In Tbilisi at this very moment, someone is pounding walnuts and garlic for bazhe, spooning cilantro-flecked filling into dumpling dough for khinkali, and dipping long strands of walnuts into saperavi syrup to make the prehistoric confection called churchkhela. 

Food ambushes you in the Georgian capital—in the best sense imaginable. One minute, you’re overtaken by the smell of sweet, buttery khachapuri wafting up from a basement bakery. The next, you’re haggling with street vendors over cherries and tarragon and sour green plums. Turn down one street, and smoke clouds your vision as pork kebabs crackle on a streetside grill. Walk up another, and the sound of glasses clinking on a restaurant patio reminds you that you’re mere miles from the birthplace of wine. 

Tbilisi is easy to love but tricky to navigate when it comes to food. Newcomers often wonder, what are the must-try dishes, and where can great versions be found? Last spring, I spent a month trying to answer those questions, letting my stomach guide my feet. Here’s where I netted out.

Cucumber and Tomato Salad at Khasheria

3 Vekua St. (Inside the Orbeliani Food Hall), +995 595 89 29 25

If there’s one thing you can bank on in Georgia, it’s that no matter where you are—city or countryside, fancy restaurant or greasy spoon—cucumber tomato salad will be on the table. At its simplest, the dish is a cool, crunchy foil to whatever hearty mains are on offer, often just sliced tomatoes and cucumbers sprinkled with parsley. More memorable versions—like the one served at star chef Tekuna Gachechiladze’s casual outpost, Khasheria—are drizzled with unrefined Kakhetian sunflower oil and add ground walnuts, sliced green chiles, and torn fresh herbs like cilantro and purple basil.

Pkhali at Shavi Lomi

28 Zurab Kvlividze St., +995 32 296 09 56

Georgia’s greatest gift to plant-based cooking is pkhali, the family of colorful vegetable spreads made with everything from spinach to leeks to beets to carrots. If it’s kicking around your vegetable drawer, you can probably pkhali [verb] it. At Shavi Lomi, a candlelit Tbilisi institution where the floorboards creak and cats roam the courtyard, you get the full pkhali experience: multiple spreads rainbowed alongside one another, plus all the traditional accoutrements (cheese, corncakes, and pickled bladderwort blossoms called jonjoli). The pkhali arrive in a gobi, or big wooden bowl, and after savoring the thrilling textures and flavors with your dinner companions, you’ll understand why gobi is the root word of megobari, or “friend.”

Tolma at Sulico Wine Bar

27 Mikheil Zandukeli St., +995 511 10 27 27

Tolma—vegetables filled with meats, grains, or a combination of the two—are a staple throughout the Caucasus region. (Controversially, in 2017 UNESCO linked the tradition to the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Azerbaijan.) In Georgia, it’s no surprise that stuffed grape leaves are the most popular variant, given the country’s outsize wine production. The tolma at Sulico are outstanding—juicy, featherlight bundles of spiced ground meat enrobed in tender (never fibrous!) grape leaves. Pan-fried just before serving until the edges are singed and wispy, they come with yogurt sauce and cinnamon sugar for sprinkling.

Khachapuri at Gunda

5 Besiki Square, +995 551 50 00 40

Khachapuri, Georgia’s indomitable cheese bread, is so ubiquitous that its average price is a national bellwether for inflation. Even gas stations sell decent khachapuri, but to wrap your mind around all the fascinating variations (historians have counted 47), head to Gunda, a new khachapuri-only restaurant that’s reviving ancient ingredients and techniques. Gunda is the sole restaurant in Tbilisi that brings in rare regional cheeses and uses only endemic Georgian flours (as opposed to the Russian or Ukrainian all-purpose stuff) in its doughs. One of those flours, made from an Imeretian wheat strain called makha, was extinct in Georgia until the owners recovered it from a Danish seed bank. Come decision time, the egg-topped, boat-shaped Adjaruli is the most ‘grammable of the lot, but don’t sleep on kotori, the little-known Tushetian flatbread filled with sheep’s-milk cottage cheese and painted with melted butter.

Beef Kharcho at Salobie Bia

17 Shota Rustaveli Ave., +995 551 92 77 22

Kharcho, a meat stew spiked with Georgia’s favorite chile condiment, ajika, is such a crowd-pleaser that it was adopted by cooks across the former Soviet Union, where it remains a mainstay from St. Petersburg to Samarkand. Some kharchos are brothy and flecked with rice, while others, like my favorite rendition served at Salobie Bia, are ultra-thick and all about the ground walnuts and spices. In a basement dining room beneath Rustaveli Avenue, Tbilisi’s maple-lined main artery, Chef Giorgi Iosava spoons the braise over creamed foxtail millet akin to polenta. The brisket and silky porridge are so delightfully soft that the combo ought to be prescribed after wisdom tooth surgery.

Lobio at Salobie (Mtskheta)

7 David Aghmashenebeli St., +995 555 67 19 77

You don’t expect to reach life-altering bean nirvana at a highway rest stop on the outskirts of town, but there I was, staring down at some of the finest Brown Food I’d ever tasted at a picnic table at Salobie. As I’d later learn, Salobie’s success is built almost entirely on beans: Day in, day out, cooks ladle the spicy stewed kidney beans into individual clay urns, topping each with a disc of homemade mchadi (griddled cornbread) that fits snugly inside the rim. Salobie’s lobio recipe is under lock and key, but in every spoonful you can taste the cilantro, marigold petals, chiles, and heaps of sweet sautéed onions.  

Khinkali at Cafe Daphna

29 Atoneli St., +995 595 69 00 11 

The only upside of the Mongols’ bloody conquest of Georgia in the 13th century is that they left behind a dumpling-making tradition that continues to this day. Khinkali are primo mountain food—caloric, hot, and deeply satisfying—but they’re also popular down in Tbilisi, where everyone has their favorite sakhinkle (dumpling and beer house). Mine is Daphna, a newcomer by the Dry Bridge flea market with inviting picture windows and millennial-pink plates. Their cilantro-forward “kalakuri” dumplings get my vote for their supple hand-rolled dough and well-spiced pork and beef filling.  

Shkmeruli at Craft Wine Restaurant

54 Egnate Ninoshvili St., +995 599 66 33 00

Fried chicken is great, but have you ever tried shkmeruli? There’s no definitive formula for the down-home Rachan dish, but the throughline is garlic—an entire head of it, in fact, cooked in butter with the chicken’s juices to make a rich, soppable sauce for the crisp poultry. Most shkmeruli recipes call for tremendous amounts of whole milk or cream, but the cooks at Craft Wine go creamless (per the original recipe, according to them) to give the chicken the spotlight. I love that they debone the bird for you, a cheffy flex that you (and your shirt) will appreciate. 

Bazhe at Ninia’s Garden

97 Dimitri Uznadze St., +995 32 219 66 69

Bazhe is a velvety, coriander-scented walnut sauce that’s a staple of Georgian home cooking. Traditionally served alongside cold boiled chicken, the condiment also plays well with grilled vegetables, meats, and fish. At hot-spot restaurant Ninia’s Garden, chef Meriko Gubeladze spoons the sauce over grilled baby eggplants and serves them as an appetizer with crusty bread. Her bazhe recipe has become my go-to—it’s lighter and tangier than most, thanks to the double whammy of acid in the form of white wine vinegar and fresh pomegranate juice. 

Ajika Ribs and Ghomi at Amra

Lisi Lake, +995 568 39 34 30

Tbilisi is such a vibrant melting pot that you can taste dishes from regions as far flung as Samegrelo on the Black Sea coast, which is known for its fiery, assertively spiced dishes like kuchmachi (offal stew), kharcho (see above), and ajika-rubbed meats. At Amra, which occupies a charming pavilion on the banks of Lisi Lake, the ajika veal ribs are a must. They come sizzling in their sauce, which you should absolutely swirl into a side order of ghomi (corn grits) or elarji.  

Chakapuli at Sasadilo Coca-Cola Dining Room

114 Akaki Tsereteli Ave.

They don’t make restaurants like Sasadilo anymore. Hiding among the bodyshops, factories, and warehouses by Didube bus terminal, this proletarian canteen has the feel of a Soviet-era stolovaya: Construction workers hunch over steaming bowls of soup, off-duty cops sip tarragon soda while leafing through the paper, and aproned waitresses zigzag around the room carrying enormous trays of grub. Based on appearances alone, you’d think the food would be mediocre at best—but then, you’d be wrong. On a recent lunch with my friend and food tour guide Paul Rimple, I couldn’t believe my taste buds when I tried Sasadilo’s chakapuli. The meat (usually lamb or beef) stew can be gristly and bland, but here it was downright invigorating, enlivened with tart green plums and a garden’s-worth of tarragon. Beware, the staff don’t speak English, and payment is cash only.  

Ajapsandali at Sofia Melnikova’s Fantastic Douqan

Stamba Dead End, +995 592 68 11 66

Not unlike ratatouille, ajapsandali is a spicy, rib-sticking vegetable stew made with eggplant, tomatoes, peppers, and fistfuls of fresh herbs. It’s kind of a culinary free-for-all—in fact, Georgians use the word ajapsandali to call something a “mess.” Though the dish is occasionally served hot, I like it better chilled, scooped onto crusty tonispuri bread and drizzled with good olive or sunflower oil. That precise combo makes an ideal light lunch at Sofia Melnikova’s Fantastic Douqan, an indoor-outdoor restaurant with a charmingly overgrown yard that plays Soundcloud techno sets as background music. 

Badrijani Nigvzit at Pictograma

31 Atoneli St., +995 595 85 71 87

Badrijani nigvzit, fried eggplant slices spread with walnut paste, is a fixture of the supra table. It’s always good, but it’s rarely great—the eggplant is easy to over- or undercook, and if you’re not careful with the spices and garlic, you’ll quickly overpower the walnuts’ delicate flavor. At Pictograma, Tbilisi’s only restaurant devoted to the cuisine of Khevsureti in northeast Georgia, let’s just say they know what they’re doing. The eggplant is meaty and melty all at once, and the walnut paste, redolent of khmeli suneli, is so fluffy it verges on a mousse. A generous flick of pomegranate seeds brings the whole dish together, adding sweetness, bite, and crunch.   

Wine at Vino Underground

15 Galaktion Tabidze St., +995 599 08 09 84 

One of the most defining features of Tbilisi’s skyline is Mother Georgia, 65-foot statue of a woman holding a sword in one hand and a cup of wine in the other—as if to say, “welcome to town, but do not mess with us.” Wine is so central to Georgian culture that even in Tbilisi, grapevines furl around apartment balconies and become homemade garage wine. But many visitors are surprised to learn that the bulk of Georgian wine is not the sublime, kvevri-fermented “amber” stuff sold in trendy wine shops around the U.S., but rather boring European-style plonk. To drink your fill of those oddball wines you won’t find anywhere else, pay a visit to Georgia’s most legendary natural wine bar, Vino Underground, which stocks cult (and often unlabeled) bottles from the country’s most experimental vintners. Keep an eye on the bar’s Instagram for winemaker-led tastings and events.   

Abkhazura at Kaklebi

Tskneti Highway, +995 557 76 00 66

It’s worth the cab ride up to Kaklebi—a hilltop restaurant with cascading terraces and multiple dining rooms—for the abkhazura alone. This meatball dish is the culinary star of the Black Sea region of Abkhazia, and it’s phenomenally fragrant with coriander, summer savory, garlic, and fenugreek. At Kaklebi, the patties come studded with barberries, whose cranberry-like acidity cuts through the richness. Before being tossed on the grill, chef Meriko Gubeladze (of Shavi Lomi and Ninia’s Garden above) wraps the abkhazura in a web of caul fat, which crisps up like bacon as the meatballs cook in the flames.  

Tkemali at Dezerter’s Bazaar (Meet Me Here Tbilisi)

5 Abastumani St., +995 593 969 985  

You can snap up all sorts of edible souvenirs at Dezerter’s Bazaar, Tbilisi’s main market—wine, chacha (brandy), spice blends, a decapitated pig’s head … But half the time, you won’t know what you’re looking at as you roam the stalls—unless you book a market tour with Tbilisi journalist and culinary tour guide Paul Rimple (whom we met at Sasadilo). Paul introduced me to Tina Nugzarashvili, who makes such killer tkemali that I always bring a bottle home. Tkemali is a puckering plum condiment that’s so ubiquitous in this part of the world that you could call it Georgian ketchup. Brimming with garlic and ground spices, it goes on everything, from fried potatoes to baked trout to mtsvadi (pork shashlik; try it at Kakhlebi). Nugzarashvili’s tkemali stands out for its kick of heat from fresh chiles and its mentholated bite from fresh pennyroyal leaves. 

Churchkhela at Badagi

4 Roman Miminoshvili St., +995 597 11 10 22

Georgians aren’t big on dessert, but if there’s one sweet that binds the nation, it’s churchkhela, a primordial power bar of sorts that’s made by repeatedly dipping strands of walnuts (or in West Georgia, hazelnuts) into thickened grape juice. After hanging to dry for a few days, the churchkhela are hardy enough to take into battle—as they historically were. Don’t trust the churchkhela sold at the airport or souvenir shops; instead, pay a visit to Badagi, a confectionery that keeps things old-school (no artificial colors or flavors). Not only does churchkhela make a striking and affordable gift for friends—sliced into coins, it also looks gorgeous on a cheese board.

Muslim Georgia: A Journey to the Hidden Kitchens of the Kists

The Walnut Whisperers of Georgia

The post The 17 Essential Dishes of Tbilisi—And Where to Eat Them appeared first on Saveur.

We were down to the last slice of khachapuri when our host, Leila Achishvili, said something that made me put down my fork: “Everyone thinks we’re terrorists here.”

We’d been talking about the situation in Pankisi, a remote valley in northeastern Georgia where I’d come to write about the food. Pleated nettle dumplings, pumpkin-honey flatbread, plump beefy noodles called zhizhig galnash—these hyperlocal dishes were some of the most distinctive (and delicious-sounding) in Georgia, yet nobody seemed to know anything about them.

I’d been to Georgia a dozen times, but Pankisi always seemed out of bounds, like some culinary Bermuda Triangle. “I’m not sure about Pankisi,” warned Kartlos Chabashvili, my otherwise fearless guide and fixer. “So you’re going to eat with the Islamic State?” chided another Georgian acquaintance. 

Pankisi, I quickly learned, stirred up strong feelings in people—people who’d clearly never been to the region but had been reading the news. Terrorism, jihad, warlords, ISIS—until recently, these words appeared routinely in headlines about the valley, from the BBC to The New York Times to Reuters. So when I heard about a new crop of guest houses there—cozy homestays offering nature walks, cooking classes, and bacchanalian feasts—my synapses short-circuited. How on earth could a “terrorist hotbed” also be known for its khinkali-making lessons? To answer that, and to find out what was truly going on, I decided to go to Pankisi to see for myself.

Kartlos took some convincing, but there we were, whizzing past vineyards aglow in the September sun toward Georgia’s most enigmatic region. Wooded peaks veined with streams began to close in around us: We were now in the foothills of the Caucasus. When the grapevines disappeared, I knew we were close—Pankisi is the land of the Kists, descendants of Chechen settlers who practice Sufism, a mystical type of Islam known for its haunting, soulful zikr ritual. (Wine isn’t banned in the valley, but it is frowned upon.)

When we reached Duisi, the first Kist village, we were suddenly in a Georgia I’d never known. There was a strong Muslim presence everywhere: Women carrying bread wrapped in newspaper wore abayas and black headscarves; men on motorcycles sported bushy, Amish-like beards. I spotted a red-brick minaret poking above the trees, one of two local mosques. “Better change into pants now,” Kartlos said, pointing at my shorts. “And remember to take your shoes off when we get to the guest house.” 

My Islamic etiquette was rusty, and suddenly I felt like an outsider. But those moments of culture shock are what make the Caucasus so thrilling. The region accounts for three percent of Europe’s population but over one-quarter of the continent’s linguistic diversity. The 6,000 Kists in Pankisi have their own dialect of Chechen (and speak Georgian, Russian, and varying levels of English). 

In some areas of the Caucasus, there’s a new language every 30 miles. Now imagine how varied the food is.

Our first meal in Pankisi—where that comment about terrorism sucked the oxygen out of the room— was at Leila’s Guest House in Jokolo. The mood was lighter when we arrived. “Come, come!” Leila said, her pink head scarf framing kind, crinkled eyes. Leila ushered us to a long wooden table laid with dishes I’d seen all over Georgia: sulguni cheese, cherry kompot, tomato-cucumber salad drizzled with sunflower oil. But the longer we sat at that table, the less familiar the food became. 

One revelation came in a local variant of khachapuri called chaabli. Glistening with ghee and oozing cottage cheese, it was shot through with handfuls of spring onions. It was excellent, and also surprising, since khachapuri is usually mild (seldom more than dough, eggs, and cheese). Even Kartlos—a guy who crisscrosses Georgia for a living and considers khachapuri its own food group—had never tasted one like it.

Wondering how this could be, I asked Kartlos what he knew about the Kists growing up, what contact he had with them. “Very little,” he said. “I knew there was a Muslim community living in this valley, ethnic Chechens displaced by their war with Russia. Our government gave them shelter. That’s what they taught us in school.” But I would soon understand this wasn’t the whole story. It didn’t explain why Christian Georgians labeled Kists as terrorists.

Kartlos, like many Georgians, spoke of Kists as if they were recent arrivals on Georgian land. But they came to Pankisi two centuries ago—long enough for their dialect to sound archaic to modern-day Chechens and for their cuisine, customs, and religion to take on a hybrid Georgian character. For starters, their first language is Georgian.

Peaceful coexistence defined Pankisi for generations. Kists and ethnic Georgians (not to mention Ossetians, Pshavs, Tushetians, Khevsurs, and others) traded goods with one another and sacrificed animals at the same pagan shrines. In fact, according to anthropologist Florian Mühlfried, the first Kists who settled in Georgia were almost certainly Christian. Religion in Pankisi was so casual and amorphous that many Kists remember ringing in Easter with their Christian neighbors as late as the 1990s. Together, they ate pork and drank wine.

More Kist-Georgian intermingling happened at raucous horse races in the valley, according to food historian Dali Tsatava. Before facing off, competitors fed the horses “blessed barley” and “washed their legs with milk to give them endurance.” Pagan rituals like these, mysterious in origin and kept alive by Chechens and Kists, mirror those of the earliest-known civilizations of Europe and Asia. 

Back at dinner, Leila’s mother was lumbering toward us with a great, steaming bowl. Inside was something resembling spaetzle, strewn with potatoes and carrots and beef. No two noodles were alike—each was rolled painstakingly by hand. Then there was the texture: Within every noodle was a reservoir of hot, beefy broth that gushed when you bit into it. This was Chechnya’s national dish, zhizhig galnash. It was the best thing I’d tasted in months.

Zhizhig galnash is comfort food of the primordial sort. It harks back to a time when Chechen teips, or clans, ruled their valleys of the North Caucasus from soaring stone towers (they’re extraordinary; some are 2,000 years old). When their flocks were in the mountains or when they set off for battle, they relied on dried meat and flour for sustenance: They’d reconstitute the meat in boiling water, making a light broth, then make dumplings from the broth and flour and cook those dumplings in the leftover broth. The result was zhizhig galnash (“meat with dumplings”). 

We were turning into dumplings ourselves when Leila came out with a sticky, scraggly dessert called heul, a crisp-fried dough cake bound with honey. She joined us for tea, and we talked about Kist cuisine. “Many traditional dishes are being lost,” she said. “But my great grandmother taught me the old ways, like how to make cornflour khinkali filled with foraged greens. I cook these dishes proudly.”

You’d think Leila’s ancestral cooking—in an alpine paradise, no less—would translate into a stream of food-loving guests, but the stigma surrounding Pankisi persists: Many people really do think Kists are terrorists, if they think about Kists at all. “Pankisi is not dangerous,” she said. “We are trying to get rid of these labels.”  

It was late, and we shoved off for Nazy’s Guest House, where we’d be spending the night. Kartlos looked deep in thought. “Leila is right,” he said. “Stereotypes do exist among Georgians. My friends thought I was crazy for coming here, not because they hate Muslims—they just think it’s unsafe.” 

The next morning, I sprang out of bed—I’d been dreaming about this day for weeks. Nazy Dakishvili, the guest house owner—a 36-year-old woman with angular features and a gentle smile—would be giving me a Kist cooking lesson. On the docket: ghaabak chaabilgish (pumpkin khachapuri), niiti khingali (nettle dumplings), zhizhig galnash (more is more!), ahar khudar (cornmeal porridge), and halva (a fudgy confection) with raspberry jam.  

Our first task was mixing the khachapuri dough. As we kneaded, we got to talking about Pankisi’s troubled history. “It all started in 1999 with the Second Chechen War,” said Nazy. “Thousands of Chechens poured into Georgia, to this valley.” 

Locals opened their doors to them like family—but among the refugees were rebels and Islamic extremists, who took de facto control of the region (and hung onto it until 2004). Pankisi was soon crawling with criminals from every corner of the globe. Drug running, arms smuggling, kidnappings—you name the crime, it was happening in Pankisi. The Georgian government, outpowered (and some say in cahoots with the gangsters), pulled all police from the valley and left its citizens to fend for themselves.

Then came September 11—and the Islamophobic hysteria that followed. Pankisi was like catnip for the sensationalist press. It was Muslim. It was lawless. Fearmongers bawled that it could be where Osama bin Laden was hiding. 

Georgia, eager to prove its fealty to the West, vowed to crack down. Putin promptly bombed the region. A few months later, the U.S. intervened in the name of the Global War on Terror: It dispatched 200 Green Berets, who trained a battalion of Georgian soldiers to the tune of $100 million (in today’s money). Senators Fred Thompson and John McCain made official visits.

The most powerful governments on earth were pouring money and manpower into the Pankisi problem—and yet the people living there were left cold and starving. “It was only through anti-terrorist special operations that the state reminded the residents of its existence,” wrote Maia Barkaia and Barbare Janelidze in Under the Security Gaze: History, Religion, and Politics in the Pankisi Gorge. “Pankisi … became the ‘other’ against which post-Soviet Georgia defined its role on the international arena.”

There was no segueing back to khachapuri talk now, so I just kept listening to Nazy. “The war radicalized big parts of the population,” she said, drizzling honey into pumpkin purée. And how could it not? For the average Kist youth—who grew up under a thundercloud of chaos, discrimination, and death—a rigid belief system promising salvation understandably appealed. That’s perhaps why younger Kists are more conservative than their parents and grandparents, and one reason so many (estimates range from 30 to 100) went to Syria to fight with ISIS. About two dozen Kists died there between 2011 and 2015—including, as I later learned, Leila’s two sons.

But Nazy says Pankisi has mellowed: “Our police drink tea all day. They have nothing to do!” Unemployment—not radicalization—is the most pressing problem now. “That’s why tourism is so important,” she said. And word is slowly getting out—Nazy’s guest book is bursting at the seams. Earlier, we saw off a group of CamelBak-ed Germans headed to Tusheti National Park on horseback. 

Nazy’s soul-nourishing brand of tourism—the kind that gets you crimping khachapuri with wetted fingers, rolling pasta alongside village grandmas, and frying farmer cheese until it “crackles like a flock of sparrows”—may very well put Pankisi in the news again, only this time for the right reasons.

One encouraging development is that the Georgian National Tourism Association has been investing in Pankisi, clearing new hiking trails and singing the region’s praises. Undertourism, not overtourism, is the problem that needs solving. In an email, a representative remarked on the valley’s untapped potential, calling it a “unique travel area.” Not a hideout, not a hotbed—simply a place worth visiting. Is the wind finally at Pankisi’s back?

Lunch was on the table, and we all sat down. We clinked glasses of Cornelian cherry juice (freshly pressed from Nazy’s orchard) and heaped our plates with noodles, meat, salad, and bread. Kartlos looked right at home, chatting leisurely with Nazy and leaning back in his chair.

Later, loading our suitcases into the car, I asked Kartlos if he’d changed his mind about Pankisi. “Completely. The people are so warm,” he said. “I can’t wait to come back with my friends and family. Everybody needs to know about this beautiful hidden corner of Georgia.”

Getting There: 

Pankisi is two and a half hours northeast of Tbilisi, Georgia’s capital (and main aviation hub). InterGeorgia Travel, Kartlos’s tour company, offers food-focused Pakisi itineraries. Hiring a guide is strongly recommended in Georgia as driving can be stressful (you’ll appreciate the translation services, too). There are a number of homestays in the region; Nazy’s Guest House and Leila’s Guest House stand out for their food. A great place to start when planning a trip to Georgia is the Georgian National Tourism Administration’s website.

Recipe

Beefy Chechen Noodles Should Be Your Next Weekend Cooking Project

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The post Muslim Georgia: A Journey to the Hidden Kitchens of the Kists appeared first on Saveur.

Welcome to SAVEUR’s column on making the most of local produce according to contributing editor Fatima Khawaja. Here you’ll find creative, unfussy meal ideas plus plenty of cooking advice—like what to do with that bumper crop of zucchini or how to store delicate heirloom tomatoes. Follow along, and you’ll learn how to turn the season’s bounty into easy plant-based meals.

This hibiscus-poached pear and frangipane tart recipe is a great way to use up overripe pears. To core a pear neatly, first halve it from pole to pole, then use a melon baller to remove the seeds and fibrous center. An in-depth, beginner-friendly guide to making pie crust can be found here. The tart tastes even better the next day at room temperature, so feel free to make it ahead. Leftover poaching liquid can be turned into a refreshing beverage with the addition of sparkling water (or bubbly if you fancy).

The post Hibiscus-Poached Pear and Frangipane Tart appeared first on Saveur.

I came for the cake. When Jean-Georges Vongerichten opened his eponymous dining room on the ground floor of the brassy Trump International Hotel and Tower in early 1997, it was the most desired reservation in Manhattan. The launch catapulted the Alsatian-born chef to stardom and soon after he earned a four-star rave from restaurant critic Ruth Reichl. Every night, stretch limos lined the curb outside the front door, while celebrity sightings and opulent flourishes were delivered tableside. Poached foie gras and creamed morels, rack of lamb in a green garlic crust, Muscovy duck with Chinese five spice were all tempered with Vongerichten’s signature vegetable broths and emulsions.

When I first sat in one of the sleek leather banquettes with a view of Columbus Circle, Mike Tyson and Donald Trump were in the house. (The combover was weirdly bad even back then.) I don’t remember much about the meal, although thankfully, someone else picked up the tab. But the finale? The dessert menu’s pièce de résistance had such an underwhelming name. “Warm chocolate cake.” It arrived at the table embarrassingly under-dressed for a restaurant with a no-jeans dress code. A fluted mold baked good, dusted with confectioners’ sugar. A quenelle of plain vanilla ice cream on the side. And yet, one swipe with a dessert spoon released the molten flow of bittersweet Valrhona chocolate, oozing from the soft center like lava escaping Kīlauea on a moonless night. No wonder everyone ordered it. Luxe in a Y2K fin de siècle way. I may have licked the plate.

Like any viral culinary creation, this cake came with its own disputed origin story. In 1981, French chef Michel Bras invented coulant au chocolat—cookie dough with a creamy ganache center—inspired by the après ski hot chocolate. Vongerichten also claimed ownership, after he accidentally pulled a runny chocolate sponge from the oven a little too soon in 1987, during his residency at Restaurant Lafayette in the Drake Swissôtel on Park Avenue. Eventually, variations appeared on menus all over town, and then all over the world. One bastardized version even wound up trademarked as Death By Chocolate at Bennigan’s, the fast casual Irish pub-themed chain. Still another can be microwaved in a coffee mug. Sadly, warm chocolate cake soon lost its exclusivity, and as the millennium turned, other swanky desserts sang a sweeter siren song.
Enough time has passed that I almost miss that retro cake. Not that I would ever order it again, or be caught dead in a dining room owned by a chef who admitted in a recent memoir that he lost his cool and beat up a dish washer in the walk-in. But maybe I’ll bake my own, minus the dark gooey history.

Recipe

Molten Chocolate Cakes

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The post You Don’t Have to Apologize for Loving This ’90s Dessert appeared first on Saveur.

Welcome to Parla’s Pastas, a column by the Rome-based, New York Times best-selling cookbook author Katie Parla, whose latest title is Food of the Italian Islands. Get ready for a carb-driven journey through the trattorias of Rome, the rural reaches of Campania, the kitchens of Sicily (her ancestral homeland), and beyond. Fire up a pot of water, and andiamo!

As a 20-year Rome transplant with six Italian cookbooks under my belt, I’d love to say I first encountered focaccia at a traditional Genovese bakery, but my initiation actually happened at a (now-closed) Macaroni Grill, the Italian-themed chain restaurant, off Route 1 in New Jersey. 

The year was 1993, and in spite of growing up in an Italian American family, I’d never been exposed to Italy’s flatbreads. My Southern Italian ancestors no doubt baked their own version of focaccia, but the tradition didn’t make it to my generation. Sometimes I daydream about those lost recipes—about a mythical focaccia some distant nonna made using (geographically appropriate) durum wheat. It would’ve been drenched in extra-virgin olive oil, almost certainly, and topped with tomatoes with twisty, caramelized edges like the focaccias in bakery windows of Bari today. 

And then my thoughts wander back to that Macaroni Grill, where a 13-year-old me was staring down at a tender and spongy focaccia made with soft wheat flour. It came unadorned, simply seasoned with salt and herbs. The crumb was so compact, it practically repelled the olive oil I dragged it through before taking a bite. Based on several Italy-wide trips researching regional doughs, I have an inkling the recipe was inspired by the springy focaccias of Northeastern Italy, specifically Genova and its environs. Frankly, I loved it. And I bet I’d even love it now.

Like pizza, focaccia arrived in the U.S. via Italian immigrants in the late 19th and early 20th centuries and has an unclear origin story. In Italy, the incarnations are many and change from region to region—even village to village. What we do know is that flatbreads have been baked in hearths for several thousand years on the Apennine Peninsula—even if the olive oil-enriched slab we know as focaccia today is far more recent.  

Italy’s most famous focaccia hails from Genoa and emerged around the late Middle Ages as a Catholic wedding dish symbolizing blessings and prosperity. It has since lost its religious affiliation, as anyone who’s had a layover in an Italian airport can attest. Sold at bakeries, supermarkets, and even bars, the bread is enjoyed on its own, dipped into cappuccino, or draped with cured meats. 

As focaccia evolved in Italy, across the Atlantic, American bakers were making their own versions, riffing on the recipes from the Mother Country with toppings like lemon slices that would’ve been novel in the bread’s homeland. The tinkering continues both Stateside and abroad, as demonstrated by the massively popular recipe featured in Samin Nosrat’s Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat, which draws on Liguria’s famously spongy, springy, oil-rich focacce for inspo, and the Insta-famous focaccia from Bari that appears on the cover of my own cookbook Food of the Italian South. 

The 1990s, as many of you will recall, were a simpler time for focaccia. Most of it was spongy and rosemary-perfumed à la Macaroni Grill. The bread was a gateway to a world of Italian flatbreads Americans are still discovering. There’s no end in sight! So, embark on your own focaccia journey—this version, a happy middle ground between Italy and America, tops a Ligurian-style dough with nontraditional lemon slices.

Recipe

Crackly Lemon-Rosemary Focaccia

Get the recipe >

The post How ‘Italian’ Is Rosemary Focaccia, Anyway? appeared first on Saveur.

Paris’ most emblematic sandwich, the jambon beurre, may be in danger. Last Tuesday, the French Government announced a “plan of action” to reduce the use of nitrites—an additive commonly found in cured meats—in food. The news came on the same day that the country’s national health security agency (ANSES) confirmed a link between the consumption of processed meats containing nitrites and certain types of cancer. 

The agency called for limiting the use of nitrites to what’s “strictly necessary”—as little as possible while not creating adverse health impacts. Nitrites serve as a preservative and prevent the growth of noxious microorganisms. But they also add flavor and color: in the case of baked ham, they lend the meat its characteristic blushing pink hue.

The cured meats industry, unsurprisingly, was quick to respond to the government’s announcement. But their reaction wasn’t quite what one might expect. 

According to Bernard Vallat, president of France’s cured meat industry federation (FICT), the organization was satisfied that the plan calls for reducing nitrites, rather than entirely eliminating them. As he explained on a phone call, the industry in France had been scaling back on nitrites since 2016, from 150 milligrams per kilo (the maximum allowed under European Union regulations) to 100 milligrams. 

“Along with Denmark, we are the country that uses the least nitrites in charcuterie. We did it because we knew we were facing societal pressure, as people are emphasizing more natural products and fewer additives,” said Vallat. In fact, the federation supports reducing the maximum permissible amount even further. “But first, there’s an enormous amount of research to be done.”

Baked ham, such as “Prince de Paris” (considered by many to be the gold standard for French ham), represents about 25% of the charcuterie industry in France. According to Vallat, approximately 15% of those producers are already nitrite-free. Instead, they’re using a newer additive called Prosur, which is made in Spain. But it’s not as effective as nitrites, so products made with it have a much shorter shelf life. The biggest barrier holding up its adoption is that it’s more expensive: “Only huge corporations have been able to use it. Smaller companies can’t afford it for now,” said Vallat.  

Vallat says the biggest consequence of the French Government’s proposed plan of action is a crisis of public perception. Since manufacturers had already been reducing the use of nitrites, the call for their reduction won’t impact production. “The problem is the media campaign that influences consumers and could hurt consumption. They’ll decide to eat something else,” he said. For now, all the industry can do is reiterate its commitment to adhering to government regulations and continuing its quest to minimize nitrites to the extent possible.  

Strictly speaking, the jambon beurre won’t be affected by the French government—not yet, at least. But whether the established cancer link prompts Parisians and visitors to opt for a different sandwich is another question entirely.

The post France Says Non To Nitrites—and the Country’s Meat Industry Is on Board appeared first on Saveur.

This story first appeared on MEL, with features writer Eddie Kim interviewing the father-daughter duo.

For her entire life, Claudine Pépin had insisted that she didn’t want to cook in a professional setting. She had no inkling to follow in her father’s footsteps, and indeed pursued a degree in political science while attending Boston University. But when the Jacques Pépin asks you to cook, you can’t say no—which is exactly the situation she found herself in while traveling from the East Coast to San Francisco with her father. 

“He tells me, ‘We’re going to Aspen for the Food & Wine Classic.’ And an hour before his demonstration on stage, he looks at me and goes, ‘You’re coming with me.’ I just responded, ‘I’m going to what?’” Claudine says. “He goes, ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.’ I asked him why he just didn’t tell me more in advance, and he just said: ‘What good would it have done?’” 

Thus began the first collaboration of many, though Claudine didn’t quite know it yet. The duo would go on to shoot three television series together, starting with Cooking With Claudine in the 1990s. The episodes have aged beautifully, balanced on the chemistry between father and daughter; she is the perfect foil for Jacques, playing the everyman and asking lots of fundamental questions. 

“But all through that initial time we started working together, people would always come up to me and say, ‘Oh, you know what you’re doing! You’re just faking!’” Claudine tells me, laughing. “But I was not. I really was learning everything for the first time.”

To be fair, it is hard to believe that the daughter of Jacques Pépin—as mythical and revered a figure in food as one can find—ever avoided learning how to cook. He started his professional career at just 13 years old, training in some of France’s best kitchens, then cooking for French President Charles de Gaulle, leading New York’s legendary Le Pavillon, and even revolutionizing the menu at Howard Johnson’s during the heyday of the casual restaurant. 

Jacques is the author of countless influential books, including the indomitable cooking bible La Technique, and an educator who has lectured around the world. He is also a pioneer in food television, growing into a household name in the 1980s thanks to his blend of brilliant skills, relaxed storytelling and practical advice. Much like his good friend Julia Child, Pépin became an aspirational figure to those trying to learn not just how to cook, but to truly love all aspects of food and eating. 

Being raised by Jacques and Gloria Pépin, who was a culinary force of nature herself, left quite an impression on Claudine. She may not have fully understood Pépin’s renown, nor picked up on the fact that his friends were towering legends in the food world. But she did learn to eat really, really well—and despite never wanting to cook for a paycheck, Claudine forged a professional bond with her father that has informed and strengthened their relationship over decades.

Claudine has built a formidable career for herself, becoming an expert voice in the wine industry, lecturing at the French Culinary Institute and authoring several books. Today, she is the president of the Jacques Pépin Foundation, which started in 2016 and aims to train and assist people who are struggling and disenfranchised from the workforce. But she is also forever intertwined in the myths of her heritage, and is continuing to add upon the legacy of her father and late mother. Claudine’s own daughter, now graduated from high school, also claims she won’t work in food—but then again, her grandfather already got her on TV and in a cookbook, so who knows?  

I recently spoke to Jacques, 86, and Claudine, 53, to reflect on a lifetime of incredible food, memories from the road and how the kitchen became their conduit for bonding.  

So that first experience, at Aspen Food & Wine… did you have that surprise for Claudine all planned out, or was it a spontaneous decision? 

Jacques: I don’t know if it was planned out before, but I thought it was time. I did three series called Today’s Gourmet, each 26 shows, and afterward I thought, “Maybe I should have someone with me.” I didn’t want to have another chef next to me, trying to compete or anything like that. I wanted someone that I love next to me, to be the vox populi, if you will. To be able to ask questions that everyday people would want to ask, if they could be with me. So I thought Claudine was great—she was good on camera, and comfortable. 

When we worked together, I never told her what the menu would be, on purpose. People would say, “Well, she must already know that.” She didn’t! Maybe she ate that over the course of her life, but she was never interested in how things were done.

I mean, I remember when she was 10, 12, whatever, she didn’t know what she would do in life, but she thought she would never, never do what I’m doing.

Claudine: That’s true! 

Claudine, when you were growing up, how aware were you of your father’s renown? Like the fact that JFK had wanted him to be his chef, or the fact that he knew all the superstars in the cooking world. 

Claudine: I think the awareness really started when I went to college. I didn’t think much of it at first. We were friends with Julia Child, so we’d go to her house all the time when I was young. I mean, she wasn’t terribly interested in chatting with me. [Laughs] But we were surrounded by all of these chefs who were really, really, really famous in their own right. So it was hard for me to see my dad as a standout when you’re hanging out with Martin Yan. You go to Chinatown with Martin Yan, which we did, and my dad isn’t the famous one.

But I remember we were in San Francisco or something, and we were walking down the street and one guy the size of a Mack truck started running straight at us. I had no idea what was going to happen, but all he wanted was to hug my father and say, “Oh my God, I love your shows.” Two people also stopped us on the street, unprompted, just to say how much they loved my dad. My awareness grew a lot when that happened. 

So it was clear from a young age that Claudine didn’t want to cook, but when did you first see and realize that she loved to eat, Jacques? 

Jacques: It was always like that. As a family, we didn’t eat a la carte— every day we sat down to have dinner for an hour, at least. She did that since she was born. Even when she was very, very small, we never bought baby food. Whatever we ate that night, I put it into a blender without too much salt and pepper, and made a puree out of it. So she had that taste. It was a part of who she was, and she knew the taste even when she was tiny. 

I love the story in your memoir when she’s young and she’s over at a friend’s house for dinner, and her friend’s mother asks her, “Why aren’t you eating your asparagus, Claudine?” And she responds along the lines of, “I’m waiting for the Hollandaise!”

Jacques: Right, yes. [Laughs] That’s funny.

Claudine: I know Mrs. Pratt, and I still call her Mrs. Pratt, and yeah, she loves that story. She called my mom. She’s like, “What kind of insane child did you send me?”

Jacques: Claudine did not realize how sophisticated her taste was. She maybe was not interested in cooking, but all her life she had been going to places like Lutéce in New York, led by André Soltner. He was a good friend of mine; she called him “uncle.” And many other great restaurants from Le Cirque to whatever. She had been going to France since she was six years old. So she may not have known regular elements of cooking technique, but she was exposed to the greatest restaurants and markets in the world. 

Claudine, what was it like to start cooking with your dad and think about it more critically, having avoided the nuts and bolts for most of your life? 

Claudine: Well, it was interesting. It firmed my resolve that I didn’t want to ever work in a professional kitchen, I’ll tell you that. That’s just a lot of work. But I do remember a few events that we did where we had to put food out for a lot of people. I was needed in the kitchen, and after all those years, I was surprised by what I had learned just through osmosis. 

Well, Jacques, maybe in a different universe, Claudine never ended up working in wine. Never ended up on a TV show with you. What would you be missing in your life? 

Jacques: She taught me to be patient. I mean, I don’t work with her now the same way I did back in 1989, when she really didn’t know anything, and so forth. I’m not sure if you remember, but in my book, I mention that when she started at Boston University, she had a little apartment near the campus, which I fixed up for her. And she invited me one night for dinner. You read that one?

Yeah. She made the infamous chicken. 

Claudine: No, it wasn’t a chicken. I made a hen. I roasted an old hen. Because it was more expensive, therefore it was better. I went to the store, saw chicken, then saw hen cost more money. It turned out pretty much like whatever shoe you’re wearing. [Laughs]

Jacques: It’s quite different now, because she has quite a knowledge of cooking and has her own ideas. She does it her own way now, not necessarily my way. 

What was something challenging about working with your father, Claudine? 

Claudine: I think that probably what’s challenging is to never be seen as a professional in your own right. Because it’s family. So I am a professional, and I know a lot about what I’m doing, whether it’s with the foundation or anything else. It’s very challenging for him to see me as anything other than his daughter. So, look, I feel like my professional opinion always has to be supported by someone else. That’s challenging to me. But it’s probably that way with everyone that works with their family.

To be fair, I follow the Tony Bourdain line to a T: If Jacques Pépin says this is how you make an omelet, I consider the matter closed. My husband, who is a chef, might say there is a different way. And I would reply, “Well, that’s wrong—my father does it this way, and that’s how it’s done.” So maybe there’s blind spots on both sides. 

Jacques: I don’t know if I agree with her that I don’t respect her opinion on one thing or another. That’s not really true. I mean, maybe it was when you were six years old. But now, if you don’t like this or that, I will respect what you feel, even if I don’t agree with it.

Claudine: [Pauses] Oh, that’s progress! 

It’s always tough when you work with family, I think. But nonetheless, Claudine: You’ve seen your father be a pro for your entire life. Jacques: You raised her and now work with her, 50 years later. What has this bond given you both? 

Jacques: Well, Claudine is my whole life now. So working together is very rewarding. I mean, I can picture when she was four years old, and I can see her now when she’s a little older, and see the way she has progressed. Now she has a kid, and we are very close, maybe even closer than [Claudine and I] were when she was a child herself. So it’s been very rewarding, and all of that is basically based on cooking and being together and sharing food.

When a kid comes back from school, the best place is in the kitchen. To hear your mother or your father’s voice, and the smell of the kitchen, and the taste of those dishes—it will stay with you the rest of your life. They are very visceral moments. Very powerful. So this is a culmination of what we’ve been doing our whole life. And we are happy to be able to do that together now. I mean, I am.

Claudine: And for me I think it’s 100 percent trust. Like one million percent. And for me, a father is the first man in your life—and unfortunately for every boyfriend I’ve had, he’s been the one by which all others shall be judged. I know he has my best interest at heart, of course. So it’s just trust. There’s nobody I trust more.

The post Jacques Pépin’s Daughter Never Wanted To Cook–Until She Started Working With Her Dad appeared first on Saveur.

Sweden has a PR problem, and it has nothing to do with NATO membership or Russian disinformation. This week the internet woke up to #Swedengate, a Reddit post-turned-tweetstorm about Swedes not feeding their houseguests. 

According to the post, a Swedish child visiting a friend’s house was asked to stay upstairs while the family sat down to dinner—a situation deemed normal by many Swedish commenters. This, in turn, elicited a pile-on by “food-is-love” believers who couldn’t wrap their minds around not feeding any houseguest, let alone a child who’s over for a playdate. 

The anecdote called into question the commonly held utopian vision of Sweden as a happy, highly functional, tightly knit society backed by a potent welfare state. How could this cultural model justify denying a kid dinner, and what did that say about Swedish values? It turns out, it says a lot—just maybe not what you think.  

To an outsider, Sweden has eccentric cultural mores when it comes to mealtime, a fact that became apparent shortly after I moved here in 2001. A few Swedes had invited me over for dinner, and as everybody was spooning up the last of the bolognese, the host passed around a cup. Each guest deposited 20 kronor ($3) apiece to cover the cost of the meal—a shocker to me, an Asian American who had always footed the bill for my own dinner parties.

Swedish students, I later learned, live off a modest government stipend. University tuition is free, but food in Sweden is expensive—so expensive, in fact, that a Swedish student famously came down with scurvy after eating only pasta for months. For college kids who want to break bread together, pooling resources makes sense. 

That night, it dawned on me that Swedish food culture went much, much deeper than meatballs, lingonberries, and fika (the afternoon coffee-and-pastry tradition Americans are just starting to appreciate). I assimilated quickly—and even started to admire this unfamiliar philosophy around entertaining. It seemed fairer and more inclusive. But what does pooling money have to do with that hungry kid? 

To Swedes, feeding a visiting child without running it by the parents could be seen as inconsiderate—it throws things out of order. In the case of the Reddit poster, surely a hot dinner was waiting for them at home, a dinner that was budgeted for in both money and time. “A lot of Minnesotanss of Nordic descent are also very Swedish about this too,” my Swedish American friend Kristin told me. “We’ve even packed lunch for our kids to eat at the neighbors’ from time to time.”  

One could argue that such unwritten rules make life in Sweden (and perhaps the American Midwest) run more smoothly—and why hell breaks loose at communal laundry rooms when someone cuts the line.

But Twitter is not a place for nuance. An uninformed online army accused the hosting parents of being inhospitable, vengeful Vikings. Indeed, by the time the first thoughtful explanations made the rounds, we were firmly entrenched in Midsommar (the horror movie, not the festival) territory in the world’s woebegone child-starving imagination.

Admittedly, I also took the bait. When I tweeted tongue in cheek that, in contrast to Swedes, food is Asians’ love language (hence my family’s tradition of force-feeding guests to the point of discomfort), Swedish food writer Margit Richert countered, “Food is the universal love language, even in Sweden, although not as much as in most other countries.” 

Her comment made me ask myself whether there actually was a certain “food stinginess” in Swedish culture. If so, I hadn’t experienced it. My former in-laws invited us to frequent sit-down dinners, where I’d feast on locally hunted roast venison with wild mushroom gravy and mashed potatoes until I cried for mercy. 

Generous, over-the-top eating happens at the national level as well—again, generally potluck style. There’s Midsummer’s Eve, a whole day and night spent jumping around like a frog between platters of gravlax and new potatoes. Then come the crayfish parties every autumn, which bring people together around boiled crustaceans and shots of BYOB Swedish vodka. At a traditional glögg (mulled wine party), the host usually provides all of the mulled wine, plus saffron buns galore.

My friend Diana likes to invite me to her country house for Midsummer’s Eve. Yes, I’m tasked with bringing Västerbotten cheese pies for a crowd, but it’s a small price to pay for all the flower crowns, soaks in the sauna, vickning (late-night hotdogs and chips), cots to crash on, and enough instant coffee to cure the next day’s hangover. 

If Swedish hospitality can teach us one thing, it’s that order, food, and friendship go hand in hand. If each person does their part, those parts can combine to make something far greater—and more equitable.

The framing of Swedengate, then, is all wrong: Swedes do feed other Swedes. They just don’t like surprises. In fact, they’ll happily ply you with funky-smelling specialties like lutfisk (fish preserved in lye) and surströmming (fermented herring), which might have you running for the door, saying, “I’m sorry I can’t stay—my parents are calling me home for dinner!”

The post Swedes Feed Their Guests—They Just Have a Different Take on Hospitality appeared first on Saveur.

Ground almonds and full-fat cottage cheese lend body and flavor to this delicate and creamy strawberry cheesecake from Asa Johansson, a gardener and writer who lived on the Swedish island of Oland. For the Midsummer holiday, she served the cake with clouds of whipped cream and ripe berries.

Featured in: “A Midsummer’s Dream.“

The post Swedish-Style Strawberry Cheesecake appeared first on Saveur.

When you look around Portugal’s Vinho Verde region, which is blanketed with emerald vineyards, it will seem obvious how the area got its name. But verde (Portuguese for green) refers to the style of wine—meant to be enjoyed soon after bottling—for which the region is best known: light, fresh, and quaffable, with just a hint of spritz to tease the tongue. It would be a shame to pigeonhole Vinho Verde, though, as just a place for picnic wines. Throughout the years, a focus on single-varietal bottlings such as Alvarinho, Loueiro, and other native grapes began to reveal a more complex side to Vinho Verde. Quinta de Santiago is among the wineries ushering in a renaissance.

Vinho Verde—including its especially celebrated winemaking subregion of Monçao e Melgaço—is nestled in the northwestern part of the country, where Spain winks at you from just a couple of miles away. This area is renowned for Alvarinho, a distinctive style of wine with bright citrus and tropical notes, not to mention salinity and minerality, that can be attributed to the location’s granitic soils and warmer climate. Bordered by the Minho River, and still relatively close to the ocean, the volley of sea and land provides some of the most soulful cuisine in all of Portugal, and Spain’s influence kisses many of the dishes. (Bacalhau, or cod, is popular—instigated by the Bacalhau Campaign, a mandate set in 1934 to expand the cod fishing industry in Portugal—and the abundance of livestock farms means lamb and pork weigh heavily into the diet.) It’s here in Monçao e Melgaço where Quinta de Santiago got its start.

The land on which this winery sits was purchased in 1899 by the great-grandfather of current proprietor Joana Santiago. Grapes were an afterthought on the family estate; fruit, livestock, and grains were the heart of the farm. The recognition of VinhoVerde as an official wine region in 1908—and the potential for a new agricultural industry—didn’t sway the polyculture on the estate either. It wasn’t until the 1970s, when growers in the region noticed that the Alvarinho grape variety was thriving more than the red grapes, that this type of wine saw a renaissance in Melgaço and began to supplant many of the less profitable red grapes. Joana’s grandmother, Maria de Lima Esteves Santiago, began to take an interest in viticulture—and quietly transformed the estate.

Affectionately called Mariazinha by her family, she was what one might now call a garagiste winemaker (someone who makes wine casually at home). She lacked formal wine training but built upon the rudimentary winemaking knowledge that was freely shared among neighbors to produce small amounts of wine. Flouting government regulations, Maria sold her back-of-house wines through the front door of the family home, while keeping up a legitimate business selling grapes.

The moon and its cycles influenced her work. She followed its rhythms, letting it dictate when to prune and plant. (For example, when the moon is in a descending phase in the sky, energy is directed towards roots and soils; this is the time to prune vines and spread compost.) A focus on natural composting to limit chemical fertilizers helped nurture the soils and the vines. Although her practices weren’t given any particular name at the time, she essentially followed what would today be considered biodynamic farming. 

As a young girl, Joana spent every vacation at her grandmother’s property working alongside Mariazinha in the vineyards and fields. Although Joana says the family was fairly aristocratic, the farm and the winery were Maria’s domain. “I never even saw my grandpa enter the winery,” Joana recalls with a laugh. And when Joana and Maria would retire for the day, they would head to the kitchen. Like her winemaking, Maria’s cooking was also guided by her intuition. Although she had collections of recipes, she still let her senses make the final decision when it came to adding a pinch of salt or extra dash of spice. Joana attributes her love of both cooking and winemaking to Maria. 

It might seem strange to make a life change at the age of 86, but when stars align, certain choices become inevitable. Not only was Monçao e Melgaço gaining popularity for its wines, Joana was then pregnant with her first child and ready to quit her job as a lawyer to build a business. “My grandmother challenged me not to start anything else,” Joana recalls. Maria pointed to the beautiful fruit on her vines and the popularity of her garagiste wines—and announced it was time to stop selling grapes and start making wine under the family name.

Joana’s father joined the ambitious women in the endeavor, and the Quinta de Santiago label instantly became a multigenerational affair. But Maria spearheaded the operation. She was the one to name the estate and put the now-signature hearts—inspired by embroidery styles of the region—on the label. She also worked with a trained winemaker to further refine the operation’s techniques.

Sadly, Maria passed away two years later. “2010 was the only vintage she ever saw in the market,” says Joana. But her legacy lives on through the estate’s winemaking techniques. Quinta de Santiago uses native yeasts for fermentation, which is not a very common practice in the region. Instead of immediately pressing and separating the juice from the skins, the winemakers put the wine through a short period of maceration to give it a bit of texture. And they continue to work as sustainably as possible in the winery and the vineyards, prioritizing water conservation, especially when it comes to irrigating vineyards, and limiting chemical use. The winery also actively participates in the Porto Protocol, an international non-profit organization focused on combating climate change in the wine industry. Joana’s grandmother’s presence still lingers in the estate, with Joana constantly pushing and evolving what is possible with their wines. And because bright acidity runs through all the bottles, the wines seem to channel the very energy of Maria herself. 

Given the estate’s focus on single-varietal whites, especially Alvarinho, it’s no surprise that white wines grace the table more often than reds in Joana’s home. Fermentation in oak barrels and judicious use of malolactic fermentation provides a roundness and structure to the citrus fruits that enable the whites to pair well with Maria’s rich or even unctuous dishes, some of which are preserved in her worn, dog-eared handwritten cookbooks, which are some of Joana’s most cherished possessions. Octopus rice is a must-have during the holidays, while lamb Monção roasted in the estate’s wood-burning oven always fills the kitchen with toasty aromas. One of Joana’s particular favorites is ham pudim, which reminds her of her grandmother’s sweet tooth.

Maria set in motion a new identity for the family—as winemakers. She taught them to take risks, to prioritize sustainability and low-intervention winemaking, and to make drinkers rethink what they know about wines from the Vinho Verde region. Today, Quinta de Santiago has graduated from a backyard project to a full-fledged winery—and Maria’s vision continues to be the guiding light.

Recipes

Foda à Moda de Monção (Portuguese-Style Leg of Lamb with Saffron Rice)

Tomato and Octopus Rice

Bacalao a Monção

Pudim Abade de Priscos

The post In Portugal’s Vinho Verde, Wine Is Green in More Ways Than One appeared first on Saveur.