It's not very often that a cookbook looks and feels like a work of art, and reads like literature. Nor one that makes a political statement. Let alone a cookbook that does both -- and that is equally enticing and practical as a cookbook. I think the only example I could have come up with, until now, would have been Anna Thomas's classic, The Vegetarian Epicure.
That was back in the seventies, when I was first learning to cook. At the time, that was a reluctant duty, in a relationship with roles I thought shouldn't be based on gender, but somehow were. Cooking for Two on a Dollar a Day, off the magazine rack in a supermarket, got me over the initial surprise of discovering that there was more to spaghetti with tomato sauce than pouring tomato soup over boiled noodles. Then I came across The Vegetarian Epicure. Simply picking up the chunky, square, just-the-right-size paperback was a sensual pleasure, with its toast-colored pages, brown typeface in a retro font and whimsical, distinctive drawings by Julie Maas. Her dreamy vegetable goddess and lively little carrots on the front cover expressed a friendly, playful invitation, even though I wasn't a vegetarian and approached cooking with a bit of resentment. I accepted that invitation, and The Vegetarian Epicure opened my eyes to what has become an enduring joy in my life: cooking as an art form, a daily meditation, a way of showing love to others, delighting all my senses, feeling gratitude for the fullness of earth's bounty and my good fortune to share in it.
Anna Thomas wrote the stories behind her recipes, in a gentle, warm voice that read like fiction; without preaching environmentalism, she encouraged the reader to see the value of making honest, natural food from scratch, without waste, and sharing it with friends. I learned to enjoy vegetables I'd never experienced growing up in the '50s, where the suburban gastronomic heights featured soup-based casseroles, jello and TV dinners, and every head of lettuce was iceberg. And I discovered, literally, a world of cooking: French onion tarts and sauteed mushrooms served warm on cool, crisp leaf lettuce;Greek artichokes braised in lemon and oil; biryani and eggplant curry; minestrone alla milanese, and a version of macaroni and cheese, made with three different classic cheeses, bechamel sauce and freshly ground pepper, that has never been surpassed. I was hooked. I even named my cat Anna Thomas.
I've acquired probably a hundred shelf-feet of cookbooks since those days. And since I don't actually have a hundred feet of shelves in my kitchen, never did, the cookbooks that end up staying for a decade or two, or four, are in select company. Ages ago, I had to replace my original copy of The Vegetarian Epicure, and I will do that again if I have to. Some cookbooks stick around for a just few years, when I realize they are not earning their keep-- so out they go (to another home, of course). Others are very close friends I'd never show the door to: the works of Marcella Hazan and Julie Sahni, for example, on which I raised my family. Wonderful as they are-- thorough, user-friendly, well-illustrated guides to the pantry, techniques and variety of Italian and Indian cuisine respectively-- I would not say they are literature, art, travelogue and a plea for world peace, all rolled into one.
I will say that of the new cookbook Jerusalem, a collaboration between Yotam Ottolenghi and Sami Tamimi. I'd noticed a lot of buzz around this book, including a Sunday Times Magazine piece about Ottolenghi by Mark Bittman (another "keeper" on my kitchen bookshelf). So I checked it out a month or so ago on Amazon, and it never made it onto my wish list -- I had to have it NOW.
First of all, the photos are gorgeous, along with every other physical element that book designers draw upon to make you keep turning pages with pleasure, even virtual pages. Of course, that's almost the rule for hardcover cookbooks these days.
What hit me next was the imagined aroma and flavor of one dish after another that I began to crave: roasted cauliflower and hazelnut salad...lemony leek meatballs...swiss chard with tahini, yogurt and buttered pine nuts...YUM! (And so they were this week.) Can't wait for roasted chicken with clementines and arak (ouzo, or Pernod), potatoes roasted with caramel and prunes, fava bean kuku, a frittata-like dish, or shawarma, charred okra with tomato, garlic and preserved lemon, not to mention lamb slathered with a dozen spices and garlic, before slow-roasting. Beyond good eating, the recipes promised an expanded horizon:I'm eager to explore all of the ways the authors play with eggplant or hummus. Some of the recipes suggested to me the connections between Middle Eastern and Indian cuisines, which is a big plus for my palate: for example, mejadra, an Arabic take on rice with lentils and fried onions, or a saffron basmati pilaf with barberries, pistachio and herbs.
Once the book was in my hands, I couldn't put it down. Sure, nearly every recipe has a photo, and they all entice. But not all the photos are of food. We see the people of Jerusalem here, in their shops and markets and kitchens, going about the daily work of sustenance. Beyond their images, an introduction and numerous short essays and recipe headings bring to life the city of Jerusalem, its millenia of conflict within a triad of faiths and their different yet related ways of cooking and eating, sometimes as much at odds with one another as members within one family. I began to appreciate, through images and the tastes and smells they conjure up, just what makes this city so special, as an experience, not just a religious and political symbol. The authors share their backgrounds as two men -- one Arab, one Jew-- who are both natives of this land, now combining their different perspectives and cuisines into a partnership far from home, the London restaurant Ottolenghi. Their friendship with one another, and their shared yearning for peace in the world of Jerusalem, shine through this volume to make a powerful statement of hope and a possible means to bring it to reality, through the basic, not simple, act of sharing good food, its many flavors expressing the richness of all Jerusalem's peoples.
I found the recipes clear and easy to follow, not wordy and not fussy, but with enough comment to keep me on track. The hardest part of using the cookbook in the kitchen will be to keep it clean, because it's so beautiful, and I know I'll be using it often.
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