QUOTE
The cookbook, written with Michael J. Cohen, doubles as a cultural history of the insular Syrian Jewish community and is stuffed with mouthwatering images courtesy of a photographer with the decidedly nonkosher name of Quentin Bacon.
"Aromas of Aleppo" (Ecco, $49.95), named for the northern Syrian city from which Dweck's family hails, began life more than 30 years ago. That's when Dweck and her contemporaries began to worry that the recipes they grew up with, lodged only in the minds of older cooks, would one day be lost. They started to document them, first in a red vinyl looseleaf binder called "Deal Delights," and then in two more self-published volumes.
"This book is a reflection of the women who have really been the main reason we have defied assimilation," says Dweck, who is the picture of a modern housewife in a crisp, monogrammed white shirt and tailored skirt, blonde hair and makeup perfectly done.
The kitchen, too, is immaculate, all cool green marble and sea glass tile, with succulents that dare not shed a leaf lining the deep window ledge over the double sinks. (The only personal touches are the framed pictures of her son, Jesse, who was hit and killed by a van in Manhattan in 2003. A computer whiz, Jesse had been helping his mother organize her research for the book, which she later dedicated to him. (All the proceeds from the cookbook go to the Jesse Dweck City Learning Center.)
There may be a notable lack of fezzes and water pipes in this sprawling contemporary home two blocks from the beach, but the Syrian Jewish community is notable for thriving in the modern world, adopting the trappings of the American upper middle class while maintaining their distinct customs and high level of religious observance.
"We were steadfast in keeping strict adherence to our religious beliefs, our traditions, our rituals," she says. "A big part of that is the food."
Dweck and her husband, Sam, raised their five children in Deal, whose small, close-knit Syrian-Jewish community swells in the summer, when thousands of their Brooklyn brethren take up residence in the summer homes, filling the pews of the dozen or so Orthodox synagogues, and packing the aisles of the kosher markets and the Middle Eastern grocery, redolent of a spice bazaar.
Syrian Jews started leaving their homeland in large numbers after the 1947 U.N. partition of Palestine, which sparked a devastating pogram. Dweck's parents, both born in Aleppo, were honeymooning in Italy at the time, and they never returned to Syria.
There are only a handful of Jews left in Syria today, despite the continuous presence of Jews in Aleppo dating to at least the sixth century B.C. Legend has it that Abraham himself, stopping there to share the milk of his goats with the poor, gave the city its Arabic name, Haleb, meaning "milk," or "he milked."
When the Jews were expelled from Spain, they found welcome in Ottomon-ruled cities such as Istanbul, Salonika and Smyrna, and later these Spanish exiles, as well as those fleeing inquisitions in Italy and the Papal States, settled in Aleppo, which is equidistant from the Mediterranean and the Euphrates River.
As Aleppo prospered at the crossroads of great trading routes, so did the Jewish traders, and they crossed paths with Venetian and Persian silk vendors and purveyors of Indian spices, while absorbing the culinary styles of their new Arabic neighbors. In fact, Dweck says, the foodways of Aleppian Jews is more closely related to the Arabic cuisine of Syria than most other regional Jewish cooking. (The main difference is Syrian Arabs cook their meat in butter, which is forbidden under kosher laws, so Jews use oil instead.)
Souq standards like rice, bulgur and semolina are prominent in Aleppian cuisine, as are Indian and East Asian spices such as turmeric. The flavors of Persia can be sampled in the extensive use of dried fruits and fruit pastes, particularly tamarind. Tamarind concentrate, which is often made in great batches but can be purchased at gourmet and specialty stores, replaces pomegranate concentrate found in other Mediterranean Jewish cuisines.
These traditions fuse lusciously in yebra, an Aleppian take on stuffed grape leaves. Unlike the cold garlicky versions commonplace in the Mediterranean rim, yebra are scented with cinnamon and allspice, and they're cooked slowly in a tamarind-apricot sauce. The savory sauce should thicken in the pot and then cling to grape leaves, served hot. The remnants of the melted apricots slide across the palate like silk.
Another variation of mehshi, or stuffed dishes, is Dweck's mehshi basal, in which the hashu is spooned into softened Vidalia or Spanish onions (a cook's expertise can be judged by the tightness of her rolled onions, according to the book), then simmered and baked with tamarind, lemon juice, sugar and salt. A Sabbath favorite of her husband's is s'fiha, stuffed baby eggplants with ground meat and rice.
"Aromas of Aleppo" (Ecco, $49.95), named for the northern Syrian city from which Dweck's family hails, began life more than 30 years ago. That's when Dweck and her contemporaries began to worry that the recipes they grew up with, lodged only in the minds of older cooks, would one day be lost. They started to document them, first in a red vinyl looseleaf binder called "Deal Delights," and then in two more self-published volumes.
"This book is a reflection of the women who have really been the main reason we have defied assimilation," says Dweck, who is the picture of a modern housewife in a crisp, monogrammed white shirt and tailored skirt, blonde hair and makeup perfectly done.
The kitchen, too, is immaculate, all cool green marble and sea glass tile, with succulents that dare not shed a leaf lining the deep window ledge over the double sinks. (The only personal touches are the framed pictures of her son, Jesse, who was hit and killed by a van in Manhattan in 2003. A computer whiz, Jesse had been helping his mother organize her research for the book, which she later dedicated to him. (All the proceeds from the cookbook go to the Jesse Dweck City Learning Center.)
There may be a notable lack of fezzes and water pipes in this sprawling contemporary home two blocks from the beach, but the Syrian Jewish community is notable for thriving in the modern world, adopting the trappings of the American upper middle class while maintaining their distinct customs and high level of religious observance.
"We were steadfast in keeping strict adherence to our religious beliefs, our traditions, our rituals," she says. "A big part of that is the food."
Dweck and her husband, Sam, raised their five children in Deal, whose small, close-knit Syrian-Jewish community swells in the summer, when thousands of their Brooklyn brethren take up residence in the summer homes, filling the pews of the dozen or so Orthodox synagogues, and packing the aisles of the kosher markets and the Middle Eastern grocery, redolent of a spice bazaar.
Syrian Jews started leaving their homeland in large numbers after the 1947 U.N. partition of Palestine, which sparked a devastating pogram. Dweck's parents, both born in Aleppo, were honeymooning in Italy at the time, and they never returned to Syria.
There are only a handful of Jews left in Syria today, despite the continuous presence of Jews in Aleppo dating to at least the sixth century B.C. Legend has it that Abraham himself, stopping there to share the milk of his goats with the poor, gave the city its Arabic name, Haleb, meaning "milk," or "he milked."
When the Jews were expelled from Spain, they found welcome in Ottomon-ruled cities such as Istanbul, Salonika and Smyrna, and later these Spanish exiles, as well as those fleeing inquisitions in Italy and the Papal States, settled in Aleppo, which is equidistant from the Mediterranean and the Euphrates River.
As Aleppo prospered at the crossroads of great trading routes, so did the Jewish traders, and they crossed paths with Venetian and Persian silk vendors and purveyors of Indian spices, while absorbing the culinary styles of their new Arabic neighbors. In fact, Dweck says, the foodways of Aleppian Jews is more closely related to the Arabic cuisine of Syria than most other regional Jewish cooking. (The main difference is Syrian Arabs cook their meat in butter, which is forbidden under kosher laws, so Jews use oil instead.)
Souq standards like rice, bulgur and semolina are prominent in Aleppian cuisine, as are Indian and East Asian spices such as turmeric. The flavors of Persia can be sampled in the extensive use of dried fruits and fruit pastes, particularly tamarind. Tamarind concentrate, which is often made in great batches but can be purchased at gourmet and specialty stores, replaces pomegranate concentrate found in other Mediterranean Jewish cuisines.
These traditions fuse lusciously in yebra, an Aleppian take on stuffed grape leaves. Unlike the cold garlicky versions commonplace in the Mediterranean rim, yebra are scented with cinnamon and allspice, and they're cooked slowly in a tamarind-apricot sauce. The savory sauce should thicken in the pot and then cling to grape leaves, served hot. The remnants of the melted apricots slide across the palate like silk.
Another variation of mehshi, or stuffed dishes, is Dweck's mehshi basal, in which the hashu is spooned into softened Vidalia or Spanish onions (a cook's expertise can be judged by the tightness of her rolled onions, according to the book), then simmered and baked with tamarind, lemon juice, sugar and salt. A Sabbath favorite of her husband's is s'fiha, stuffed baby eggplants with ground meat and rice.
Aromas of Aleppo
