see that it certainly lends itself well to cultivating an eye-popping array of goodies. Not only is the climate pretty darn good for growing all kinds of treats (although global warming is making its unwelcome presence felt there, affecting growing patterns), but Spain has a full house when it comes to the physical side of things: coast, mountains, a whopping great big plateau. It even has some volcanic areas dotted around, providing some good fertile land for growing (not actual fact, just GSCE-geography-based speculation there). I’m almost certain that anyone who has visited a supermarket in another, less climatically favourable European country has come face to face with Spanish oranges, aubergines, tomatoes, artichokes and tomatoes at some point. Also, all that coast not only means plenty of space for British tourists to get burned to a crisp on day 1 of their holiday, but also an abundance of glorious seafood. As controversial as the European fishing industry is (a cursory peek into the first few Google hits is evidence enough to confirm that little statement), there is no doubt that Spain is a major player, making the most of all those little critters swimming around its waters and supplying the millions of locals and tourists with beautiful plates of paella de marisco, boquerones en vinagre (sardines in vinegar – divine) and percebes (gooseneck barnacles). The latter, by the way, is a prized delicacy which is unfathomably impractical to harvest, so you know people will be willing to pay big bucks for it (€ 100 per plate, anyone?). In fact, it is so highly prized that harvesters are genuinely risking their lives to get at the little buggers, hurling themselves into choppy waters that are littered with perilous rocky outcrops. I tell you what, though, they must taste sensational, ‘cos one look at a plate full of these ugly little alien barnacles would be enough to send me running for the hills. Seriously, look ‘em up – so gross.

Delicious but deadly: pan candeal

As we all know, the Spaniards have been pretty industrious over the last few centuries with regards to setting sail and putting their stamp on various parts of the world, so it is only natural that the fruits (literally) of that labour found their way into the food back home. Most notably, following the arrival of the Spanish in the Americas, kitchens back in España were suddenly full of new ingredients to play with, such as tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers and potatoes. Fiesta time! Of course, that does not constitute the only great foreign influence in Spanish cuisine, but quite frankly, there are not enough hours in the day (or readers with sufficient patience) to go into it in great detail. What I will say, though, is that anyone who has ever enjoyed a bucket of sangria while sunning themselves on the Costa del Sol can send their thanks in the direction of Rome and Greece – it was those chaps who introduced viticulture to Spain. So yeh, cheers for that guys!

Spanish cuisine, more so than other places I’ve come across, is a battlefield of regional cuisines. Sure, the food you get down in Provence in France is going to be different to what you’ll get up in a traditional Breton restaurant, for example, but it appears that the Spaniards really take their regional food seriously. Again, there simply isn’t enough time to get down to the nitty gritty of it all, but I reckon you could get into a nice ‘healthy’ debate with a few Spaniards about who has the best food: the Andalusians, with their zealous use of olive oil; the Basques with their otherworldly pintxos (Basque tapas), or the Asturians, serving up mega pots of bean stew and honking cheeses. Needless to say, I was slightly overwhelmed when it came to deciding what to cook. Maybe I should have headed to Saudi Arabia and made a trusty rice, meat and veg dish, after all.

Viva Espana!

I guess for a lot of people, the go-to Spanish food is paella: a properly generous pan of saffron rice, vegetables, chicken, seafood, chorizo – whatever takes your fancy, really. Me, I was still suffering from a bit of rice fatigue, so decided to delve into a cookbook of European peasant food (sounds like a laugh a minute, eh?) to see what it could offer me in the way of less obvious Spanish treats. While I may be a bit tired of rice, I will never bore of bread – the one true love of my life – and so it was that I found myself writing down the ingredients for pan candeal and migas del pastor. Pan candeal is described as Andalusian sourdough bread, the rounded edges of which are well-suited to being lugged around on the back of a donkey. Granted, I don’t make a habit of heading to work on a donkey these days, but nevertheless, I am a fan of the more rustic food in life – it is infinitely more forgiving if you have a slightly heavy hand in the kitchen or, in my case, have a tendency to get distracted by pigeons flirting in the tree outside the kitchen window (the saucy devils). I’ve never made sourdough before, but I did have some vague notion that it requires a few days to really get going, but my God, this bad boy took it to another level: I started it off on Friday and it was MONDAY NIGHT before I had my first crumb of the damn thing. According to the recipe I used, the longer-than-average time scale makes this bread basically a guaranteed success, light and fluffy like a little floofy cloud. Um, well, I am living proof that this is absolute codswallop. Although the mixture was all bubbly over the few days it was sunbathing in my flat, something mysterious happened when it came to the actual baking, producing something that could legitimately be considered a dangerous weapon in the hands of an angry Spanish housewife. The flavour, actually, was delightful – very intense and savoury – but the texture definitely left more than a little to be desired. Luckily for my jaw and teeth, I had other plans than the simple consumption of my pan candeal: migas del pastor.

Shepherd's crumbs!

So guys, migas means crumbs in Spanish, and a pastor is a shepherd: shepherd’s crumbs. That was what I chose for Spain. No paella, no patas bravas, no churros¸ no tortilla. No. Instead of choosing any one of these flavoursome feasts, I, in my infinite wisdom and love of the unusual, decided to make shepherd’s crumbs. *Sigh* The story behind this dish is that it was what shepherds whipped up with the meagre remains of their supplies after days of chasing sheep around the Andalusian countryside. Another, perhaps more fanciful notion, is that it came about during the days of Al-Andalus (back when the Moors were checking out what Spain and Portugal had to offer), the crumbs acting as a substitute for North African couscous. The Christians in the area got wise to the dish and then decided to throw in some manifestation of pork to differentiate it from the food of the Arabs and Jews. But really, no one seems totally sure of the origins of the dish. Oh well, onwards and upwards. If you decide to forego the waiting game of making your own pan, this is not a tricky dish to make: basically, fry up some onions, garlic and red peppers, then chuck in a bit of old bread. If you’re feeling extra fancy, top it all with a fried egg. That’s it. I have to say, despite the slightly inedible quality of the pure, unadulterated bread, it was marvellous fried up a few days later – the fact that it had been stewing in its own juices for the best part of the week meant it was so savoury that I barely needed to add any salt or anything to produce flavour. And of course, the egg was a happy addition, as eggs almost always are. All in all, I’d say the following: pan candeal is a bothersome lump that was not worth the effort, but the migas were pretty delish…just save yourself the fuss and buy the bread instead. 

R is for Russia

R is for Russia

Ahhhhh R, how you spoil me! After the exiguous offerings of the last weeks (not you, P, you were great), I felt a little spoilt for choice when it came to selecting a country for R. I had not one, not two, but THREE whole countries to choose from! Imagine, three countries – and not small ones, I hasten to add – whose greatest culinary exports, for the most part, do not include rice. Christmas has truly come early. Of course, in the grand scheme of things, three is not actually a substantial number. My choice this week was limited to Russia, Rwanda and Romania, none of which I have any particular personal connection to. My one Rwanda-related anecdote came in the form of a witness for whom I translated at court here in Germany. I won’t go into too much detail, but the nub and gist of the whole thing was that, having learnt on the day that Rwanda does in fact have two official languages (English and French) and that said witness declared himself to be far more proficient in French, I found myself dusting off my good old A-level French in that most opportune of moments, a murder trial. Unfortunately, though not wholly surprisingly, ‘la région Rhône-Alpes’ (A-level French topic, fyi), did not feature too prominently in his statement. That riotous situation aside, my links with Rwanda, and also Romania, are non-existent. This of course left me with Mother Russia. As luck would have it, my guinea pig/sous-chef this week has an actual Russian mother, so voila, all was well in the kitchen.

The sacrilegious herbs

Before I continue, I would like to say right now that there is no way on this earth I could even attempt to recount the history of Russian cuisine in a nutshell without boring you to tears, so I shall quit while I’m ahead and focus on more specific aspects of it. But first, some words on the country itself. I don’t know about you, but thinking about Russia produces a similar reaction in me to when I ponder the very existence of space: basically, my brain can contemplate it up to a certain point but then it starts to feel woozy and needs a little rest because it’s all a little bit too much and, yes, I would like a cup of tea to calm my nerves, thank you. What I’m trying to say is that Russia is vast. Stating the obvious, yes, but consider this: Russia – a country here on little planet earth – has roughly the same surface area as Pluto, a.k.a. an ENTIRE GODDAMN PLANET. Not only is it big, but there are a whole lot of people living there, too. Apparently, more people flit on and off the subway in Moscow every day than in New York and London…combined. 9 million of ‘em, to be “precise”. Are you gobsmacked? I am. My gob is well and truly smacked. There are so many mind-boggling facts about Russia, I could fire them at you all day, but we are not here purely to pick up points in a pub quiz. No, kids, as we know, I’ve got my knife and fork ready and I’m waiting for the buffet to open.

Rollin in dough

I think it’s fair to say that Russia is probably one of the more misunderstood, or simply mysterious, nations.  It’s shrouded in secrecy, with all kinds of rumours swirling around it like a snowstorm in Siberia, feeling almost impenetrable to outsiders. To a lesser extent, Russian food is also an unknown entity for great swathes of the global population. Hand on heart, when was the last time you heard someone say “By Jove, I had an absolute corker of a meal last night, little Russian joint round the corner. Really, Denise, you must try the rassolnik…”? OK, that sentence was very specific, but you get my point: Russian is not necessarily lauded as one of the world’s great cuisines in the same way that French, Italian and Indian are, for example. However, it’s simply not possible to have a country so preposterously large without a good solid dinner to back it up - but what, then, is on the plate?

First of all, one must distinguish between Russian and Soviet cuisine. Traditional Russian cuisine is based on peasant food and, as we are all aware, Russia is no tropical paradise (see Siberian snowstorms above), resulting in a diet based on hardy staples such as rye, fish, pork, barley, berries and vodka. Language nerds among you, the word vodka is a diminutive form of the Slavic word for water (voda), so vodka basically just means ‘little water’. Sounds harmless enough, but it’s a different story when you’re three sheets to the wind off the stuff and making the oh-so-wise decision to get on the karaoke machine and give the world your best rendition of ‘Lady Marmalade’ while swinging your bra around your head. Vodka aside, traditional Russian fare is awash with good hearty soups like solyanka (a thick, salty-sour soup) and borscht (beetroot, tomato and beef soup), cereal-based porridges (kasha), meat-tastic dishes like shashlyk (yep, shashlik to you and me) and a curt nod to fresh vegetables in the form of salads such as sel’d’ pod shuboy. Rolls off the tongue, that one, eh? Known as ‘herring under a fur coat’ (errr….), this little delight consists of a layered salad with pickled herring covered in grated boiled vegetables, chopped onions and mayo, finished off with a flourish of grated and boiled beetroot mixed with mayonnaise, lending the dish a rather alarming purple colour. As if that weren’t enough, it’s garnished with grated boiled eggs, producing a final product that is, essentially, my sister’s idea of living hell.

Fill dem pelmeni

Be that as it may, Russian food has some bloody tasty niblets tucked away, but first I would quickly like to touch on Soviet food. That is a beast unto itself, formed by bringing together the national cuisines of countries that belonged to the Soviet Union. As you may well expect, the cuisine was characterised by a somewhat limited selection of ingredients and generally comprised ‘watered down’ versions of French, Austro-Hungarian and traditional Russian dishes. The notion of Soviet cuisine not only refers to the food itself, but also to the general approach to eating it: a typical full-on Soviet meal consisted of 3 or 4 courses (logically, “the first”, “the second” etc.), each of which was distinct from the one before. The first course was normally a soup or broth, followed by a ‘solid’ dish of meat, fish or poultry and a garnish for the second; third out of the kitchen was something to drink, and finally the whole thing was topped off by the fourth course, a dessert. Find your way into a restaurant and you could go mad, ordering whatever your heart desired on the menu; however, in the state-run canteens (so-called stolovaya), you ran the gauntlet of a more restrictive kompleksny obed, or combined lunch, when your tastebuds were truly at the mercy of the guys and gals cooking it up. The common approach to food was, and to some extent continues to be, ‘eat a lot, a few times a day, and nothing between meals’. Whatever you think about pickled cucumber soup and stuffed cabbage, you can’t argue with that sensible logic.

Before being boiled aliiiiiive

When considering what to cook this time, I allowed myself to be guided by the aforementioned guinea pig/sous-chef. He led me straight back into my new-found comfort zone, to the world of dumplings – in this case, to pelmeni. These babies supposedly tipped up in Siberia, though precisely when and how isn’t exactly clear. One theory is that they are a Siberian version of the Chinese wonton; another is that the Mongols lugged a load over to Siberia with them, from which they spread across the Urals and beyond. The word pelmeni itself means ‘ear bread’ in a number of native Uralic languages, which most likely alludes to their form, rather than to the ingredients (at least, I hope that’s the case!). Just to give you an idea of what pelmeni look like, imagine any one of the following and it should help you out: Turkish/Kazakh manti, Nepalese and Tibetan momo, Korean mandu, Japanese gyoza, Italian ravioli, Ukrainian varenyky or Polish pierogi. Get the picture? Apparently, all these different types of dumplings are in fact cousins, coming together to form one big, doughy family. The crux, I’m informed, lies in the thickness of the dough: for pelmeni, it should be quite thin, with a high proportion of filling. The filling is simple, just minced beef and/or pork with perhaps a few simple herbs and seasonings thrown in. Sounds easy enough, right?

The final product!

Well, I have to hold my hands up here and say that, while I made the dough and the filling, the real artistry of folding the little blighters must be credited to the sous-chef. Thanks to the addition of an egg, the dough was extremely soft and quite tricky to work with, but it meant that the final product had a very pleasing richness, particularly when compared to the less than thrilling flour-and-water Qatari dumplings last week. Judging by the sceptical look on the S-C’s face when I produced the filling, I went for a more “out there” recipe that included a smattering of dill and parsley – shock, horror – which produced a nice little herby respite from the meaty meatness of the dish. Fiddly as they were to fold with such thin dough (I mean, they looked very fiddly from the right side of the table), the final product tasted rather spectacular in a simple, homely kind of way. Of course, pelmeni isn’t pelmeni without a good dollop of sour cream on top, immediately undoing any notion one may have had about this dish being vaguely healthy, a point which was also not helped by the addition of a couple of measures of neat vodka. But you know what, it’s flippin’ cold in Siberia! I’d be fattening myself up too in the face of sub-zero temperatures all the live long day. So to Siberia, and Russia, and pelmeni, I say ‘здоровье’ (sorrysorrysorry to Russians if that is totally wrong – I tried!).