Palestine's Food of Conflict by Fiona Dunlop
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In the shade of gnarled olive-trees, their leaves stirred by a gentle breeze, we look out over Biblical hills and valleys of chalky limestone. There are no bird-calls, just the muezzin and the thunder of traffic from the highway below. Then, with Mashour, a Palestinian farmer, we tuck into a glorious picnic of meze as intensely flavoured as any I have tasted.
Fresh ingredients and simple combinations have produced a concentrated tomato dish laced with grassy olive oil, velvety foul (fava bean stew) with even more swirls of oil, mutabal (aubergine, garlic and tahini puree) seasoned with lemon-juice and oil, soft labneh (strained yoghurt) drizzled in that same unctuous elixir, and of course hummus absolutely swimming in it - all mopped up with flat-bread that we saw baked just hours earlier by the farmer’s wife. The extra virgin oil, barely a week old, is exquisite, cold-pressed from olives that have been cultivated in the surrounding hills for around 5,000 years. Without that oil, Palestinian food would fade away.
Above us the layered branches are so thick with olives that they resemble huge bunches of plump, pink grapes. This has been a bumper year. Stripping them off by hand is immensely satisfying, leaving hands dirty but unscratched and surprisingly smooth. No wonder the Myceneans used olive oil as a base for ointment. The farmer is grateful for support as with only a few weeks to harvest and ongoing problems with settlers, the pressure is on.
The Olive Harvest
Throughout Palestine, picking is manual therefore labour-intensive though this allegedly produces better quality oil than when trees are mechanically shaken, as in most of Europe. Luckily Mashour can employ agile Abu Hassan who, at 54, is as prolific a father (he claims 23 children) as he is at picking olives. Clambering round the top branches like a goat, he descends only to pray, drink tea or swap trees.
50 of Mashour’s trees are fenced in by an Israeli town that sits high above the Palestinian village, making a disconcertingly watchful presence. Harvesting those trees requires special permits from the relevant authorities, a bureaucratic headache that he has yet to resolve. For the moment though, picking his main grove is the priority, starting at dawn when he climbs the terraced hillside with his donkey, ending late at night when a friend drives him and his sacks of olives to the nearest press.
One thing is for sure, I discover these olives will not be going to Nablus, the nearest Palestinian town and most logical marketplace. As far back as the 14th-century, its oil and carob paste were lyrically praised by Ibn Battuta, seven centuries before it was bombed by Israeli forces as a hotbed of terrorism, in 2002. A surviving landmark of its 19th century heyday is the famous Toukan soap factory, just outside the walls of the old medina.
Olive oil mixed with caustic soda is still hand-stamped and hand-wrapped in this huge Ottoman building, although I learn production has halved since 2000. While I talk to the immaculately besuited manager in the cavernous gloom he sings the praises of Nablus’ famous cheesecake, kunafeh, insisting that it should be eaten straight from the oven. It seems this town, against all the odds, which include the notorious Huwwara checkpoint where women’s shopping-bags are searched at gunpoint, remains Palestine’s gourmet cake capital.
Exploring Nablus by Stomach
It is a chilling feeling to explore a street market where the stone walls are plastered with posters of young martyrs clutching AK47s; this is the case in the medina. Slipping through an archway into an alleyway, I immediately smell za’atar, a zesty Palestinian seasoning of wild herbs and sesame seeds, as well as that timeless Middle Eastern aroma of sweet tobacco.
Further on I come to street-stalls piled high with fresh fruit and vegetables, surprisingly abundant in view of the restrictions imposed by the occupation. As one vendor blithely balances a cauliflower on his head for a photo, l learn the produce comes from Jenin, to the north, from settlements in the fertile Jordan Valley to the east and from the Negev, Israel’s deep south. Prices are high. Deep crimson pomegranates are plentiful but not squeezed for a handful of shekels as in Ramallah or East Jerusalem. Instead the street tipple of choice served by bell-ringing vendors turns out to be a nauseously sweet syrup.
Though Nablus suffers socially and economically from its isolation (apart from the unpredictable checkpoints south and north of town, the separation wall snakes around villages immediately to the west, so imposing huge detours), the old city remains industrious. The narrow lanes hum with gastro-activity, foul and falafel-makers, bakers, tea-stands and of course narguileh cafés where Biblical-looking old gents in white keffiye puff, chat and drink tea for hours. I join them for a refreshing sage tea and we discuss the origins of local streetfood. Foul? Egypt, I suggest. No no, Palestine, they reply. Falafel? Lebanon, I say tentatively. No, they laugh, wrong again – it’s Palestine. Hummus? No conclusion is reached about this regional obsession, as Middle Eastern food is as complex as its politics, and the borders just as disputed.
The Best Kunafeh in Town
Now armed with the best kunafeh address in town, I leave my new friends. Past a mosque and an Ottoman bell-tower I find a lone man working in an open-sided, tiled kitchen beside a mountain of metal trays. This is kunafeh central, producing the top Al-Aqsa brand. Unhurriedly, the cook shifts from one huge platter to another, smearing them with ghee, then a thick layer of goat’s cheese which bubbles gently over a burner before receiving a final topping of semolina.
Once baked golden-brown (either na’ama, smooth, or khishna, crunchy), the cheesecake gets an extra drizzle of syrup. Across the side-alley, a steady flow of customers enters a café to grab a hot slice or have a box filled to take away. I at last indulge in what is a perfect textural mix, though achingly sweet and no doubt highly addictive.
Back in the market, my heart leaps as I spot sacks of firm, fresh olives, pale green, pink and deep purple, backed up by recycled plastic bottles filled with that familiar golden liquid. But considering the thousands of trees in the rolling white hills around Nablus, the quantity on sale is laughable, probably the production of one extended family. This is when I learn that getting truckloads of olives through the checkpoint is an insurmountable problem. No profit can compensate for the long hours of waiting, unloading, being searched then reloading. So on my way out, I stop off at the soap factory to find out where they source their olive oil. “Italy” replies the manager unabashedly. ”It’s cheaper and I can get large quantities without any problem.” Yet another paradox for the list.
East Jerusalem's Best Eats
Everyone (Israelis, Palestinians and Jordanians alike) knows the best hummus in East Jerusalem is at Abu Shukri (63 Al Wad Street), a simple restaurant on the corner of Via Dolorosa. Queues form to indulge in a choice of hummus sprinkled with whole chickpeas, with silky foul or roasted pine-nuts. Follow up with tender grilled kebabs, shwarma, felafel or kibbeh (cracked wheat croquettes stuffed with minced lamb).
Despite the name, Costa’s Greek Restaurant (28 Aqabat al Khanqat), only open during the day, is another little Palestinian place with a hot reputation. Their speciality is stuffed young pigeon and Armenian charcuterie like pastrami and sujuk (spicey sausages).
In the evening, Amigo Emil, (Aqabat al Khanqat) a tranquil Greek Orthodox-Palestinian restaurant, not only serves wine and beer (try Taybeh, the West Bank brew), but also typical dishes such as Mulukhiyah (yet another gastro-territorial dispute, as Egypt also claims this chicken and rice dish), named after the slightly bitter herb, Jew’s mallow, which is mixed with garlic, lemon, coriander and spices as seasoning.
Another classic is Mujadara, rice and lentils cooked with olive oil, garlic and cumin and served with laban, yoghurt.A sumptuous dessert is carabige halab, a semolina and walnut pastry made by the owner’s wife, the secret ingredient being the root of sursh al halawa, soapwort.
When invited to a Palestinian home, the dish of honour is often Makloubeh, (‘upside down’), a daunting combination of sliced potatoes, vermicelli and rice layered with fried chicken, onion, garlic, spices, peas and cauliflower (though virtually any vegetable will do). After slow-cooking until all moisture is absorbed, it is theatrically flipped onto a platter like a giant jelly and sprinkled with toasted almonds. Carbohydrate overkill maybe, but luscious.
A version of this article was published in the F.T.