Levant by Anissa Helou

Author:Anissa Helou
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers

When I look back at photographs of myself as a child and see how chubby I was, I fall into a kind of nostalgic rêverie, thinking of all the dishes I loved to eat, all of them prepared by my mother, grandmother or aunt, except for one of my favourite breakfasts, manqûsheh, a flat bread topped with olive oil and za’tar. Lebanese home-cooks, at least those living in the city, did not bake their own bread. Each neighbourhood had several bakeries that catered to the community’s bread needs. But if home-cooks did not bake their bread, they baked their own savoury pastries, at least in part. They would prepare the filling or topping at home to take to the baker for him to use with his own dough and bake in his ovens. My mother was no different. She would send a maid with the topping for manaqish (plural for manqûsheh) to the bakery and I, being the family’s dedicated kitchen pest, often tagged along, not just to watch the action at the bakery but also to have one of the breads straight out of the oven. We never told my mother I ate there. I didn’t want her to say one manqûsheh was enough, nor to tell me off for eating outside. She was rather strict.

I never had any problems convincing the maid of the moment to keep my secret. They were all very kind, although I have vivid memories of only two. One, a pretty young girl from the mountains who had the most gorgeous long chestnut-coloured hair, until that is my mother and grandmother cruelly sheared it off one day when they realised it was her who had given us nits, and not someone at school. They then sent her back to her family, and replaced her with Omm Yussef, whom I adored. She was a middle-aged, portly Druze woman from the Huran mountains in Syria who arrived every morning wearing all her finery, layer upon layer of black embroidered clothes, typical of her region, which she then proceeded to remove one by one until she got down to her black satin underwear. Nothing sexy mind you. They were more like pyjamas than skimpy lingerie! And all the while, she jingled the many gold bracelets she wore around her wrists – they were her pension and all her savings went into adding to them. Every day, I would sit and watch her peel off her clothes while making her own music, never tiring of the scene.

Omm Yussef knew not to undress on manaqish day until after we came back from the bakery. By the time she got to us, my mother had the za’tar and olive oil already mixed in a bowl, which she placed in the middle of a large round metal tray – you couldn’t expect the baker’s za’tar and olive oil to be as good as the one you had at home. Omm Yussef picked the tray up and placed it on her head. She then grabbed my hand and we walked up the street to the baker.

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