Listen to this
radio interview with Christopher Lydon on Radio Open Source with Mark Rendeiro.
Here is an introduction he wrote ....
"So, what if man’oushé, lentil soup and good music are the basic program?" I love that Christopher...
You read my mind.
BEIRUT —
Barbara Massaad,
writer and chef, in her kitchen, is telling us a terrific story about
the all-conquering cult of food in Lebanon. And I am asking her: no
kidding, what if we demanded that cooks and musicians run this ugly
world, starting here in Beirut and, by all means, next door in Syria.
When you talk about food to a Lebanese, you bring them
back to their childhood with a big smile. Once I was in Nabatiyeh, deep
in the south of Lebanon, and I was taking pictures of a sign that said
“Garlic” or something. And this guy from Hezbollah comes up to me and
starts screaming! Like, ‘Yaaaah! You’re not allowed to photograph that!
What do you think you’re doing?’ And I said: Look, food! This is what
I am doing. And I started showing him my book on Man’oushé — about
local varieties of ‘thyme pie’ in Lebanon. And suddenly this ferocious
guy became like a little boy. ‘Aaah,’ he said, ‘you’ve got to come and
visit my mom. She makes the best food in the world.’ And then it was
like: ‘I promise I will come back and visit your mom.’ And he said:
‘take as many pictures as you want. I’m really sorry.’ This is the
effect that food has on Lebanese people. It’s a maternal thing. It’s
childhood. It’s the root of everything.
Barbara Abdeni Massaad in conversation with Chris Lydon and Mark Rendeiro in Beirut, December 2012.
At the ragged edge of the Arab upheaval, Beirut is enjoying yet
another construction boom. Gracious old Ottoman-era houses are
disappearing fast near the ever-bustling Hamra Street. New luxury
apartments are sprouting up next to shot-up shells of 1960s hotels,
described as too big to tear down, too damaged to repair…
Talking about food is, of course, a way of not talking about
everything else on Lebanon’s mind. Thousands of refugees are turning up
from Syria. There’s a palpable dread that Syria’s civil war could run
as long as Lebanon’s (1975 to 1990). And there’s a real danger that
Lebanon’s politics — aligned for and against the Assad regime in
Damascus — could go haywire again. Then again, food talk reflects and
connects with everything else — village cheeses match local and tribal
loyalties in this dense mosaic of minorities.
Barbara Massaad has published two handsome books of slow-food lore, both rich with social implications.
Mouneh is the old Lebanese folk science of preserving food — drying and pickling, for example — to survive war and other disasters.
Man’oushé
used to be every Lebanese person’s daily bread, in infinite local
varieties, dressed with onions, olives, tomatoes, spiced with zaatar, or
not. Man’oushé is her dream remedy for almost everything that ails the
Arab world. “It’s a poor man’s food, but you see the richest people
eating it,” she is telling us. Man’oushé is the work of magnetic,
gossipy local bakeries where, as in England’s “local” pubs, “you find
out who’s going out with whom, what the president said, and what
Hassan Nasrallah
spoke about last night.” If she could summon the energy, Barbara
Massaad says, she’d open a place with food for everyone. “It wouldn’t be
that expensive — food for all walks of life. Something with lentils —
but this
divine lentil soup!”