About James Brennan
James Brennan is a freelance food and travel writer. The former food editor of Time Out Dubai and restaurant critic for The National newspaper, he has contributed to a range of publications in the Middle East and beyond, from CNN Traveller to The Sunday Times.
He is the current Academy chairman of the Middle East region for the World's 50 Best Restaurants sponsored by S. Pellegrino and Acqua Panna, and he has travelled extensively to discover the food, flavours and people of this fascinating and often misunderstood region.
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One morning I woke up earlier than was healthy. Somebody had recommended a special restaurant for breakfast – an Aleppian institution, no less – in Jdeideh.
Down a dusty lane some people had gathered outside a signless cafeteria. It was Al-Fawwal, and the man behind the counter was Abu Abdo. He was making ful medammes, which wasn’t a great surprise since this is all he’s ever made….every day, from 3am to just gone noon, for the best part of 50 years.
Abu Abdo’s ful medammes consists of large fava beans, slowly simmered in copper urns until soft and mushy, served with red chilli paste, garlic and a choice of either lemon juice or tahini. That’s it, no alternatives. You either like lemon or tahini or you don’t like Abu Abdo’s ful.
Watching him work is to see a man truly in his element, like Steve McQueen behind the wheel of a Shelby Mustang, or Stéphane Grappelli gliding his bow across a beloved fiddle. Fluid, graceful, elegant. His body moves like mercury as he goes from tahini, to beans, to chilli paste to olive oil. Splashing them into bowls or plastic bags in a flowing, liquid ballet of functional movement. You worry that if he stops he’ll seize up and crumble into a billion pieces. He’s as much a part of his restaurant as the dented worktops and the big blue gas canisters that fire up his ful. Take away Abu Abdo and the ochre walls would crack and the heavy wooden shutters would bang themselves closed in resistance.
I’d had ful before in Dubai. It was sometimes spelled ‘foul’, which I thought was a pretty apt description. To me it tasted like a Bronze Age sock that had been dug up from a peat bog and boiled in donkey vomit. It had the cheesy, acrid stench of a three-week old body part found under a serial killer’s porch. You could say I wasn’t a fan.
I ordered ful with tahini and sat down at one of a few marble-top tables. The ful was splashed up the sides of the bowl, a brownish, reddish, yellow and white swirl of unctuous liquids, with the occasional fava bean poking through the surface, slathered in the mixture like cormorants caught in an oil slick. There was a basket of flatbread, a bowl of tomato and green chillies, and a whole raw onion. A steaming copper urn stood nearby, ancient, streaked and stained with what looked like a century of slopped ful. I girded my gastronomic loins.
The ful was incredible. And I’m not just saying that. It was spectacular, creamy, comforting, spicy and wonderful. The cheesy stench was nowhere to be sniffed, and the rancorous bitter pungency a distant memory. This was ful medammes as it should be. A lovable dish that loves you back. I remember thinking it would make a great hangover cure.
‘Do you like my ful?’ asked Abu Abdo, somewhat rhetorically, after I’d soaked up every last drop with bread and got up to leave with a woozy look on my face. He was still spooning the mixture into bowls, and stopped momentarily when a young lad came behind the counter to give him a hug. Here was a man who was loved in his community for providing a simple daily service. For giving soul food to the people. For always being there.
Think about the town or city that you live in. Can you name a restaurant that’s always been there and always been the same? One that’s consistently served great food without fiddling with the formula, or jazzing the place up with poncy menus or a sophisticated lounge concept? As soon as most chefs get a whiff of success, they’ve turned their little gem into a chain, and it’s roaring off over the horizon to conquer new towns and cities like Attila the Hun on crystal meth. The chef gets his own TV show and he’s off too, tearing around Tuscany on a Vespa, patronising the locals.
Abu Abdo’s is one of the last true bespoke dining experiences – you know exactly what you’re going to get, you know who’s going to cook it, and you know you can’t quite get it like that anywhere else. It’s been in the community for 150 years, handed down from father to son with a responsibility to keep on doing what they’ve always done. It doesn’t have to be sexy or cool. It just has to be good. A constant in life that doesn’t have to compromise to please the shareholders. A rare treasure indeed.
Aleppo Souk, the mother of all malls. I returned to the souk to find the silent, deserted passages of shuttered stalls and padlocked gates completely and dramatically transformed. The cool stone arches were the same, curling their ancient brickwork into vaulted ceilings, but the domes now reverberated with a tumult of noise and smells.
Since the invention of the bin liner, it’s become easier to carry your offal and lingerie home
Yesterday’s pillars of sunlight, which had planted themselves uninhibited through grated skylights, were now being bulldozed by an unremitting throng of people, barrows, donkeys, vans and motorcycles. Behind carts laden with sacks and boxes, sandalled feet scrambled on dusty cobblestones worn smooth over centuries of trade. ‘Yalla, yalla,’ came the cry from burdened porters, sweating beneath red-and-white keffiyeh headscarves worn like turbans.
Come on, come on, keep moving! The crowd snarled at a junction in the narrow pathway, as women in drizzling blackabayas steadied bundled packages on their heads, and men heaved their carts through the teeming jumble of bodies into side-alleys and away. It was late morning in the market and the hustle was building steadily before afternoon prayers.
This souk is like no other. The longest covered bazaar in the world, it winds in a serpentine tangle of stalls for more miles than a sane man can count. Yet unlike many of the great souks, such as Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar or the Medina in Marrakech, the tourist count is low, the souvenir tat limited, and the hard-sell practically non-existent. You can leave the souk in Cairo, return to your hotel, open up your day pack and find a pushy trader in there still trying to sell you a copper teapot.
Not here. This is a real, working marketplace and possibly the most authentic of all the traditional souks in the Middle East. It’s where the locals come to shop, browse and haggle for everything and anything, from embroidered cushion covers to bridal costumes.
Traders occupy alcoves sliced into the walls, and are organised according to guild – gold and silver over here, textiles over there – yet the main thoroughfares offer a bit of everything. Much of the current construction dates back to the Ottoman era, but parts of it were built in the Middle Ages, when caravans from the Silk Road would unload their goods and park overnight at merchants’ accommodation in the khans or caravanserais.
Some of the khans branching off from the meandering lanes were built in the 15th century, but there has certainly been a marketplace on this site for many hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years before that.
Aleppo Souk: Part 2:
On the main tributary of Souk al-Attarine, I stumbled through the human tide in search of food. Among the hordes were roaming hawkers selling sesame-studded breads on rickety carts, while others transported their wares on their heads. One cart was piled high with a mountain of pistachio nuts, a speciality of the region. My eyes were drawn to a cluster of butchers’ shops a few moments after my nose had got wind of them.
The strong stench of blood and guts drifted from visceral hanging displays. Bulging livers drooped from ceiling hooks next to flaps of tripe. Large sheets of pallid fat had been hacked and carved so that sculpted lobes curled over like waxy white palm fronds. The hanging carcasses left little to the imagination, their ribs poking through wrinkled folds of skin like the bars on a grisly xylophone.
Occasionally, there would be a decorative bunch of parsley or mint hanging up to distract you from the gore, but one stall had blood spattered and smeared on the wall like a statement: ‘We’re butchers, dammit. We kill animals and there’s no getting around it.’
Some of the meat shops doubled up as kebab joints, with skewered chicken livers and minced lamb koftas waiting to be thrown on a hissing grill. Shawarmas of sliced chicken and lamb turned slowly on vertical spits, crisping up against the steady heat of the rotisserie, ready to be carved into flatbreads and rolled up with tahini sesame paste and salad leaves. These places did great things to my nasal passages. But the fragrances of the souk changed constantly.
I was distracted by a fresh waft from a nearby fruit and vegetable shop, where a basket of barely-ripe cherries caught my eye. Then a zesty blast hit me as I approached the spice traders, whose colourful powdered stock was heaped up in sculpted mounds. Sumac and paprika in crimson and burnt orange; buff dunes of cumin, coriander and turmeric beneath hanging rows of dried limes.
Among the stacked jars and bulging sacks was the legacy of the Silk Road, the exotic spices that had transformed the way Aleppians approached food. The spices were new to the Middle East in those early days, so the traders experimented with locally raised meat and seasonal vegetables to lure the punters in. It was this entrepreneurial spirit that created a cuisine that still flourishes today.
I was getting peckish and came to an abrupt halt outside a sweet shop. The sign said ‘Sweet Mahroseh’ in red and blue neon. Outside, there was a broad platter stacked with glazed pastries dusted with icing sugar. A jug-eared boy appeared, and told me they were warbat filled with ashta or clotted cream made from buffalo’s milk. I couldn’t resist. The wonderfully flakey pastry, which had been dipped in atar sugar syrup, crumbled into the thick ashta with every bite. Admittedly, there weren’t many bites.
I wolfed the whole thing down in seconds as I drifted through the crowd.
I stopped to look at some traditional Aleppine olive and bay laurel soap, and I heard a voice calling me from a nearby textiles stall.
“Hey, you. Where are you from?”
It was a podgy-faced young man in a tight black t-shirt, theatrically waving in my direction. I went over to answer the, by now customary, question.
“I’m from England,” I said.
“Oh. I have been to Soho. It was so queenie-queenie!” He giggled, pulled a face, and then slapped me on the shoulder.
Not for the first time in Aleppo, I was mildly taken aback. Here I was, in a conservative and predominantly Muslim society, where homosexuality was certainly illegal, and I was flagrantly being chatted up by an openly camp market trader in the most public of places.
Not only that, but the slogan on his tight black t-shirt read: “Well, it won’t suck itself!”
I naturally reached for my camera. “Ooh, not the face,” he said, as he quickly scurried behind his co-worker, who was sat upright with his elbows on a pile of fabric and his head in his hands, like he’d seen it all before.
“Oh, go on then, just one,” he relented without persuasion, and struck a pose.
“He’s the only gay in the village,” quipped his companion with a wry look.
And, impressed by such an unlikely grasp of catchphrases from the Little Britain TV show, I extended a friendly handshake to both.
“Ooh, I think he’s already attached,” podgy-face said to his friend, as he held onto my hand for just a moment too long. I pulled it away with a chuckle and moved on.
As I walked past another stall, I saw a picture of the late Princess Diana with a red-and-white keffiyeh superimposed onto her head. Elsewhere there was a portrait of the Syrian President, embellished with a pair of devil horns scribbled in marker pen. I wondered if the souk doubled up as some kind of subversive bolt-hole for dissidents and non-conformists.
Before I left the souk there was another classic Aleppo moment. A stocky, thickset man with a bent nose, gimlet eyes and eyebrows like gorilla’s fingers summoned me over to him.
I feared the well of Syrian goodwill had finally dried up and I was in for a pummelling. He asked the staple question, curtly. I answered him. ‘Ah, England good,’ he muttered gruffly, before handing me a business card. It read:
Ghiath Tifor, Golden Boxer.
“Middle East champion. Arab champion. Middle weight,” he announced proudly. I braced myself for an upper-cut, but his stern expression gave way to a smile. He delved into his shopping and produced a brown paper bag. From it he lifted two plastic-wrapped mamoul cookies, which he gave to me before going on his way.
I had experienced the Aleppo phenomenon. Ismail was not insane, despite convincing evidence to the contrary. Neither was he hellbent on bamboozling me with nonsense then selling me something, ripping me off or robbing me. He just wanted to say hello and practice his English with a tourist. Albeit unconventionally.
I bade farewell to Ismail at the steps to the Citadel, an imposing limestone fortification on a huge mound of rock that overlooks the city. But the Aleppo phenomenon occurred again and again over the next few hours, as it did throughout my stay in Syria’s second city. I climbed the steps to one of the oldest and largest castles in the world. Inside there were snakes, lions’ heads and date palms carved into the stone. There were nooks and chambers chiselled into the walls, from which boiling oil, tar and all manner of nasties could be unloaded upon intruders. I was met with something hot, liquid, yet rather more welcoming in the old hamam or steam bath in the bowels of the Citadel.
It wasn’t a working hamam. It was quiet and empty, but for a greying attendant with an official-looking moustache. He offered me a seat and handed me a finjaal, a small china cup with no handle. Then he poured khawa or cardamom-infused Arabic coffee from a long-handled dallah pot and we sat down to drink. The coffee was hot, light, slightly bitter and gently spiced.
The attendant turned and waved his hand to the room, an L-shaped chamber with stone arches and punctured domes penetrated by shards of natural light. ‘Mister,’ he said, as he pointed to a naked shop dummy, whose modesty had been preserved with a cheap bath towel, probably bought from the souk over the road. There wasn’t much else to point at, and since his repertoire of English seemed as limited as my Arabic, I gladly accepted another cup of coffee and thanked him with an enthusiastic ‘shukran.’
I didn’t learn much about the hamam that afternoon, but I did experience one of the oldest and most traditional expressions of hospitality in the world. Not for the first time on my travels in the Middle East, I had been offered a seat, a coffee and some company courtesy of a complete stranger. It was a modern manifestation of a time-honoured bedouin act of kindness, whereupon travellers would be welcomed into desert tents for a hot drink, some dates and a few moments’ respite from their journey. It was rolled up in that distinctly Aleppian ball of friendly innocence that had caused Ismail to stop me in the street. What was surprising about this encounter was that it came from an official attendant in a museum. There wasn’t the slightest suggestion that I should pay for my refreshment – unthinkable in a museum back home, where a syrupy cola or a watery Nescafe would set me back the price of a decent Syrian meal.
It happened again after I left the Citadel. An amber sun was beginning to sink behind the rooftop satellite dishes and minarets. As I sauntered along, a shopkeeper was opening his shutters after Friday prayers. He called me over to join him in his shop. Again, a chair was produced; he offered me water to wash the sweat from my face and hands, and a towel to dry them. And there we sat in his ramshackle emporium, which was little more than a cavity in the wall, crammed with random cardboard boxes, plastic shoes and dusty racks of chewing gum.
It was the third time that day that I’d been engaged by a total stranger. It was the third time I’d made a new friend – and this one hadn’t compared me to an overweight ruminant from the Low Countries.
Which I considered a bonus.
A fig tree had shed its soft green fruit onto the pavement next to an old black 1970s Chevrolet. Across the street, a prehistoric-looking bakery had laid that morning’s flatbreads out on carpets unfurled on the cobbles. A retro Volkswagen Beetle trundled one way, a man on a motorbike went the other, and two little boys emerged from the scene carrying the family’s daily bread on their heads, the packets flapping over their ears like deer stalker hats.
On the tiny Hatab Square there was a fishmonger rubbing spices into the scored flesh of a huge fish, while a mother, her young son and a big black cat looked on. Jdeideh was just waking up.
Al Jdeideh is the Christian Quarter. It was built in the 16th century but, since Aleppo is older than God’s godparents, it qualifies as the New City. It’s home to a mixed community of Maronite Christians, Greek Christians, Armenian orthodox Christians and no doubt one or two lapsed Christians. Churches great and small can be found among the grand merchant’s houses, which line narrow cobbled lanes.
The passageways and alleys are full of lanterns, gabled first-floor windows, wooden shutters and strangled electricity cables. If the scarred stone walls could tell tales, it would take a million and one nights to tell them all.
There are merchants’ houses that have been converted into inns catering to the growing trickle of tourists. Their courtyard restaurants occupy serene spaces decorated with orientalist tat, dark wood carvings, wrought-iron bannisters and ivy creeping across pale walls.
At Beit Sissi (Sissi House) I had muhammara, a very spicy red pepper dip garnished with walnuts and cucumber, drenched in sweet pomegranate molasses.
The fattoush salad, feistily sprinkled with lemon juice and sumac, offered shards of crispy fried bread to scoop up the dip.
A flatbread’s flip from Sissi was Zmorod. There I ordered what is perhaps the definitive Aleppian dish, the ultimate product of the region’s fertile land and mercantile history: kabab bil karaz, the famous cherry kebab. Rounded nuggets of minced lamb had been cooked on skewers to a state of succulence and slathered in a gooey slick of dark red cherry sauce.
These were the locally grown wishna cherries that were just coming into season, like the ones I’d seen at the souk. It was a test for the palate, a sortie of flavours bombarding the taste buds with sweet and sour, before strafing it with spice. It was intense.
I upgraded from vinegary Syrian wine to arak, cloudily diluted with water. Its muted aniseed notes cut through the sweet and sour of the cherry kebab, and balanced the tart acidity of the accompanying fattoush. It played a similar palate-adjusting role to sake in Japanese cuisine, but, thankfully, it’s much cheaper to buy the good stuff.
I wandered into the Armenian quarter, which had flourished with refugees who had fled their homeland during the early 20th century genocide perpetrated by the Ottomans. At Kasr Al Wali, I was keen to see how Armenians had shaped Aleppo’s tastes. The basturma offered heavenly slices of cured meat, a blush of crimson flesh that intensified to a deep purple close to its spice-encrusted edge. I had yalanji, cold stuffed vine leaves folded into neat triangular parcels, and sojouk or spiced sausage meat rolled in flatbread. But when it came to the main course, I wanted to go off-menu.
“Do you like chicken?” asked the young waiter. “I have Armenian speciality. Not for restaurant but for house. Home cooking. Traditional. One hundred percent Armenian.”
The plate arrived with a mound of chicken pieces, peppers, mushrooms, sweetcorn and onion in a thick tomato sauce. It was accompanied by French fries and sauteed vegetables, and showered with grated parmesan.
“What’s it called?” I asked.
“Chicken Mexicana,” replied the waiter with a shrug. It was heartening to know that, in spite of their blighted past, the Armenians still liked a laugh.
“Are you from Holland?” said the man.
“No, England,” I replied. “Why?”
“Because you are big and heavy like a cow.”
I’d heard that the people of Aleppo were among the friendliest in the world, so this wasn’t quite what I’d expected.
The man, who must have been well into his forties, really should have known better. He was wearing a traditional white kandora robe, his hair was short and gingery, like rusted wire wool, and his leathery complexion bore a sprinkling of freckles. I was just a hopeful traveller, embarking on an eating tour of the Middle East. Admittedly, it could be said that my six-foot frame was comfortably-upholstered, slightly out of shape, ungainly and rather sweaty in the intense afternoon sun. Perhaps not quite Lawrence of Arabia, emerging through a shimmering heat haze like some romantic desert vision. But surely not a big Dutch cow either.
“If you think I look like a cow now, you should wait and see me in a few months,” I said, thinking of my eating adventures to come.
He grinned back, showing a gapped set of yellowish teeth like the keys on a neglected accordion. “No, no, if you not Holland, then you not cow. Holland people, they walk like this…”
He arched both arms at his sides and proceeded to march on the spot in an unlikely manner, still grinning.
Perhaps Aleppians didn’t see many tourists? Or cows.
It was my first afternoon in Syria, and the crumbling streets of Aleppo’s Old City were all but deserted. The shops and market stalls were closed for Friday prayers, and I decided to wander around the dusky, desolate and eerily hushed Medieval souk before experiencing it in all its mad, frantic glory.
I’d met my new friend on the broken-up pavement by the entrance to the souk. His name was Ismail. He was certainly no bovine specialist, and his knowledge of the people and culture of the Netherlands was a little suspect. But he was harmless company while I made my way toward the Citadel.
In a roundabout way, I explained to Ismail what might have happened if I had walked up to a complete stranger in my native Birmingham, England, and likened him to a fat cow. How the stranger would probably be spending the rest of that week picking fragments of my teeth from the cleft in his ‘hoof’. He just laughed and wished me well. This was Aleppo, they did things differently here.
My first taste of Iraqi food was one I’ll never forget. It was in a small independent restaurant called Beit Al Baghdadi on Al Muteena street in Dubai. I went there with a friend to try masquf, the freshwater fish barbecued on skewers driven into the ashes around a raging fire. For my starter I had pacha, a strange dish comprising a boiled sheep’s head, trotters and stomach, all mashed up, mixed with flatbread, and soaked in a hot, watery, oily soup. A tin of Heinz cream of tomato, it wasn’t.
Thankfully, there were no eyeballs to contend with. There were, however, bits of bashed-up jawbone, gum, cheek and tongue, and at one point I extracted a large, gnarled and well-worn sheep’s tooth.
I picked it out of the broth and put it on the table. The young waiter – who couldn’t speak English, but seemed utterly perplexed as to why I was actually eating pacha in the first place – came over and saw the molar. His eyes lit up. He snatched the tooth away and scurried off to an old wooden cabinet in the corner. He opened a drawer, carefully stashed the tooth away, and returned to the business of waiting, like nothing had happened.
Did the Iraqis have such a thing as a sheep’s tooth fairy? Was this young chap collecting sheep teeth to make an attractive necklace for a lucky young lady? Or maybe he was just embarrassed by the tooth – after all, it didn’t look like it came from a particularly young sheep – and needed somewhere to hide it? I had no idea. But it was at this point in my life and career as a food writer that I realised I didn’t quite understand the people of the Middle East, or its food.
By the time I arrived to work in the UAE, the only authentic Middle Eastern delicacies that I could recall from my travels (aside from kebabs and hummus) were böreks. I’d had them as street food in Turkey, and in Turkish neighbourhoods of Berlin and London. And I liked them.
A börek is a pastry stuffed with a variety of fillings: meat or fish, vegetables, cheese, eggs, chillies, or combinations of each. It is usually large, rounded and flat, baked with a crispy phyllo crust, and served hot. Mainly to be found in Turkey, Syria and other parts of the Levant, it’s not exactly common in Dubai and the rest of the region. But for me, it summed up the food of the Middle East far better than the ubiquitous kebabs or hummus ever could.
As I remembered it, a börek was filling, flavourful and comforting – just like all good Middle Eastern food should be. It was often sliced into in segments, so it could easily be divided up and shared among a group. It would usually be a heart-stopping time-bomb of salt and fat. And it could be plain or quite extravagant, but aways versatile and convenient.
In other words, it was a pie. To an Englishman like me, it made perfect sense.
Back home in England, the Middle East was busy being misrepresented in the press. It was either oil rich, corrupt, or a war zone. Dubai had become a dirty word. For most, Beirut was synonymous with conflict; Iran was the epitome of evil; Yemen was overflowing with terrorists; Israel and Palestine was just an ongoing catastrophe that looked like it would never end – in fact it was boring. And Middle Eastern food? Well, it was just hummus and kebabs, wasn’t it?
For one of the world’s oldest and most intriguing cuisines, it didn’t seem fair. How come there were so few Middle Eastern restaurants compared to Indian or Chinese ones in the UK? Why no Michelin-starred Middle Eastern restaurants? Why so few household name Middle Eastern chefs? Why no Middle Eastern restaurants on the San Pellegrino World’s 50 Best Restaurants list?
In the wider world of gastronomy, Middle Eastern cuisine was often dismissed as unrefined, predictable, unimaginative. It was largely unknown, a mystery, an embarrassment even – like a gnarled sheep’s tooth hidden away in an old wooden cabinet in the corner.
Never Mind The Böreks is about my journey to discover the food of the Middle East. It’s about my travels through the region, and all the things I eat, from celeb chef chow in Dubai, to falafel on the street in Amman – everything, in fact, including and beyond the börek.
But it’s also about the people I meet along the way. The people and personalities behind the food in a region that’s always fascinating, frequently misunderstood, often beguiling and usually full of surprises.
Today’s Aleppo is the banquet table after the feast. Its dishevelled streets are dotted with faded monuments to a glorious past, surrounded by the swirl of burgeoning modernity. With a population of over 2.5 million, it’s the largest city in Syria, though Damascus still calls the shots.
Many of Aleppo’s old labyrinthine alleys have been swept aside for broad avenues, which are choked with an incessant gush of traffic. From its belching buses to its chugging trucks, the vehicles here aren’t just environmentally unfriendly, they’re aggressively hostile.
The roads are how I imagine the insides of human veins to look after a fix of heroin. The yellow tide of clattering Iranian-made taxi cabs is the surging drug, coursing through every artery and capillary, rattling pedestrian corpuscles and blood cells in a maddening, quickening burst.
The Syrian highway code appears to consist of a mere two words: “Just drive.”
When I visited Aleppo, just before the Arab Spring, the traffic presented the clearest and most present danger. But events in the Arab world since then have exposed the nub of the problem in Syria. As we all know, Syria is a dictatorship and police state. Stiff-lipped portraits of President Bashar Al-Assad peer from almost every building, and it’s said the secret police and a network of informers keep a watchful eye on everybody, especially western tourists.
Perhaps my friend Ismail was a stool pigeon, highly trained to extract information from foreigners with an act of disarming friendliness spiced with bonkers surrealism? Even if I was being followed or monitored, I wasn’t going to let it stop the splendid history and contemporary verve of Aleppo from sinking into my pores.
History had coloured the story of Aleppian cuisine. According to legend, the prophet Abraham let his cow graze on the hill where the citadel now stands. There he offered its milk to the people. Some say that the city’s ancient name of Halab – which is still widely used in Syria today – is derived from haleeb, the Arabic for milk. Or it might come from the Aramaic word halaba, which means ‘white’, and may refer to the colour of the limestone found in the area, or perhaps the white milk of Abraham’s ashen cow. Either way, food and Aleppo go together like Laurel & Hardy, R2D2 and C3PO, hummus and flatbread.
Aleppo’s position as a stopover for caravans on the Silk Road completely revolutionised its approach to food. It became a vital trading link between China and Europe, and it prospered with the flow of people, goods, wealth and ideas. It became an important hub for Muslims on the pilgrimage to Makkah, and the local hospitality industry flourished.
As the city grew, more of the surrounding fertile land was used to graze sheep and cultivate vegetables, fruit and nuts. Strange herbs and spices came in from the east, which alongside local cherries, olives, peppers and pistachios, inevitably found their way into the beating heart of Aleppo: the souk…