A North-to-South Journey through Jordanian Gastronomy
A mere fortnight was hardly enough time to sample all of the delights of Jordan, but the small taste I got left a profound impression. The culinary experiences I had were as diverse as they were unforgettable - though many of the techniques rooted in antiquity, the ‘national menu’ is ever evolving, especially in the century since the country came into being. Jordan’s cuisine is sometimes difficult to distinguish from that of other Levantine countries, unsurprising given their shared past, but it has certain quirks which make it what it is. It would be foolish to typify all Jordanians as conforming to a certain stereotype, indeed, I did have some bad experiences on my journey from north to south, but in general I found them to be some of the friendliest people I’ve ever encountered, and their hospitality typically comes in the form of food and drink.
Whilst Jordan emerged from the rubble of the Ottoman Empire after the First World War, some Turkish traits remain. Of these, the most noticeable is the proliferation of Turkish coffee – intensely aromatic, bitter, and with the characteristic sludge of grounds at the bottom of the cup. However, Jordan is ultimately a nation of tea drinkers, with Lipton being the favoured brand based upon my experiences. Often flavoured with mint and always as saccharine as syrup, I was offered it everywhere I went. Perhaps the most memorable occasion was when I was lost somewhere in Petra, far from the throng of tourists surrounding the Treasury, and a nice elderly gentleman invited me to shelter from the sun underneath a tarpaulin. Sitting down with him, he poured me a steaming glass of the sweet, sweet liquid, but refused to take any money as payment (which I suspect was something of a faux pas). All he wanted in return was to practice his French with me, despite me alerting him to the fact that I was, regrettably, not that particular kind of European.
As a left-handed person I did have some cause for concern before my arrival in Jordan. To my knowledge in Arabic cultures the left hand is associated with going to the toilet, and so one must always eat and drink with their right. On my first night in Amman I asked the chain-smoking, womanizing (according to his stories) owner of the hostel I was staying at about this, his reply was typically brusque: ‘my friend, no-one cares’. He then surprised me further by pouring me shot after shot of Arak, an aniseed flavoured spirit which turns cloudy once diluted with water. A very similar experience to absinthe or ouzo, both in terms of drinking and the inevitable hangover. It has a pleasingly medicinal flavour, as if it was doing my insides some good when it definitely wasn’t. Seeing liquor stores in this overwhelmingly Sunni Muslim country was certainly unexpected, though outside of the cities alcohol proved more elusive.
Even more surprising was the presence of a little slice of the Low Countries in the Middle East; Amstel Bier was served at most bars, and adverts for it seemed to be ubiquitous. Perhaps more surprising is that its introduction wasn’t even recent – the Amstel factory in Zarqa, in the north of the country, was constructed sixty years ago. Clearly, Amstel’s overseas expansion had been a success, as in Aqaba the hostel owner, who was driving guests to and from the beach, worked his way through a six-pack of beer as an afternoon pastime. He seemed more preoccupied by the lack of cup holders in the car than by any risk.
Foreign imports of beer and coffee have relatively clear-cut histories, when it comes to some dishes, however, it becomes far more contentious. Falafel and houmous, both humble, but delicious chickpea products greater than the sum of their parts, have come to be symbolic of the Arab-Israeli conflict. Issues of from whom these were appropriated from, and how they came to be at the epicentre of turmoil in the Middle East are undeniably culturally important. Food is, after all, integral to identity - but that is a discussion for another time, and probably another writer. The best way to consume them is sitting on plastic chairs, beneath bright lights, in a bustling, slightly chaotic restaurant, with waiters delivering an endless stream of plates of fried goodness, flatbreads, bowls of pickles, salad and houmous so smooth it’s like face cream, alongside regular refills of tea – and all for the price of a couple of quid. Hashem, the restaurant where I experienced all of this, certainly deserves its cult status. Every mouthful was a glorious mixing of flavours and textures – crunchy, crispy, soft, creamy, sharp, spicy, herbaceous. It was less of a meal and more of a feast, and one I am eager to subject myself to again.
No matter how large my appetite was, the abundant quantities of food I was given usually exceeded this. This culture of generosity did not mean that flavour was compromised though, as my experience in Umm Sayhoun, a small village near the Wonder of Petra, proved. For the sake of novelty, I had booked to stay in a cave that night, but my host decided that I would be more comfortable staying at one of his homes, in the company of one his wives and his youngest daughter. Any initial disappointment at missing out on a gimmick was dispelled when I was presented with maqluba for dinner. Common throughout the Levant and translating as ‘upside down’, a reference to how it is cooked and then flipped onto the serving platter, it was as comforting as it was fragrant – fried aubergines and chicken on the bone half buried in a mound of rice, served with a fresh cucumber and tomato salad and yoghurt, both of which cut through the richness wonderfully. Every time I cleaned my plate it was refilled until I had to concede defeat – as simple as it seemed, I knew I would struggle to replicate, and certainly the final step, flipping the cooking pot, would likely end in disaster were I ever to attempt it.
Admittedly when one thinks of the romance of the desert, cuisine is hardly what comes to mind, and my experience of Wadi Rum confirmed these suspicions. Staying in an Arabian Nights themed camp, complete with fake shisha pipe and polyester carpets, I shouldn’t be surprised that the food was largely a performance for the ever-changing roster of tourists. Over the three nights I stayed there, I had three dinners, zarb (common throughout the Middle East) every night, and each time the same ritual was followed: one of the Bedouin working at the camp would excavate the food from the ground where it had been cooking since that lunchtime, make the same quip asking if anyone was hungry, and then present the food to a predominantly Western audience marvelling at how exotic this dish of baked chicken and vegetables was. The mystique of this primal cooking technique, a staple of nomadic life handed down the generations, was somewhat undermined when a young Bedouin chap I was chatting with informed me that he had an electric oven in his house in Rum Village.
Though dishes such as zarb date back to the origins of cooking itself, Jordanian cuisine is by no means stagnant – indeed the national dish, mansaf, has changed to a remarkable extent since the mid-twentieth century. I was fortunate enough to try it twice, the second occasion being on the outskirts of Azraq, a remote outpost famous for its ruined fortress and little else, when the Uber driver who had brought me there from Madaba very generously offered to buy me lunch. He informed me that it should always be eaten with the hands, never with cutlery, which is how I had consumed it a few days prior in Amman. As stomach-aching as the aftermath of consuming this mound of food was, it’s an essential culinary experience for any traveller to the country. Lamb, slowly braised in jameed, a cheesy, fermented yoghurt, served on rice and with a generous pouring of the cooking liquid, and garnished with roasted almonds. Delicious, but far removed from the original iteration: a flatbread, shrak, topped with boiled meat (lamb or chicken) which was then doused in clarified butter. At some point bulgur wheat was added, but then circa 1945 rice became the preferred accompaniment, probably due to increasing international trade around the Levant. Eventually the flatbread all but disappeared, and the meat was no longer boiled, but braised in and served with the yoghurt sauce for more flavour. The final flourish of roasted almonds or pine nuts appears to have been the latest addition. Whilst many cultures regard deviations from culinary tradition as abhorrent, and sometimes with good reason, it is a testament to openness and adaptability of the Jordanian people that such innovations could take place.
Given the etymological origins of the word ‘sugar’ likely being found in the Arabic ‘sukkar’, it’s unsurprising that the people of Jordan have a sweet tooth. Syrup-soaked treats are prevalent, from baklava to halva, but the dessert which particularly stood out to me has even more alternate spellings than it does regional variations, kanafeh, as it is typically known in the Levant. Stretchy cheese topped with shredded filo pastry which is then fried, drenched in a saffron syrup and decorated with small piles of crumbled pistachios. It’s truly unlike any dessert I had ever tried before – the slight metallic flavour lent by the saffron, the chew of the cheese, the crispy noodles and the syrup which glazes your mouth. It’s rather telling that since I left Jordan I have sought it out from various Arabic bakeries in Britain.
The truth is that, thanks to multiculturalism, I don’t have to go to Jordan to try any of these dishes again – I can expand my culinary horizons from the relative comfort and familiarity of my own country. However, without the eclectic characters I met on my journey, and without the atmosphere, whether it’s in the hubbub of the city or the serenity of the desert, the experience isn’t quite the same. It is a great regret of mine that I wasn’t able to spend longer in Jordan and explore more of its beautiful landscapes and delectable cuisine, but I know I shall return there in the future, if only for another taste of that falafel.
-Louis Thomas
Louis is a recent graduate with a passion for all things Italian and a penchant for offal. Some of his musings on food, art and travel can be found at theoutwardbound.co.uk.