In addition to tracing the history of chickpeas, Part I covered the
quarrels between Israelis and Palestinians over who had the most authentic
claim to falafel.
The true parents of falafel, the Egyptians, have been bystanders in the
culture wars over the fritter. Nonetheless, Egyptian purveyors of falafel, I
learned from visits to their shops, are quick to remind you that you are
actually eating ta’amiya, even if it is bereft of the requisite fava
beans.
The Lebanese have pursued another tack. Their falafel sandwich is a
compromise, a bridge between the Israeli and Lebanese version. It is a
combination of chickpeas and fava beans.
My old friend, George Rababy, the Lebanese owner of the King of Falafel
in Georgetown, always expressed enormous pride in his country’s product. The
onetime car salesman and airline ticket agent emigrated from his homeland in
1974. He took over a Georgetown luncheonette called “Jack’s Steaks” after
stints as a waiter, captain, and maître d’ in area restaurants. The aspiring
businessman had been searching for a “busy place to show his experience.” He
kept Jack’s drawing card, a Philly cheesesteak sandwich, while also converting
the shop into an Arabic lunch counter selling hummus and baba ghanouj,
grape leaves, kibbe, and, of course, falafel. His specialties were
perfectly suited for customers hunting for quick foods and carryout.
One afternoon some years ago, I watched as George put his Lebanese stamp
on the falafel. After soaking his chickpeas and fava beans in water for two
days, he ground up the legumes and added red pepper, cumin, onions, and garlic
to the mix. Falafel, George said, must have bite. “If it’s not hot, don’t eat
it.” For more verve, he sprinkled parsley and coriander from a mountain of
greens on his basement worktable.
George, the consummate showman, performed his falafel cooking ritual for
his lunch counter audience. “If it’s not cooked in front of you,” he remarked,
“it’s not falafel.” Nibbling on a plate of tart olives and slices of tangy red
turnips that were marinated in beet juice, hot pepper, vinegar, and salt, I
watched the master at work. After dipping what looked like an ice cream scoop
into the falafel batter, he dropped the patty into the fryer. He took care not
to over fry his product. Taking the fritter out of the fryer, George rested the
falafel so that it remained crunchy and moist. He then mashed his creation on
pocketless pita bread and garnished it with lettuce, tomato, parsley, and
turnips. Finally, he rolled up the pita to make a sandwich and squirted tahini
sauce made from a paste of crushed sesame seeds on it.
Another classic chickpea-based appetizer has also precipitated a food
fight. Both the Lebanese and the Israelis have staked their claim to hummus. In
2008, the Association of Lebanese Industrialists asserted their legal right to
“protected status” for the dip. The group based its argument on a ruling by a
European Union court that only cheese produced from Greek goat and sheep milk
could be called feta. What was good for feta should be good for hummus. By
branding hummus as Lebanese, the association calculated, their rivals would be
prevented from promoting it as an “Israeli” product. “If we don’t tell the
Israelis that enough is enough, and we don’t remind the world that it’s not
true that hummus is a traditional Israeli dish, they (Israelis) will keep on
marketing it as their own,” association executive Fadi Abboud declared.
Hummus has also functioned as a chess piece in Middle East conflicts.
During a dispute over a nuclear reactor in Syria, President Bashur al-Assad, it
was rumored, sent fresh hummus to Israel’s Prime Minister Ehud Olmert as a
gesture of good will. Seemingly undeterred, the Israelis went ahead and bombed
the reactor.
The hummus competition has also broken out on another battlefield. The
chefs of both Lebanon and Israel have been vying over who can make the heftiest
hummus. The victory, each hoped, would be marked in the Guinness Book of
Records. The 2009 contest was billed with the slogan, “Come and fight for
your bite, you know you’re right.” The Lebanese triumphed with a spread that
weighed over two tons.
Both sides have summoned strong arguments to make their case. “We were
the first country in the world to industrialize the production of hummus and
export hummus when Israel was barely five years old,” Lebanese spokesman Abboud
asserted. The chickpea dip, Israelis have responded, is too ancient and widespread
to be appropriated by any nation. ”Trying to make a copyright claim over hummus
is like claiming for the rights to bread or wine. Hummus is a centuries old
Arab dish —- nobody owns it, it belongs to the region,” Israeli journalist
Shooky Galili contended.
It is easier to determine the genealogy of the chickpea than it is to
trace the origins of hummus. The dip we know, a luscious chickpea purée
suffused with the flavors of lemon, garlic, olive oil, and, most importantly,
sesame tahini, is markedly different from the nutty, herb-laden dish of the
first recorded recipe from 13th century Egypt. The instructions for making
Hummus Kasa (chickpea blanket) calls for the cook to pound the beans “fine”
after boiling them. Then vinegar, pepper, mint, parsley, thyme, walnuts,
hazelnuts, almonds, pistachios, caraway, and other ingredients are to be added.
Whatever its origins, hummus was probably perfected by the Lebanese, the
Middle East’s consummate restaurateurs. With culinary flair they elevated a
basic food into something grand. Hummus metamorphosed into a convivial dish to
be savored as part of the mezze, an elaborate assortment of appetizers
ranging from tangy eggplant salads and creamy yogurt spread to grilled beef and
lamb sausages, offered at restaurants. The mezze blossomed with the rise
of open air cafés in Zahle, a mountainous region of northeastern Lebanon known
as the “Switzerland of the Middle East.” As the renowned Middle East food
writer Claudia Roden tells the story, “Zahle, the resort where Lebanon’s
favorite riverside restaurants are situated, acquired a mythical reputation for
gastronomy. In 1920, the first two cafés opened by the river. They gave away
assorted nuts, olives, bits of cheese, and raw vegetables with the local arak.
Gradually, the entire valley became filled with open-air cafés, each larger and
luxurious than the next, each vying to attract customers who flocked from all
over the Middle East with ever more varied mezze. The reputation of the
local mountain village foods they offered spread far and wide.” In time,
restaurants throughout Lebanon adopted the winning formula.
From the beginning, as Roden points out, drinking arak, an
anise-flavored liqueur brewed in the valley in which Zahle was located, was an
integral part of the mezze experience. There was no alcohol taboo for
the largely Christian patrons. Arak helped lubricate gatherings where people
gathered to enjoy each other’s company and to relish the conversation.
American
hummus makers have altered the traditional blend to appeal to the country’s
varied tastes. Food journalist John T. Edge discovered the Holy Land Company in
Minneapolis turning out tubs of hummus for grocery stores in jalapeno and
guacamole flavors. “I’m making an American product,” the Kuwaiti-born executive
told Edge. “And this is what Americans want. Flavors and varieties and
guacamole.”
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