Y is for Yemen
Once again, shame shame shame on me for taking an age to
write this little entry. As I mentioned in the last post for X and W, I
definitely cooked Y before my birthday rolled around – I did, honestly, you can
check Instagram if you don’t believe me – but a veritable avalanche of work has
prevented me from writing the corresponding blog entry. Now, here I sit on an
unusually sunny October day (oi oi climate change, whatcha playin’ at??) and
have decided to eschew my current translation in favour of telling y’all a bit
about Yemen.
When you look at an alphabetical list of all the countries
in the world, it certainly looks like folk just sort of ran out of steam
towards the end: things get a little crazy around S, but from there onwards,
only the true mavericks pushed on to the end of the alphabet when naming their
countries. It’s for this reason that I was once again faced with a single
option when it came to cooking Y: Yemen. For anyone who has ever watched
‘Friends’ (if you haven’t, I’m judging you), the name Yemen can never really be
uttered without the addition of “Yemen Road, Yemen” or perhaps “When we get to
Yemen, can I stay with you?”. My apologies if you have zero idea what that’s
about, but it’s your own fault for not watching ‘Friends’! Anyway, for the
scriptwriters of said TV show, it appears that Yemen was the perfect
combination of being in people’s realm of consciousness, yet so utterly
far-away and “foreign” that it lent the storyline (a character claiming he was
moving to Yemen to avoid a deeply annoying girlfriend) an extra comedic boost
than if the character were to just claim he was moving to, for example, Canada.
Times have indeed changed since then, and sadly Yemen is now more likely to be
discussed within the framework of hunger, political crisis and civil war. As I
have maintained throughout the course of this project, it is not my intention
to provide a deep and studied insight on the current situations – good or bad –
of the countries I write about: I am in no position to do so, and I shall write
this post under the same condition. Right here, it’s all about the grub.
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| Bish-bash-bosh, it's bisbas |
So, where the blimmin’ heck is Yemen? To be honest, I didn’t
know before doing a bit of research on the place, but now I can tell you - with
all the authority of someone who has looked on Google Maps - that it is right
down there at the end of the sticky-out bit of land known as the Arabian
Peninsula, squashed under the heft of its big fancy neighbour, Saudi Arabia.
While it may be officially a Middle Eastern country, it is quite a bit closer
to a handful of countries on the Horn of Africa than many of the other places
sitting pretty on the peninsula. Over the years, Yemen has forged closer
historical and cultural ties with Somalia, Eritrea, Djibouti and Ethiopia,
lending Yemeni cuisine a very distinct character when compared to the food
served up in Oman, Saudi, Qatar and so forth. I have to say, this is something
which brought me great personal joy: as much as I like typical Middle Eastern
food, there is not a huge amount of variation between the individual nations.
God knows I like a good plate of rice and grilled meat as much as the next
person, but I relish the chance to try something new. And so, step forth,
Yemen!
Just skimming over the very long and complicated history of
Yemen, it’s clear to see that this country has seen its fair share of
foreigners bowling in and trying to stake a claim to it. It’s been part of a
trading state that comprises parts of modern day Ethiopia and Eritrea, the
Ottoman empire got in there for a while, and those power-hungry Brits made
their presence known, too. Not only that, but various religious groups have
jostled for domination for centuries, ultimately leading to the conclusion that
administration of Yemen has never been easy. Although all these foreign guys
and gals certainly had something of an influence on the food being chomped on
in there, the cuisine in general is fairly homogenous: there is a slightly
heavier Ottoman influence in the North, and a Mughlai Indian influence in the
South, but all in all, the folk all across this not-as-little-as-I-thought land
tend to dine on very similar things.
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| Base of ma saltah |
As one would probably expect, the bulk of the protein in a
Yemeni diet comes from chicken, goat and lamb. Beef is a pricey luxury and as
such is not a regular feature on the menu there, as is indeed the case in many
of the neighbouring countries. Fish, on the other fin, is a big hit, especially
in coastal areas (I know, UNBELIEVABLE eh?). When it comes to getting a vitamin
fix, the fruit and veggies on offer are not as wild as in, say, Thailand – no absolutely
HEINOUSLY stinking durian to be found here, thank goodness – but who needs
fancy and unrecognisable when you’ve an abundance of trusty potatoes, tomatoes
and onions to hand? Well, them there lot down in Yemen certainly don’t. Of
course, there are other fruits and vegetables doing the rounds, but those are ‘the
big three’, so to say. However, these seemingly plain ingredients are not
simply enjoyed as nature would have it - no no, they’re often dolled up in a
whole host of herbs and spices before making their grand entrance at lunch time
(the main meal of the day). One of the most beloved jazzy outfits for a humdrum
bit o’ meat and veg – and, oddly, coffee - is a spice mix called hawaij, which includes aniseeds, fennel
seeds, ginger and cardamom. If you’re feeling really crazy, you can even chuck
in some cloves, caraway, coriander...I mean, basically anything, as long as it results
in absolute taste party.
For my dish of choice for Y, I felt, as always, the lure of
the bread section. Yemen has got it going ON in the bakery, friends, and the
flatbread situation there had me reaching for the flour before I knew what had
come over me. However, if there’s one dish that seems to be synonymous with
Yemeni cuisine, it’s saltah, and so,
with a heavy heart and a click on the ‘x’, I got rid of the page with all the beautiful
breads (weeping all the while) and instead went on a little quest to make me
some saltah.
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| The green blob of hulba |
Some claim that the world itself is derived from the term salatah, which is like a jolly little
medley of vegetables…otherwise known to you and I as – wait for it – a salad.
That was an anti-climax, eh? The general belief is that the word made its way
over to Yemen with the Turkish troops on one of their very many forays into Yemeni
territory over the years, but to be honest, any allusions to the history of saltah are shrouded in vagueness and as
such, to be taken with a very generous pinch of salt. One thing I can say for
sure is: a salad it ain’t. First of all, it’s supposed to be cooked, and done
so in a clay pot – tell me, when was the last time you popped a lettuce,
cucumber and tomatoes in a clay pot and cooked it all for 45 minutes, and still
called it a salad? Precisely. Secondly, it’s often based on a brown meat stew
called maraq – again, not a typical
salad ingredient, I think we can all agree. Thirdly, and crucially, the most
vital component of saltah is a fenugreek
froth known as hulba. If I ever go to
a restaurant and order a salad (which I will NEVER do anyway – it’s a waste of
an order), and it comes with a crown of froth, I’ll be sending it straight back
to the kitchen, I can tell you. Anyway, I think you get my point: saltah may well have its origins in the
humble salad, but it’s come a long way, baby.
And so, to the cooking. As I have often done throughout this
project, I decided to make a vegetarian version of this Yemeni classic, with
potatoes, tomatoes and aubergines - buying lamb here makes me too sad, paling
as it does in comparison to British lamb (soz dudes, it’s true). The main bulk
of the dish is definitely not fancy, featuring a fairly tame stew spiced up
with some cumin and coriander. The real fun starts when you get to making the
froth, hulba. This, hmmm, condiment, I
guess you could say, is pretty simple IF you can get your hands on some
fenugreek powder. Sadly, this key ingredient is apparently not priority number
1 for the discerning palates of Braunschweig, so I had to improvise a little
and use dried fenugreek leaves to try and get at least the flavour a bit right.
The other vital ingredient to hulba
is a herb mix called bisbas, made of
chives, coriander and cumin seeds, green chilis and water. These components,
all lovely in their own right, are smashed together to form a paste, which is
then added to the fenugreek froth that normally would result from soaking the
powder and then whipping it up. In my case, I got as much flavour as I could
out of the fenugreek leaves, then just dumped everything in a blob of plain
yoghurt – not totally traditional, but needs must. Surely a blob is the next
best thing to a froth anyway, right? Right. With the stew all cooked and the
green blob ready to go, there was nothing left but to chow down. Well, had it
not been for the hulba, this stew
would have been nice, of course, but the punch of chives and green chili, and
the rather pathetic flailing of fenugreek, certainly lifted it beyond your bog-standard
vegetable stew. I would be very intrigued to try it again with a proper frothy hulba, but until the folk of Braun Town
tap into the secret joys of Yemeni cuisine, it may be tricky. Sadly, I think it’s
going to be a pretty long wait!
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| Saltah, yehhh |
