Cumin, Camels, and Caravans Read online

  To be sure, many of the modes of spice commerce have changed over the centuries. Recently, much of the great market of Aleppo, Syria, has been destroyed by civil war, while others, such as the Souk al-Attarin in the Old City of Jerusalem, have been made into touristic facades of their former selves. To understand what once went on in these places, it has been necessary to dip into private archives, public libraries, and nearby museums. In some cases, traces of the former activities of these historic markets still linger around the corner, and there ancient fragrances and flavors, the modes of cooperation and elements of conflict or colonization, may still prevail.

  And so, this narrative will weave at least two strands together again and again: the ancient practices that can be discerned from history, archaeology, ethnobotany, and linguistics of how spices were gathered, traded, and diffused into various cuisines and my own descriptions that bear witness to the remnants of those practices that remain in place. In fact, many of those customs retrace my own Arab ancestors’ participation in the spice trade or in cross-cultural cooperation and conflict. Yes, both personal and scholarly motives have driven me to undertake these journeys; I have wanted to decipher my own family’s historical role in developing the processes of globalization that inevitably affect my own behaviors, values, and consumption patterns. I have questions to ask of my ancestors and perhaps of yours as well. As an itinerant British geographer suggested in 1625, “Let our Merchants answer, [for they] owe their spices to Arabia.”

  • • •

  • MASTIC •

  Mastic is one of the names given to the sun-dried resinous droplets of a gum that flows from the wounds of the cultivated Pistacia lentiscus var. chia tree, a close relative of the tree that yields pistachio nuts. Although the tree can be found throughout the Mediterranean basin and its many islands, the resinous gum with the sweetest fragrance and most distinctive terroir comes from only one area on the Greek island of Chios, in the Aegean Sea. There, the clear nectarlike resin that weeps from the wounds inflicted on the leafy shrublike tree is called the Tears of Chios and is carefully harvested and dried into a hard, translucent mass that looks like peanut brittle. When chewed or dissolved over heat in a saucepan, the resin softens and becomes pliant once more, turning a pearly white and taking on an opaque luster.

  All of the production of high-quality mastic occurs on limestone ridges around the medieval villages in the Mastichochoria region of Chios, where the resin has been granted denomination of origin status and a local cooperative oversees the harvest and its sale. Although the Lebanese cultivate this same species for its nutlike fruits to flavor sausages and for its mastic, they cannot legally sell the latter as true mastic in food and beverage markets. There is also a Bombay mastic harvested from Pistacia atlantica ssp. cabulica.

  The English term mastic is borrowed from the Greek mastiha, which is etymologically related to the ancient Greek and Phoenician word mastichan, “to chew.” Mastic has been casually used as a chewing gum, a breath freshener, a perfume, a varnish, a medicine, and a digestive for at least twenty-four hundred years. Over time, Mediterranean cultures identified additional culinary and enological uses for the versatile gum, so that today most of the Chios production is used in liqueurs, pastries, and candies.

  Mastic is an essential ingredient in many anise-flavored distilled beverages, including Greek ouzo and Turkish and Cretan raki. In addition to using mastiha in their own ouzo, the residents of Chios also make a sweet-smelling liqueur called mastichato. Growing up in a Lebanese American family in a Greek American neighborhood where ice-cold water was always added to fine arak and ouzo to make them milky and sweet, I had wondered whether mastic was the magical ingredient that caused white crystals to condense and color the drink. The true cause, however, is simpler than that: anethole, the essential oil in aniseeds, is soluble in alcohol but not in water. The Greeks also use mastiha in two refreshing summertime drinks: soumada, a mix of mastic, cane sugar, almond milk, and the potent liquor tsipouro; and hypovrihio (submarine), which consists of mastic, honey, and cold water.

  Some teetotalers may have ingested mastic and savored its flavors when sampling the famous confection called loukoumia, or Turkish delight, found throughout the Middle East. Mastic is also used to flavor and thicken puddings, candies, sweet pastries, ice creams, jams, and cheeses, and it can be added to rubs for baked or fried poultry and seafood to give them a distinctive crust. If these uses sound exclusively secular compared with those of gums such as frankincense and myrrh, remember that followers of the Greek Orthodox faith celebrate scores of sacred feasting and fasting days each year. It is therefore not surprising that mastiha is ritually used in Greek festival breads such as vasilopita (St. Basil’s bread). Mastic was also a key ingredient in the lamb and garbanzo bean stew that Hu Szu-hui recommended to his Mongolian emperor, as recorded in A Soup for the Qan, the classic food history of the Silk Roads. I have been known to keep a few lumps of mastic on the top of my desk, to chew on whenever I need to project my imagination into the eastern Mediterranean.

  Davidson, Alan, ed. The Oxford Companion to Food. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999.

  Green, Aliza. Field Guide to Herbs and Spices. Philadelphia: Quirk Books, 2006.

  Katzer, Gernot. “Gernot Katzer’s Spice Pages.” http://gernot-katzers-spice-pages.com/engl/index.html. Accessed May 8, 2013.

  Sherman, Deborah Rothman. “The Magic Tree.” Epikouria Magazine of Fine Food and Drink from Greece 1 (2005). www.epikkouria.com.

  Sortun, Ana, with Nicole Chaison. Spice: Flavors of the Eastern Mediterranean. New York: Regan Books, 2006.

  • HARIRA • CARNE DE CORDERO EN LA OLLA

  Lamb and Garbanzo Bean Stew

  This ancient dish may have emerged at different times in multiple places, but it clearly spread with Arab and Persian influence as far east as Mongolia, and with Jewish and Arab-Berber influence as far west as the Hispanic communities of northern Mexico. Currently, its most widely acclaimed expression is in the many variations of harira and chorba prepared in Morocco and other parts of the Maghreb, where they are traditionally eaten at sundown each day during Ramadan. In this particular recipe, I have based the ingredient list and cooking instructions on the Hispanic culinary traditions documented in Arroyo Hondo, New Mexico, by Cleofas Jaramillo in 1939, then elaborated on them through attention to Paula Wolfert’s records on the various types of harira in Morocco. Following Wolfert, I suggest that the garbanzos be soaked and then peeled, a step not done in all places where such a stew has diffused, but one that allows for a softer texture. In a pair of harira recipes, she illustrates two different thickeners, a mixture of semolina flour and water in one and beaten eggs in the other. To enhance this rich culinary melting pot, I have used mastic here in the same role, a soup ingredient included in the medical dietary recommendations known as Yin-shan cheng-yao by Hu Szu-hui, published in the early 1300s. Look for mastic, sometimes labeled gum mastic, in food shops specializing in Greek, Turkish, or Middle Eastern ingredients or online.

  Serve with a flat bread, such as Lebanese or Jordanian za’atar bread, focaccia, or even a whole wheat tortilla. A small salad of romaine lettuce hearts, watercress, or purslane leaves tossed with dried mint, lemon juice, and olive oil complements this stew, as well. Serves 4.

  ⅓ cup dried garbanzo beans

  1½ cups water

  1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice

  ¼ cup olive oil or smen (Moroccan fermented salted butter)

  1 pound boneless lamb from the shoulder, cut into 1-inch cubes

  1 large white onion, finely chopped

  4 plum tomatoes, finely chopped

  1 teaspoon finely crushed mastic

  Salt and white or black pepper

  ½ cup fresh cilantro leaves, minced

  1 teaspoon freshly ground cassia cinnamon

  ½ teaspoon peeled and minced fresh ginger

  ½ teaspoon peeled and minced fresh turmeric

  ½ teaspoon freshly ground cumin seeds
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  ¼ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

  Pinch of saffron threads

  2 lemons, cut into wedges

  In a bowl, cover the garbanzo beans with the water and stir in the lemon juice. Allow to soak for 8 to 24 hours in a warm spot or, if preferred, in the refrigerator. Drain, rinse, and then rub the beans between your fingertips to release their skins. Set the beans aside.

  In a heavy pot, heat the olive oil over medium-low heat. Add the lamb and brown the meat on all sides. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the lamb to a plate. Add the onion to the oil remaining in the pan and sauté over medium-low heat until translucent, 4 to 5 minutes. Add the tomatoes and cook, stirring occasionally, for a couple minutes to release their juices.

  Return the lamb to the pan, add the garbanzos and mastic, season with salt and pepper, and stir well. Add water to a depth of 2 to 3 inches, raise the heat to medium-high, and bring the mixture to a boil. Lower the heat to a gentle simmer and cook uncovered, stirring occasionally, until the beans are nearly tender, about 45 minutes. Add water as needed to cook the beans properly and to maintain a good stew consistency.

  Add the cilantro, cinnamon, ginger, turmeric, cumin, nutmeg, and saffron, stir well, and continue to simmer until the garbanzos are tender, about 20 minutes longer.

  Ladle the stew into individual bowls and serve. Pass the lemon wedges at the table for guests to squeeze into their bowls as desired.

  Buell, Paul D., and Eugene N. Anderson, eds. A Soup for the Qan: Chinese Dietary Medicine of the Mongol Era as Seen in Hu Szu-hui’s Yin-Shan Cheng-yao. London and New York: Keegan Paul International, 2000.

  Jaramillo, Cleofas M. New Mexico Tasty Recipes. Layton, UT: Gibbs Smith, 2008, p. 2.

  Wolfert, Paula. Couscous and Other Good Food from Morocco. New York: Harper & Row, 1973, pp. 58–61.

  CHAPTER 1

  Aromas Emanating from the Driest of Places

  I am tracking a scent across the desert. I meander up a slope between boulders of limestone almost too hot to touch, dodging dwarfed trees and bushy shrubs, all with spiny branches twisted and punctuated with greasy but fragrant leaflets. A few spindly milkweeds with toxic sap cling to the cliff face beside me.

  As I stop for a moment to catch my breath, I let my eyes scan the arid terrain rolling high to the south of me, up the mountain plateau called Jabal Samhan. I am witness to a stark and largely unpopulated landscape. It is not totally barren, yet most of the world’s farmers and city dwellers would declare it empty. By that, they might mean that it is marginally arable, barely habitable, or is incapable of offering much of value to humankind today.

  But they are wrong if they presume that this landscape lacks any value to our common heritage. Over millennia, something of exceptional value came out of this arid landscape that, when combined with other forces, changed the course of human history. The question is whether we value what grows in and is harvested from this landscape in any profound way today.

  I have come here on a pilgrimage to seek an answer to that question. I have climbed into the Dhofar highlands, a plateau that sits some two thousand feet above the Arabian Sea. It is home to a scatter of seminomadic herding and foraging Jabbali tribes known as the people of the Shahri, the ones who “make mountain talk.”

  I hear no kind of talk at this moment. All is quiet. There is no wind. I gulp down hot air. My nostrils flare and I pick up a distinctive fragrance, subtle but inviting.

  The smell prompts me to remember that ancient Greek geographers called this odoriferous country Eudaimôn Arabia, or “Arabia, the Blessed.” One of them, Herodotus, noted that “the whole country exhales an odor that is marvelously sweet.”1 Later this land came to be known to the wider world as Arabia Felix, a vortex of happiness amid much hardship and struggle. At first, it offered nothing more than a few fragrant desert plants and animal substances that were known collectively to the Greeks as aromatikos. Such aromatic substances have long been perceived by many cultures as having the capacity to generate a sense of happiness, healing, well-being, and harmony within the world.

  As I make my way up the switchbacks of a goat trail, I wonder how long the “happy” slopes of Jabal Samhan have baked in the torrid sun. My feet kick up dust in the wake of my walking. It has not rained here for weeks. This is a land of heat and drought.

  Scientists who call themselves chemical ecologists suggest that the aridity that results from these two conditions has helped rather than hindered the evolution of aromatic plants, which they define as those having compounds containing benzene rings.2 Over millennia, the deserts of the Arabian Peninsula developed into prime habitat for the most powerfully aromatic plants in the world. What these desert plants lacked in productivity, they often made up in fragrance, flavor, and mythic potency.

  Perhaps that is because the leaves of many of them exude aromatic oils that help them resist heat, drought, and damage from herbivores. Such aromatic but highly volatile, fleeting chemicals are more concentrated in the floras of arid climes than anywhere else.

  Although much of the Dhofar region has limited agricultural potential and an uneven distribution of useful wild plants, Arabia Felix could aptly be called the birthplace of the global trade in aromatics. Like Aladdin’s magic ring, when properly rubbed, this landscape opens up to reveal a psychotropic world of incenses, culinary spices, perfumes, and curative herbs to delight and refresh the weary.

  Despite its scarcity of vegetation, Arabia Felix is full of highly pungent scents and flavors. It has wild crocuses akin to saffron, barks reminiscent of cinnamon, wild fennel, leeks, garlic and onions, aromatic gums, and resins galore. When mixed into a paste with dates and plastered onto pit-roasted mutton or goat, an Omani selection of these plants provides the taste portfolio called khall al-mazza.3 If you crave currylike flavors in savory stews, you will be satisfied with an even more complex mix of herbs and spices called bizar a’shuwa, which has long been used across the Arabian Peninsula.

  The term used for this herb-rich rocky habitat in Dhofar is nejd, from the ancient Semitic languages of “mountain talkers,” the tribes of al-Kathiri, al-Qara, and al-Mahra. The highland cultures of Jabal Samhan share a history and preference for landscapes markedly different from those of the better-known Bedouins of the Arabian sands. The striking contrast in plant composition between these adjacent landscapes is what ecologists call “beta diversity,”4 a pronounced dissimilarity in the herbs that a plant collector might find between localized floras as he or she moves from one patch of desert to the next. In general, deserts exhibit high rates of “species turnover” from one arid landscape to another, so that few of the favored food and medicinal plants of one desert mountain range can be found in another just a day’s walk away. Thus, for as long as we know, plants have been traded from one place to another and savored beyond their place of origin.

  Off to the southeast, the windward slopes of Jabal Samhan dive toward the cooler, breezier, more humid coast of Yemen. To the west, in the domain of the truly nomadic Bedouin, lies the infamous Empty Quarter, the austere sea of sand known to Arabic speakers as the Rub‘ al-Khali. For centuries, it has been the stretch of the Arabian Peninsula least frequented, even by the hardiest of nomads. Even the Bedu, the most competent nomads who frequented the sandier stretches of the Arabian Peninsula, are wary of its paucity of water and the perils of its drifting sands.

  Here in the Dhofar highlands, at least enough terra rossa exists among the limestone to support a scatter of low shrubs, some far-flung patches of wiry grass, resinous bushes of rockrose, and withered but bristly stalks of thistles. This desert-scrub vegetation is seasonally browsed by a few goats and camels, the hardiest of livestock breeds. In fact, they sometimes seem to be the only creatures tenacious enough to inhabit the nejd, but by no means do they comprise the sum total of the fauna there.

  The small caves I spot along the rocky crest on the western horizon occasionally shelter the stick-gathering hyrax and rock-climbing lizards. I have also noticed larger caves and ledges
below the cliffs that protect the meager harvests of spices gathered by al-Qara foragers and herders, their baskets and bundles left there in the shade.

  No one would call the Dhofar highlands a landscape of bounty. On the whole, most of its habitats lack much fertility, fecundity, productivity, or diversity. If the inhabitants do not take advantage of the brief spurts of plant growth that follow occasional rains, they could easily go hungry. And within Dhofar, the nejd is one of the most intensely arid habitats. But it also holds a singular treasure, a desert plant that emits an extraordinary fragrance.

  Long ago, that particular treasure catapulted some Semitic-speaking nomads out of the desolation of the southern reaches of their peninsula, propelling their descendants toward all corners of the globe. They began to trade their aromatic herbs, incenses, and spices to others in better-watered climes. They exchanged their fragrances, flavors, and cures for staple foods and other goods that their arid homeland could not consistently provide. They understood that all habitats are not created equal in terms of the natural resources found within them.

  So early on in their history, these Semitic tribes realized they should not remake one place to resemble another but rather trade the most unique goods of each to those who lacked them. They made an asset out of one of the inherent weaknesses of their homelands: its inequitable distribution of plant and animal productivity. In doing so, they built an economic model for trade between regions that initially redistributed both wealth and wonder among the inhabitants.