Voznesensk – a dusty town in southern Ukraine, 1969. My father, Petro, remembers jumping into a passing truck full of watermelons, and throwing a couple to his friends standing by the side of the road. They gorged themselves on bread and sweet watermelon chunks all day. They weren’t concerned about staining their clothes with the juice – it was so hot they were running around in just their underpants.
It was a happy summer, but his parents went through a bitter divorce soon after, and he was plucked from Voznesensk and sent to Baku in Azerbaijan to spend a year with his Ukrainian uncle Stepan and his Armenian wife, Tamara.
Tamara was from Nagorno-Karabakh, a disputed area in the mountains of Azerbaijan, now in the middle of another bitter conflict. At the time, my dad remembers Armenians and Azerbaijani living peacefully together. Much tragedy has been experienced since, on all sides, but my Armenian aunt Nina still reminisces about the gorgeous Azeri women who taught her and her cousins how to weave rugs, cook Azerbaijani plov, grow mulberries and rear silkworms on mulberry branches.
So, there was my dad, aged 12, used to his Ukrainian grandmother’s borscht and his Siberian mum’s pelmeni – in a new country just north of Iran. He vividly remembers row upon row of grapevines, interspersed with crimson pomegranate orchards, weaving their way through the fields around the village they lived in, a few kilometres from Hadrut in Karabakh.
What struck him most was the refined eating culture, even among his peers. There was no running around in melon-stained underpants here: traditions were revered and eating well was seen as a real art. The first thing that struck him (and this is still done in our house to this day) was how Azerbaijanis and Armenians served whole bunches of herbs, sprinkled with salt, and bread as a starter before a meal. Parsley, coriander, mint, garden cress, spring onions – anything that was growing in the garden would find its way on to the table like this.
Heavy, aromatic logs would be thrown into a tandyr (tandoor) oven. As soon as the flames died down, Armenian churek flatbreads would be added, sticking to the white-hot sides, much like naan is made in a tandoor. My dad tells us that he will never forget the first time he tried tolma made with fresh vine leaves. There were similar dishes of stuffed aubergines, tomatoes and even apples. And he remembers well his aunt’s pickles: white cabbages, aubergines, beetroot – anything she could lay her hands on – fermented with wild herbs, salt and water from a mountain spring.
There was so much food he loved: lyulya kebabs made from lamb and beef mince, grilled over blistering charcoal until crispy and charred on the outside, but still bursting with juice and flavour inside. Azeri lobi (runner beans in spices), salty chanakh and motal cheeses. And thin Armenian vermicelli toasted in a dry pan then stewed with butter until soft. Beetroot leaves and spinach were cooked with eggs and spices in the oven. They would pick wild herbs and collect nuts in the mountains, and make jam out of young walnuts.
Aunt Nina’s and Dad’s stories have inspired me to cook more Caucasian food. As much as Greek, Turkish and Middle-Eastern cuisines are close to my heart, it’s those regions in the Transcaucasus that make me more and more curious. I’ve dug up a few of Nina’s old Azeri and Armenian cookbooks and the south Azeri fish levengi was something I could not not make. Sumac has become one of my favourite seasonings in the past couple of years, so finding a refreshing drink made with it was a revelation.
Sadly, 29 years have passed since we were last in Baku. My aunt’s family had to abandon their house in Karabakh when things turned sour in 1988, and they moved to Kiev. When we visit, they still cook us Armenian tanov (cold yoghurt and sorrel soup) and Azeri piti (mutton soup). It is heartening that the culinary traditions and friendships of their childhood remain, even though they are unable to live in the country they grew up in.
Fish levengi
This is my interpretation of this dish. Traditionally an unglamorous– sounding, but uniquely flavoursome Caspian roach would be used to make this South Azeri dish, but lacking that in London I just use any fish that takes my fancy. They would also normally add lavashak, which is a fruit leather, but it’s hard to find, so I add pomegranate molasses instead. Both add a welcome sour note to the dish.
Serves 2
1 small onion, finely diced
2 tbsp olive oil
200g walnuts, toasted and ground
2 tbsp pomegranate molasses
1 tbsp honey
A handful of pomegranate seeds
½ tsp cayenne pepper
Salt
1 sea bream, gutted
1 Fry the onion in a little oil until golden, then mix with the walnuts, pomegranate molasses, honey, pomegranate seeds and cayenne and season this mixture with salt well.
2 Preheat the oven to 180C/350F/gas mark 4. Rub the fish in a little oil and season inside and out with sea salt. Stuff the fish and bake for 15 minutes, or until the flesh is cooked.
Sumac sherbet
Sherbet is a very special drink in Azerbaijan, made with everything from pomegranates and rose to basil and saffron. Originally, sugar would be used to make it, but if you are trying to take less of it, then use honey or agave syrup as suggested in my recipe. I also like to throw in a few lemons for extra freshness.
Serves 2
50g sumac
1 litre warm water
150g sugar, honey or agave syrup
2 lemons, sliced
A few leaves of mint
1 Pop the sumac into a large saucepan and pour over the warm water. Leave it to sit for an hour and then put it on the stove and bring it to the boil. Boil for 3 minutes and pour through a fine sieve over a bowl containing your sweetener.
2 Let it cool, then keep it in the fridge. Serve in a jug with lemon slices and some mint leaves.
Olia Hercules is author of Mamushka (Octopus, 2015); @oliasgastronomy
