Poultry

This was a family favorite that my mother often made.

In this delicately flavored and scrumptious Moroccan qdra, the long-cooked almonds should become very soft. As so often in Moroccan cooking, one onion is cooked first with the meat or chicken, and when these are nearly done, the remaining onions are added. The first onion is used to add flavor to the meat, and it practically melts and disappears into the sauce. The onions added later keep their shape and add body to the sauce.

Many years ago, hearing of her prestigious cooking, I went to see a woman in Casablanca. She received me in a pale-blue kaftan on a patio with turquoise-and-cobalt mosaics. She explained that her family was from Fez and that her cooking was Fassi, which is reputedly the most refined regional cuisine of Morocco. She had three cooks working for her, but when she had guests, even only one or two, she said she spent at least six hours cooking in the kitchen herself. I asked if there were ways of shortening the cooking times. She said no. Her daughter, who was studying law in the States, interrupted: “Yes, there are shortcuts, you don’t have to take that long.” Her mother was deeply offended. Were all those years that she had spent in the kitchen to please her family a waste, then? Were all her efforts to make things exquisite of little value? We cannot, of course, aspire to the extraordinary refinements of the grand family kitchens of Morocco, but we can achieve quite delicious results without much trouble. One of the recipes the lovely lady gave me was for pigeons stuffed with couscous. When she had a party, she prepared a huge mountain of couscous and covered it with little pigeons, shining and golden in their honey sauce. This is an extremely easy version of the grand dish. Using quick-cooking couscous makes it easy. You can double the number of pigeons for a dinner party, but then you will need more large saucepans.

A Turkish dish of Georgian origin. Georgia borders on northwestern Turkey and is famous for plum trees and plum sauces. The traditional way to make this dish is to cut the chicken all the way down the back with kitchen shears or a bread knife, open it out, and cut away the bones. You season the flesh inside with crushed garlic, salt, and pepper, then close the chicken up, flatten it with a weight, and cook it in a pan gently in some butter for about 40 minutes, turning it over once. But I find it is easier and equally good to use chicken fillets.

The combination of chicken or meat with dates is very ancient in the Arab world. This recipe is inspired by a Moroccan one. I made it with baby partridge, which was delicious. You could also use small guinea hens or poussins. Use soft dried dates.

On a visit to Egypt, a hostess who invited me for dinner told us how she had run after the ducks that had escaped as she carried them home. There are many dishes of duck and chicken with quince in the Arab world. This one has the flavors of Morocco. The quince slices acquire a wonderful caramelized taste when they are fried.

One of the happiest memories of my childhood in Cairo is the outings in the company of several uncles, aunts, and cousins to an old restaurant called Le Café des Pigeons on the way to the Pyramids, where we feasted on charcoal-broiled baby pigeons. Huge platters, piled high with halved pigeons sprinkled with lemon juice and parsley, were brought to us in the ancient gardens of the restaurant, overgrown with jasmine and bougainvillea. The birds were so young and tender we could eat them bones and all. Mediterranean pigeons are like squabs. You can also use poussins (small spring chickens) in the same way. They are best grilled over dying embers, where they acquire a most seductive flavor and aroma, but you can also cook them indoors, over the heat of a pumice-stone rock grill or under the broiler. Serve them with salad and pita bread.

In Cairo a few years ago, I was invited to dinner by a woman who was living alone in the family villa after her parents had died. While she spent a month in hospital with her sick mother, squatters had built dwellings in the large garden. By now it was a few years since they had settled in, and she couldn’t get them out because of delays in the legal process. But I think she was lonely and had got used to them and was not trying too hard. The squatters had built a clay oven, and a dovecote where they kept pigeons; and chickens were running around. They grew all kinds of vegetables and herbs and gave her some of the produce. She watched their daily antics, noting that, while they quarreled all the time, the pigeons were loving and faithful towards each other. While her cook was preparing stuffed pigeons and minty broad beans with artichoke hearts for us, we watched the squatters cook their pigeons on the grill together with slices of eggplant and onion. Her recipe is one of my favorites. You will need the coarse bulgur, available from Greek and Middle Eastern stores. For a large and varied meal, you can serve half a bird per person. There is a large amount of stuffing because people like to have more on the side. Stuffed pigeon is one of the delicacies of Egypt, which you serve, as they say, “if you really want to show somebody you love them.” The stuffing is most commonly rice or ferik (young green wheat), but bulgur is an easier and delicious alternative.

Another Moroccan soup, this one too makes a good meal to serve at a party.

Melokheya is Egypt’s most popular national dish. It is an ancient peasant soup which is believed to be portrayed in pharaonic tomb paintings. It seemed to us as children that the fellahin (peasants) wore the same clothes, used the same tools, and repeated the same movements as did the figures working the land in pharaonic tomb paintings. Every peasant, however poor, had a little patch of ground for his own use, and in summer this was reserved exclusively for the cultivation of the deep-green melokheya leaf (Corchorus olitorius—in English, Jew’s mallow). The women prepared the soup daily in large pots which they carried to the fields on their heads for the men to eat at midday. When the work was done and the men came home, they ate it again at dusk. For many years, when we were relatively new in England, the leaves were very hard to find, and we hankered desperately for the soup. Some relatives of mine in Milan tried to grow the plant (it looks a bit like spinach) in the garden of their apartment building. After weeks of effort—getting the seeds (the same seeds were found in pharaonic tombs), planting them, watering, nurturing, harvesting—they invited a group of compatriots to eat the soup. The triumphant cook was horrified to find that the leaves she thought she had so lovingly raised were only local weeds. The melokheya had failed to grow. Everybody from Egypt adores melokheya, which has a mucilaginous, glutinous quality imparted by the leaves. But be warned: it is an acquired taste. There are various ways of eating it in several stages, and each is something of a ritual. The soup may be eaten first with plain rice (that is how I like it—pure and simple), or with fried or toasted Arab bread; then with portions of the chicken or meat which was used for making the stock. Or you can serve it all together in many layers on the plate. In either case, it represents an entire meal. The layers may start with pieces of toasted bread at the bottom of the plate, but usually begin with rice, topped with a piece of chicken or meat, over which the soup is poured. Recently the Lebanese custom of sprinkling chopped onion steeped in vinegar on top has been adopted by some Egyptians. In Egypt they use chicken, rabbit, goose, duck, or meat stock to make the soup. Many years ago I was employed in England to make the soup using a famous brand of bouillon cube for a television advertisement. Years later, when I went back to Cairo for the first time, I spied it being shown on television in a crowded café between episodes of “Dallas.” You are not likely to find fresh melokheya, but dried and frozen varieties are available from Middle Eastern stores. The frozen one is best. A lot of garlic is used in a sauce called takleya which goes in at the end, but it does not seem like too much when you eat.

Variously pronounced bstilla, pastilla, and bisteeya, it is one of the great dishes of Morocco, described as “food for the gods.” Vast quantities are made in huge trays for weddings and grand occasions. The version with pigeons is the most prestigious. Moroccans say the dish was brought back by the Moors from Andalusia after the Reconquista, but in Andalusia, at El Molino, the center of gastronomic research outside Granada, where they serve it as a historic dish, they say it was brought to Spain from Morocco. In a thirteenth-century Andalusian culinary manuscript in Arabic (see Lucie Bolens, appendix) there is a recipe for a pigeon omelet which is almost identical to the filling for bstilla. The preparation of the pastry called ouarka requires much skill and experience (see page 125). You can buy it vacuum-packed in French supermarkets, so perhaps we will be able to find it in America soon. Store-bought sheets of fillo make an excellent alternative. There are two famous versions. The one of Fez is the most surprising, with its sweet-and-savory combination, but you must also try the sharp lemony one of Tétouan, which is given as a variation. The cooked birds are not deboned in Morocco—the bones are left in the pie—but it is much more pleasant to eat the pie without them.

Trid is described as the poor man’s bstilla. It is also said that the Prophet would have liked it best. He is known to have been fond of onions, and here a huge mass is reduced to a creamy sauce. I prefer it too.

Lamb’s liver is traditionally used, but calf’s liver is tastier and more tender. It is also more expensive.

In Turkey and Egypt during the period of the Ottoman Empire, the women in the harems, the wives and concubines of the Sultans and aristocracy, were the widows and daughters captured at war. The Circassians among them were known for their beauty and their culinary skills. This classic is part of their legacy. The recipe was given by Luli Fevsi and comes from the kitchens of the old Ottoman aristocracy in Egypt. It is a cold dish which may be served as an hors d’oeuvre or as part of a buffet table.

Rolled into marble-sized balls, they make a nice appetizer.

A number of dishes that go under the general name of fatta all have in common a bed of toasted bread, soaked in stock, and a topping of yogurt. The name denotes the manner of breaking up crisp, toasted bread with your hands. To me, they recall a special person, the late Josephine Salam. Many years ago I received a letter from her from Beirut saying that she had a number of recipes she thought I would like. On our first meeting, at Claridge’s tearoom in London, where a band played Noël Coward tunes, she offered to come to my house and show me how to make fatta with chicken. We made that and many more meals together. It was the time of the civil war in Lebanon, and as she came and went from the country, I received an ongoing account of everyday life in the ravaged city. Her daughter, Rana, has become an artist and designer. For her thesis at the Royal College of Art in London, she asked me to give a lecture on the history of Middle Eastern food. She had ten portraits of me painted on cloth by a poster-painter in Egypt (he used photographs I gave Rana) and hung them around the college to publicize the event. She laid out foods and spices as in a souk, put on a tape of sounds and music recorded in an Egyptian street, and passed around Arab delicacies. When she visited me a few years later with her husband and new baby, I offered her the fatta with stuffed eggplants on page 300.

This pie with a beguilingly flavorsome filling is a refined interpretation of musakhan, which is of Bedouin origin and is baked in thin Arab bread. It is delicious, and you must try it. It can be made in advance and reheated before serving. Use the large-size sheets of fillo (about 19 inches × 12 inches) that are sold frozen, and defrost for 2 to 3 hours; see page 9 for information about using fillo.

Quails are part of the mezze tradition. Use your hands to eat them.