A communal feast
The beautiful coming together of a sacrifice feast.
In Food culture, I take an in-depth look at an aspect of local food cultures in Turkey, the Middle East & beyond.
It wasn't until I was offered grapes that I fully realised what I was about to be part of. The grapes weren't from the greengrocer, but were growing just above our heads, their leaves providing shade as we sat on the roof terrace of the small village house.
We'd risen early that day. So early, in fact, we had to wait for the hotel breakfast to get ready. After a quick bite, we headed straight to the village, where we were met by our friend, who had organised everything for the day, a bowl of keÅŸkek (a traditional wheat and lamb porridge) and budding activity.
The front room of the house was a semi-open space, designed for days like this. A home made tandoori oven took up the immediate space along the wall as you entered. Ahead, multiple pits for cooking food in cauldrons over a fire. On the right, a small bench for preparation. At present, a huge tray of fresh runner beans were sitting there, waiting to be put into one of the smaller cauldrons later in the day.
But there was no time to linger. Our friend had business across the street, at a small village bakery, its entrance near hidden behind a mountain of wood. Clearly, no shortcuts (like electrical ovens) were taken here. That morning, they'd already produced an astonishing (and beautiful!) range of breads in very small batches. It looked more delicious than any place I've seen in Istanbul.
As we returned, the kitchen was in full swing. Volunteers, most of them family members, were doing all the things big and small that are required to convert a whole lamb into a multitude of dishes that would later, quite literally, feed a village.
In the big cauldron, huge chunks of meat was boiling in what was turning into an incredibly good smelling stock. After separating the meat from the broth, the latter would be used for cooking bulgur. In another, the liver of the lamb was bubbling away. In yet another, chickpeas, for making hummus. And in the corner, our previously spotted runner beans were being gently stewed with some tomatoes, onions and lots of olive oil. All of this was happening in sweltering heat (it was mid-August and we were in South-Eastern Turkey). The temperature outside was hot – certainly well above 30C (86F). I don't even want to know the actual temperature inside. I don't think anyone did.
This was the point where we were guided to the roof and offered refreshments, tea and – as soon as my eyes looked up above at the leaves and fruits around us – grapes. No matter our insistence, we weren't allowed to help out with the preparation of the meal. Our donation of a lamb was more than enough of a contribution, we were told, and they wouldn't hear any more of us helping out in any other way. Such is the hospitality of Antakyans.
By the time we got back downstairs, the flames had died down and more volunteers had arrived. It was time to portion out today's bounty. This was clearly no one’s first time rodeo. Everyone was fully in command of their given task. Some were packing bread, others pulling the meat off the bone. Most were part of an assembly line packing take away boxes. Every movement served a purpose, and no verbal communication was necessary. It was like watching a well oiled piece of old school machinery in all its beauty.
Soon after, we'd put these takeaway bags into the trunk of a car and take them around to some of the poorest homes in the village. To families that for various reasons couldn't, or wouldn't, join the feast in person. I never asked who they were, but my friends volunteered some of the more harrowing stories. Widowed mothers with little income to speak of, families with kids with severe disabilities, people who had fallen into misfortune for a range of reasons, mostly through little fault of their own. It was one of the most humbling experiences of my life, though I stayed in the car, out of sight, for the duration of our route. There was no need to turn the despatch into charity tourism.
On our return we were immediately ushered inside to the long table. It was already nearly full, and people were tucking into what can only be described as a magnificent feast. The table was filled to the brim with small plates of the food that had been prepared today, and more kept coming.
And everyone was invited. While charity is an important part of a sacrifice feast, so is community and family.
And the food? In spite of (or perhaps because of?) the old school preparation methods, it was absolutely delicious. All of it. My favourite was the liver, gently stewed and perfectly balanced with a generous sprinkling of fresh herbs. The meat was tender and flavourful, the bulgur rich and full of flavour from the stock. Homemade pickles and fresh fruit and vegetables from the gardens around us added both charm and a touch of lightness to otherwise fairly heavy food. All of it bound together beautifully by the lavash bread the ladies had prepared earlier in the day.
Feasts like this, centered around the slaughter of a single (or multiple) animals, is one of human kind’s most ancient traditions. While most Western cultures have long since moved on or replaced the actual sacrifice with symbolism, it remains a key element of muslim and other cultures. This week marks the Feast of Sacrifice, known as kurban bayramı in Turkish or Eid al-Adha in Arabic, across the muslim world – its most important holiday. If you’re celebrating, please accept my very best wishes.
This felt like a good time to share my experience, though our feast had no religious context, nor was it during the muslim holidays. In this part of Turkey, they’ve maintained this beautiful tradition for the benefit of the poor and the local community year-round. Playing even a small role in facilitating one of them is one of the greatest privileges I’ve ever had.
🔜 Coming Friday: Armenian lavash
In the next newsletter, I’ll share my favourite recipe for Amernian-style lavash, quite similar to the one served at the sacrifice feast (Antakya is home to the only remaining Armenian village in Turkey, and an area with a significant Armenian influence). The recipe recipe will hit your inbox on Friday, both free and paying subscribers.
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