Caroline Eden is a writer contributing to the travel, food and arts pages of the Guardian, Financial Times and the Times Literary Supplement. For BBC Radio 4’s From Our Own Correspondent she has recorded stories from Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Azerbaijan and Russia. She is also the author of three other books focusing on the former Soviet Union and the Turkic-speaking world, Black Sea (Quadrille, 2018), Red Sands (Quadrille, 2020) and The Land of the Anka Bird (Cornucopia Books, 2020).

carolineeden.com; Twitter and Instagram: @edentravels

Eleanor Ford writes about food, travel and recipes. She is also the author of Fire Islands: Recipes from Indonesia (Murdoch Books, 2019). Her writing has won awards from the Guild of Food Writers, Gourmand World Cookbook Awards and the Edward Stanford Travel Writing Awards.

eleanorfordfood.com; Instagram: @eleanorfordfood

Contents

Introduction

A Shared Table

Soups

Roast Meats & Kebabs

Warming Food for Long Winters

Plovs & Pilafs

Accompaniments

Breads & Doughs

Drinks

Desserts & Sweetmeats

Index

Acknowledgements

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Samarkand – a culinary journey through Central Asia

‘In all other parts of the world light descends upon earth. From holy Samarkand and Bukhara, it ascends.’ Local saying

Samarkand – the turquoise city

For centuries the fabled city Samarkand has been a magnet for merchants, travellers and conquerors. Its name resonates like those of only a handful of other ancient cities, perhaps Babylon, Rome or Jerusalem. Say it out loud and it rolls off the tongue: Samarkand. It is seductive.

Set in the valley of the Zerafshan River in Uzbekistan, this turquoise oasis still beguiles modern-day visitors following in the footsteps of Alexander the Great and the mighty Tamerlane. Reflecting its past as a cultural crossroads, this Silk Road stopover has buildings, gardens, fountains and other cultural treasures whose extraordinary beauty and achievement inspired Islamic architecture across the entire region – from the Mediterranean to India. Sky-blue mosques and sand-coloured minarets, fluted domes, madrasas and monumental mausoleums, their ceramic-tiled and mosaic surfaces dazzling with floral motifs and geometric patterns – the effect is as dizzying and utterly compelling as a mirage in the desert.

For hundreds of years the journey to Samarkand necessitated a Herculean effort. Arduous expeditions, carrying goods between far-off cities like Xi’an and Shiraz, made the trek on two-humped Bactrian camels over endless steppe, through inhospitable mountains and across shifting sands like the Taklamakan Desert, a parched expanse roughly the size of Italy.

Why? What made men endure scorching heat, numbing cold and howling winds, losing their minds – and lives – in a bid to reach Samarkand, hidden behind a barricade of mountain, grasslands and sand? The answer is trade, because from the sixth to the thirteenth centuries Samarkand experienced an age of unmatched prosperity. It became Asia’s great shop window, one of the world’s finest market-places, where everything from rare spices to yak-tail fly whisks were bartered and sold.

Throughout the centuries the wealth of Samarkand has been legendary. Merchants sought bags of rice and carrots from the Himalayas, cuts of sugar cane, bundles of lemons, plaits of garlic and sacks of soy beans from eastern Asia. Exchange on the Silk Road travelled in both directions too. From the west towards China went cucumbers, coloured glass and wine grapes. Historian Edward H. Schafer, in his gorgeously titled book The Golden Peaches of Samarkand, describes how ‘fancy yellow peaches, large as goose eggs’ were formally gifted to China’s Tang empire in the seventh century, symbolising all ‘the exotic things longed for.’

Traders found safety in Samarkand in the form of shelter, dealers and brokers. Mercenaries too could be hired for the onward journey to fend off slave raiders and bandits. Long after the merchants had departed their goods and traditions stayed on in this oasis. Sogdian – the language of Samarkand’s middlemen – became the language of the commercial world. ‘Melting pot’ is a somewhat exhausted metaphor but it describes Samarkand perfectly. This is a city that has been at the crossroads of food culture for centuries.

Modern-day Samarkand is no longer the mythical place it once was but the journey to this incredible city is always an exciting one.

The inextricable link between food and travel

It was on such a journey that I decided to write this book. The idea was to bring together the cuisines of seven ethnic groups who had left their mark on Samarkand over the centuries – the Tajiks, Russians, Turks, Jews, Koreans, Caucasians and the Uzbeks themselves.

Tajiks have lived in Samarkand and Bukhara for centuries and large numbers still do. In mountainous Tajikistan itself, bordered by Kyrgyzstan to the north, Uzbekistan to the northwest, Afghanistan to the south and China to the east, their cuisine displays a mix of Russian, Uzbek and perfumed rice dishes, reflecting Persian roots.

A sizeable population of ethnic Russians continues to live in post-Soviet Central Asia. Smoke and brine – traditionally used to preserve food in Russia – infuse the air in homes and restaurants. Sweet earthy borsht and piroshky (fried buns stuffed with potatoes and meat) are ever-present in markets and cafés. Another hangover from the Soviet era is a passion for vodka. Despite their Islamic heritage, many Central Asians enjoy a drink and any new visitor will quickly learn that local hospitality combined with the firepower of a few shots can pack a mean punch (and hangover).

Turks have traded and lived in the region for centuries and Turkish cuisine is imitated and admired across Central Asia. The seventeenth-century Ottoman traveller and diarist Evliya Çelebi described dishes that were prepared for Ottoman Pashas, which chime with the cuisine of Central Asia today: ‘saffron, çilav (boiled rice), roasted meats, mulberry… meatballs, pistachio, almond, raisin pilafs of partridge, pomegranate and soups.’ Nowadays, popular Turkish restaurants in the Central Asian region tend to serve pides, mutton casseroles, spitted and grilled lamb, while kebab varieties run into the dozens.

There are Jews living in Bukhara and Samarkand who claim to be direct descendants of the ten lost tribes of Israel, although historians suggest it is more likely that they arrived at the behest of the fearsome tribal leader, Tamerlane. As he blazed a trail through Asia in the fourteenth century, he brought Jewish dyers and weavers from the Middle East back to his splendid blue-tiled city of Samarkand. Over time, oppressive leadership and the collapse of the Soviet Union meant that these Jews became one of the most detached Jewish communities in the world. Through it all, many culinary traditions were guarded and preserved, even though today, only around a thousand Jews remain in Uzbekistan. Uzbek Jewish cuisine is a co-mingling of Persia’s vegetable-studded pilafs and Russia’s heavy meat dishes. It is characterised by light spices – a little cumin, coriander, turmeric, pepper and chilli – and delicate flavours intensified by herbs, onion and garlic.

The peoples of Central Asia have never developed a taste for fiery food but one exception is the Korean diaspora, known as the Koryo-Saram. Stalin deported half a million Koreans to Central Asia during World War II, many of whom stayed on and have become the purveyors of pepped-up flavours. Dishes like pickled cucumber and beef ribbons give more than a nod to chilli, and cabbage-heavy kimchi – Korea’s national dish – is increasingly popular in Central Asian capitals. It’s also the case that no matter how remote the market in Uzbekistan, you will always find a Korean woman selling take-away bags of carrot salad.

The Caucasians – including those from the South Caucasus, Georgians, Azeris and Armenians – are all historically connected to Central Asia. During the Persian Empire, fierce Armenian warriors left their homelands to travel the Silk Road, fighting beside local warlords in exchange for trading rights. Clergy from the Caucasus also left their monasteries to join far-flung theological debates. During the fourteenth century, a group of Armenian clergy travelled as far as the Chinese border to build a monastery named after Saint Matthew. They took their culinary traditions with them and many cultural interchanges resulted. Small communities of Armenians reside in all the nations of Central Asia.

This book is a celebration of the richness and diversity of this remarkable Asian heartland and the culinary heritage of its distinct populations. It is the combined work of two friends, both travellers and writers, bonded by a passion for good food and adventures into countries very different from home. The voice you’ll hear in the travel and food essays is mine while that in the recipes is Eleanor’s.

Dazzling bazaars, golden bread and a blanket of stars

When I first arrived in Samarkand in 2009, weary from exploring the Pamir Mountains, its atmosphere shook me. The skyline is filled with monolithic Soviet blocks, colossal sky-blue domed mosques and pale desert-hued minarets. At street level, tangled bazaars overflowed, cauldrons of plov bubbled on the side of the road and butchers hacked away at sides of beef on tree stumps used as cutting blocks. Melons the size of a horse’s head were crammed into the boots of Lada cars, shop fronts were festooned with dizzying bolts of ikat and suzani fabric bearing pomegranate motifs, while legions of babushki (elderly ladies) pushed vintage prams which carried not mewling babies but golden discs of bread.

At daybreak, before the arrival of pilgrims, I had wandered alone in the otherworldly necropolis of the Shah-i-Zinda as imams chanted. That night, I ate tandoor-fresh bread and sliced crescents of juicy melon with a jewel-handled knife beneath a blanket of stars. Can any other place on earth provide such a feast for the senses?

My first encounter with Samarkand not only provided a passage back to the fourteenth century and Tamerlane’s capital (see Samarkand – Tamerlane’s centre of the universe) – it also sowed the seed for this book.

Over the ensuing years I completed a dozen or so trips to Central Asia, Turkey, Russia and the Caucasus. On these adventures I dined in mountain villages, in city centres, by glittering lakes and out on the steppe. I ate borscht while playing backgammon with war veterans in Soviet-style canteens, slurped gently seasoned laghman (noodles) in yurt cafés and enjoyed unending hospitality in people’s homes. By avoiding the ‘tourist’ restaurants it is easy to eat well in the former Soviet Union; hospitality is a cult in all these countries. It oils the wheels and it is justifiably legendary. In Samarkand you can expect a genuine welcome, for ‘the guest is the first person in the home.’

I fast discovered an enormous diversity of food cultures, from Russian-style borscht to Turkish-style shashlik, and dishes that at first seemed familiar but were not – like the omnipresent plov, which is similar to a Persian pilaf, and samsa, which is like an Indian samosa. Everywhere I went I feasted on fruit fit for kings – all of it always criminally cheap. The aromatic apricots in the Pamir Mountains of Tajikistan, the famous golden peaches of Uzbekistan and the bullet-shaped grapes in Kyrgyzstan, made me realise what we in the West have lost in flavour in the name of convenience. Most of all, I discovered that this food culture that straddles many borders is a bit like matryoshka, those brilliantly kitsch Russian dolls. As soon as you unveil one, another presents itself. And at the heart of it all was Samarkand, which has sat at the crossroads of food culture for centuries. As a mere city its location is narrow but its scope is extraordinarily wide.

CAROLINE EDEN

The ingredients, flavours and recipes

Though we cover a vast region in this book, there are common threads running through all the different cuisines. Being largely landlocked, meat makes up a huge part of the diet: that can mean beef, lamb, goat, camel, horse and chicken. Kebabs and shashliks are mainstays from Turkey to Afghanistan. Every country has its own wonderful versions of pilafs or plovs as well as flatbreads, including the ubiquitous non. Central Asians are justly proud of their dairy produce and eat, drink, dry and ferment milk in many different ways. Yogurt, in various forms, will be found on most tables, along with smetana (soured cream) and suzma (yogurt cheese).

The flavours of Central Asian cooking reflect its position, where very different culinary worlds meet. Spices are key, as you would expect from countries crossed by the Silk Road, yet they are used judiciously, to enhance flavours of the main ingredients rather than mask them. Any heat in Central Asian food tends to come from whole peppers and Turkish red or Aleppo pepper and black pepper; and dried chilli is used more sparingly still. Uzbek cumin is punchier than the seeds we buy at home and is frequently – if cautiously – used as is warm-scented cinnamon and the tart, lemon flavour of ground sumac berries introduces an Iranian note. Herbs, however, are used in abundance – tarragon and basil lend European accents, coriander adds an Eastern element and dill, of course, so much a flavour of Russian cooking, punctuates many dishes.

Fruits, both fresh and dried, feature widely. Throughout this book you’ll see the returning stars of pomegranates, apples, apricots, raisins and sour cherries. Tartness often comes from barberries, an autumn fruit. Salads are seasoned with wine vinegar along with handfuls of fresh herbs and, sometimes, pomegranate seeds. Sheep fat and cottonseed oil are traditionally used much more than vegetable and olive oils. Nuts too – walnuts, pistachios and hazelnuts – are not only snacks, but ground into rich sauces, folded into rice or scattered over pastry. Then there is rosewater and petals – popular in both Armenian cooking and poetry.

Most of the ingredients should be familiar and easily available, a few may require a trip to a Turkish or Middle Eastern shop. (You can see a crossover of food culture with Iran, and many of the more unusual ingredients such as pomegranate molasses, barberries and lavash bread are common to Persian, Caucasian and Turkic cuisines.)

In writing Samarkand we set out to provide a taster of the regional cuisine with a collection of recipes from Central Asia and beyond, that will prove inspiring and accessible to the home cook. Some of these recipes are authentic renditions of dishes from the road, exactly as Caroline and I have eaten them on our travels, while others are simplified or playful, using traditional pairings of ingredients. A few recipes are inspired by neighbouring Afghanistan as well as Xinjiang in northwest China (home to the Muslim Turkic Uighurs). All are connected through the legacy of the former Soviet Union and trade routes of the Silk Road.

Our hope is that these recipes and culinary tales will introduce you to new flavours and fresh ideas and inspire interest in a part of the world unfamiliar to many and its extraordinary food heritage.

ELEANOR FORD