SNOBBERY
The thing is, in Israel, hummus is an obsession – more popular, I am told, than in Lebanon, where it originated. It has been suggested that this is because when Jewish settlers first came to Israel, they were eager to embrace their new home, including its food. My Israeli cousins are a perfect example.
I have a large family in Israel which emigrated from the republic of Georgia in the early 70s. My cousins are split down the middle – some of them are Israeli, some of them are Georgian. This has nothing to do with age or place of birth; the two oldest, Yossi and David, are both very Israeli, while the youngest, my cousin Leah, is far more Georgian. Admittedly, this is a small sample set – seven data points – but in my experience hummus consumption tracks strongly with Israeli identification. I’m not saying that some of my cousins don’t consider themselves Israeli – I’m just saying that some of them act more like Israelis, some more like Georgians. This is made more complicated by the fact that, as a country, Israel is barely sixty years old… what does it even mean to be Israeli when almost everyone is an immigrant? Our grandfather – my father’s father – was born in Israel, before his family returned to their native Georgia. A grandfather born in Israel – if there were an Israeli DAR, I would be in it. My point is, I come by hummus snobbery, if not honestly, at least arguably morally.
Snobbery. Sometimes it’s worth it, sometimes it’s not. It’s worth being a wine snob; there's just not enough difference for it to be worth being a gin snob. (Although I’m sure that there are gin people out there who are gasping in horror right now.)[1] It’s worth being a bagel snob – there is nothing I hate more in life than biting into what was advertised as a bagel but in fact turns out to merely be toroidal bread. On the other hand, Yousef recently bought a bunch of “high-end” milk from a frou-frou local creamery; nobody really felt like there was a significant difference, and some people liked the regular milk better. So what's the point? Why be a milk snob?
Hummus? Dear lord. The best hummus is sublime. The worst hummus tastes like chickpea dog food. This mostly happens when you buy store-bought hummus in the US. Athenos – I’m looking at you. Tribe of Two Sheiks is edible, but not particularly good. Sabra is the only major brand that I’ve ever felt was decent, but you pay quite a premium for it. (Sabra also sells prepackaged hummus in Israel – it’s both tastier and cheaper over there.)
If you want top-quality hummus, what you’re looking for is a restaurant run by a slightly older, slightly plump Lebanese or Turkish lady. The thicker the accent the better. Even better, a grocery store that makes its own hummus – but again, ownership is critical. If you don’t see that Lebanese lady – past her prime, but still quite handsome – behind the counter, reconsider your situation. If instead there is a hippy behind the counter? RUN. HIPPIES MAKE SHITTY HUMMUS. I’m sure there are exceptions – my friend Meg is a great cook, and I know she makes hummus – but I stand by that rule. It will get under-blended, because they think chickpea chunks are more "authentic", and you just know they're gonna put patchouli oil or some shit like that in it.
DO NOT LET HIPPIES MAKE YOUR HUMMUS.
What foods are you snobby about?
RECIPE
Victoria told me that her friend Mog had a great recipe for hummus with cumin in it. That sounded great – just like what I wanted to make. Only three problems. Mog wasn’t available, Victoria didn’t have the recipe, and every time I’ve tried to make hummus on my own it’s come out as the previously-mentioned chickpea dog food.
I think I should subtitle this blog Telling you how to cook then doing the exact opposite. Two days after I write up a post about not sweating recipes, I spend half a week following recipes exactly; a few days ago I wrote about how useless cookbooks are. So what was the first thing I did when I wanted some hummus? I whipped out my Syrian and Lebanese cookbook.
Oh, by the way, this is the picture from the back of the cookbook:
That is just about the youngest and thinnest a hypothetical Lebanese lady should be in order for you to trust her to make hummus.
Unfortunately, the recipe in the cookbook didn’t really do it for me. I mean, it sounded great – but it used dried chickpeas, which take forever to cook, and it used pomegranate seeds, which are absolutely delicious but which I didn’t have. So, I went with plan A – I looked up a few additional recipes, and wung it.
Cumin Hummus
2 Cans (15 oz) Chickpeas (Hummus, Chickpeas, Garbanzo Beans – all the same thing)
½ Cup… Okay, Let’s Call It Tahini, Because That’s What It’ll Be Called In The Store
3 Tbsp Olive Oil
1 ½ Tsp. Salt
Pepper (Some)
1.5 Tbsp Cumin
Garlic (As Much As You Can Stand, That Stuff Is Good)
Juice of One Half Lemon
Open the cans, and drain most of the liquid from them. Pour them, the garlic, tahini, olive oil, and lemon juice into a blender. Blend until mostly smooth. Add in the salt, pepper, and cumin. Blend until seriously just barely not smooth yet. Taste – if delicious, finish blending and serve. If not quite there, add garlic, salt, pepper, lemon, cumin, or any combination until you are satisfied.
I used two teaspoons of cumin, and to be honest, it was probably too much. I liked it a lot, but several people reported it as at the far edge of their spiciness tolerance – any more and it would cease to be enjoyable. So, for this recipe, I dialed it back a bit. Also, I used some water to loosen things up – but why use water when the cans of chick peas already have liquid? If you feel that your hummus is a bit thick, you can always add a bit of water to loosen it up a bit, but it’s a lot harder to go in the other direction, so err on the side of less water.
PLATING
This is how hummus should look when it is served:
Look - you can see the dried bits from the previous plate, which I ate before Victoria could get the camera.
That, maybe your hummus shouldn't look like so much.
Unless you’ve got some damn good reason for it, there is no excuse for your hummus not to look like this. This is, objectively, the right way to do things. It doesn’t matter where you got your hummus; from a restaurant, from a store, from a Turkish grandma who runs a shady back-alley hummus operation. When you get it home, before you eat it, and certainly before you serve it to other human beings, you do the following things:
1: Get out a big spoon and a plate. Spoon the appropriate amount of hummus into a pile in the center of the plate, then smooth it flat using circular motions. When you’re just about done, push a bit harder in the center of the plate (while still moving your spoon in circles) to make a dent in the center of the hummus.
2. Take some paprika and dust the hummus to taste. Note – I’m giving you some leeway here. Don’t abuse it. In either direction.
3. Pour some olive oil into the well in the center. Pour carefully – you want a glistening golden yolk to your middle eastern egg, not a runny oily mess all over your hummus. If you didn’t make your dent properly, the oil will spread out everywhere. Throw it out. Throw it all out. Just toss the plate in the garbage. The spoon, too. You don’t deserve hummus. This is why she left you.
4. Assuming you are not weeping on the floor over the ruin you have made of your life, you’re done! Feel free to garnish with parsley, olives, or pickles (the tiny Mediterranean variety.) Chances are you’re now about to ruin a perfect hummus plate with absolutely terrible pita, but that’s not your fault. You can’t get good pita in this country for love or money. Trust me, I’ve tried both.
Okay, I just looked at that picture again… I was a bit wrong. Apparently, Victoria didn’t get to the camera before I got to the pita... so that is what a plate of hummus should look, after some inconsiderate asshole has taken a piece of pita and swiped it straight through the middle spilling olive oil all over the place and ruining the visual.
Tomorrow – I’ve got all this hummus! I’m going to make one of my favorite dishes – hummus-fried chicken.
[1] I'm also not saying that there's no difference between a $10 bottle of gin and a $30 bottle of gin. I'm sure there is. You know what? Let me switch to vodka, a drink where I'm on better grounds. A $10 bottle of vodka tastes like absolute shit. It burns your mouth and throat (and not in a good way, either) and gives you a headache. But once you get to the "decent vodka" level... look, I am a vodka snob. I have a stated preference for Stolichnaya (the black labeled one) over Grey Goose, or Level 1, or any of the other premium vodkas I've tasted. I have, in fact, turned up my nose at other premium vodkas over my preferred brand. That's stupid snobbery right there. Sure, I prefer one, but let's be honest. They're all either [delicious] or [paint-thinner] depending on whether or not you like vodka. Not worth snobbery.
Scotch, on the other hand? My word. Just at the $30 price point, you have scotches as different as Laphroaig and Glennfiddich. While they're both fine drinks, it's entirely possible to love one and hate the other, and if you're not at least a little snobby, you're not going to know the difference until you get a mouthful of the Laphroaig, do a spit-take, and say "My god! Did the distillery burn down while they were making that scotch?"
By the way, while I'm writing this, I'm drinking a lovely 12-year called Driftwood which my wife bought for me on the recommendation of the excellent staff of the local liquor store. Shout-out to Schneider's of Capitol Hill.
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