Moussaka, Moose-akka Musaka? Does anyone really know?
I suppose it doesn’t matter because we are only spelling it phonetically as this dish originated in the near east, around Greece or Turkey. Every country seems to have their own version since long before the Ottoman Empire broke up, or Laurence got himself involved. Why was I thinking about Liberace of Arabia? Good grief, sounds like a really campy movie.
For some reason the best moussaka I have ever had was in Jordan, not really where I would have expected it, eggplant, yes, tomatoes, yes, but with a white cheesy sauce? Hmmmm more of a Greek-Turkish thing.
So here is "A desert tale" this was in the late 1980's.
Once upon a time we had a driver whose name was…well let’s call him Jamal; we think that he got his job with the company because he was related to someone. He was sort of…well…simple, is too kind a word, and freaking moron just doesn’t do him justice.
One time while we were travelling through the desert in Jordan, he got into an argument with us about the entrance to Petra (We had been before, he had not), they had just wrapped up filming of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade there, so there were still a lot of people about. (Ok, so you got your time reference, you young whippersnappers) However he insisted on leaving the main road nd driving off into the desert because there was a ruin out there that he insisted must be Petra. It was not, he eventually drove to the edge of a ridge and got out of the car, and then after a few “Choice words” he took off into the desert on foot, with the keys to the car, which he had locked. (Who the Heck is going to steal a car on top of a ridge in the freaking desert? On the streets of Damascus or Aleppo sure, but here?). Unfortunately this left us without any water, and quite a way to go by the look of things.
The sun was just reaching its zenith, and far in the distance we could see the shimmering shapes of the City of the Dead. The middle ground was filled with deep ridges leading almost straight down to a flat red plain, with the occasional dead juniper bush poking out of the sand like a skeletal hand reaching from beyond the grave.
Jamal had disappeared in the opposite direction, and there did not seem to be anyone else around this end of the wadi, (Dry riverbed prone to flash flooding in spring) so we shuffled down the face of the ridge and began to walk across the desert. Or rather walk, stumble on a rock, scrape knee, crawl forward, pray that the stick in front of you is not a snake. Stand up, curse driver, stagger, sit in the shade of large rock with bullet holes, stagger, fall, stagger, stagger, curse driver, curse the Pillsbury Doughboy, hide from sun in shade of ransacked tomb, stagger some more.
After about two hours of this we ran into a wizened toothless old Bedouin man, just standing about, not really doing anything much. However, to one who knows the ways of the desert this was a sign from G@d. For if there was a Bedouin, then not too far away would be someone trying to flog a carpet or two to hapless wanderers, and the one thing that carpet sellers always have on hand is tea! Tea means water; it also means water that has been boiled. Oh happy day!
Indeed we were in luck, because not more than three hundred yards from where we spotted our Bedouin savior there was a tent, half hidden by another big rock dumped on this alluvial plain in the days before time began. It was a pretty tent, with black and white horizontal stripes and little tassels of red at the corners, there were a couple of friendly goats tethered to a dead tree, a few camels looking insolent, the smell of burning gasoline and a faint whirring noise. Our ancient guide called out to the tent and the flap flew aside in an appropriately dramatic way to reveal a rather tall and plump man with a well trimmed beard. Too well trimmed for this small Bedouin camp, I thought. It gave one the impression that his Mercedes was parked the next ridge over and that he went home at night to his condo and watched “Perfect Strangers” on Jordanian television. That this whole, “Ah, the spirits of the desert have brought you forth to me with great joy!” was all an act to flog a few inferior carpets at inflated prices. There were a few other tents in the distance along with a number of Bedouins old and young.
We were ushered into the tent and indeed there was very much a certain amount of “Shopness” inside the tent. The carpets that were rolled for storage were just a little too carefully done in order to show off their least shoddy side and no one really arranges cushions around on their corners against the tent walls do they? The dead giveaway was a glass case filled with “Antiques” just made yesterday in Bangladesh, and in the far corner shrouded in darkness the most surprising and wondrous thing! A blue box, about waist high with a bit of rust, and a rather florid capital “P”, it rattled as we entered, and as we stared at it the box appeared to match our gaze.
“A miracle” I said.
“Gasoline Generator.” Said Mr. Trimmed Beard.
We had discovered Pepsi!
Toothless old man poured us some ready tea into little hand-blown glasses.
And here I pause to explain Syrian and Jordanian Tea:
Place one tablespoon of tea in 2 cups of water in a pan or a Turkish coffee pot. Boil for several minutes over camp stove or camel dung fire, then pour into small cups (Demi tasse cups are just right) or glasses which have sugar in the bottom, there should be a ratio of about 1 part sugar to 2 parts tea. Refill glasses at least twice and if you are on the receiving end do not refuse to get a refill till after the third cup. (They are very small), ok back to the story.
Tea, a tent, carpets, goats, camels, Bedouins! Like some sort of Arabian nights tale, straight out of “Crap to read to your kids”. The spell was finally broken by the words “Would you like to buy some Pepsi? Ice cold, very good, also I have a carpet that is for sale, woven by my wife’s poor sister’s cousin’s aunt’s brother who lost his leg in all that unpleasantness ten years back…”
Mr. Trimmed beard sent a boy running to the nearest part of the ruins where he was sure to find horses for rent. While we whiled away an hour or so lounging in the shade on scratchy camel and goat hair cushions and carpets, drinking innumerable cups of tea like thick sweet tar. (Hot sugared smoker’s lung scrapings in a glass.). By the time the boy returned with a couple of horses I had already bought a rather nice silver plated knife with “Genuine Roooobiees!” and a decorated sheath, an embroidered table cloth, several bottles of Pepsi, some bottled water, and some White Rabbit Candy, (Love that stuff, made in Shanghai and available all over the world, with that cute little rice paper wrapper. SO CUTE, you could die of freaking cute it’s so cute.) . I had also been stared at in a funny way by a camel. They do that; stare at you like you are so inferior to their camelness, I hate camels.
What I remember most about the ride into the ruins, was my mind racing ahead even as I urged on the horse at a leisurely pace over the rock strewn plain, was murder. Really stuck in my mind…it really seemed stuck there…how I knew I was going to kill Jamal when I caught up with him, in what fashion? And how long did I want it to take? However as I approached the rose colored city of the dead, all thoughts of homicide vanished. Tourists always come through al siq the winding chasm that opens onto the sunlit façade of “The Pharaoh’s Treasury” (Actually it’s just a tomb that is carved into the solid rock about 150 feet tall and 60 feet wide.) We however had come in a different route, through almost a different time, reminiscent of Isabella Eberhardt over the desert past the empty dry wadis and the Bedouin tents, traveling through tombs that tourists never venture to; sitting on the edge of the wasted red desert. So when Jamal sheepishly met us in the car at the main entrance to the ruined city, I forgot my boiling rage and all was forgiven. After a run in with a couple more carpet salesmen we drove to the hotel where in air-conditioned splendor we stuffed ourselves on Jordanian cuisine. There was fried eggplant, pita bread, hummus and tabbouleh, cucumber salad with tomatoes, for some reason Greek moussaka? and while I can’t remember it all (It’s been 20 years give me a break) Here is the recipe for the disembodied moussaka.
Serves 6
For Veggie Version: 1 Can of Garbanzo beans drained and 1 pound of mushrooms sliced thin
For the meatyness 1 pound of ground beef or lamb
Two Large Eggplants
4 Tablespoons of olive oil.
1 Large Onion Chopped
2 Cups of Chopped Tomatoes (Fresh or Canned)
2 Tsp of Cumin
1 Tsp of Corriander
½ Tsp of Cinnamon
1 Tsp of Oregano
1 Tbs Paprika
For the Sauce
3 tablespoons of four
3 Tbs of Flour
2 Cups of Milk or Cream
1 Cup of grated Mozzarella or Cottage Cheese
A dash of nutmeg, salt and pepper to taste
One egg
Melt the butter in a sauce pan and stir in the flour, cook for one-two minutes over low heat, add the milk and whisk to combine, cook over medium heat till thickened, remove from heat add cheese and seasonings and stir till melted. Then add the egg mix well and pour over the casserole.
Bake at 400 for 30-45 minutes, remove from oven and let cool for 10 minutes, this will make it easier to cut into sections without them falling all over the place and looking like a ratatouille gone terribly terribly wrong. Serve with cooked bulgar wheat, tabbouleh, or rice pilaf (One with spinach is nice).
No comments:
Post a Comment