They say your taste memory is one of the most powerful. And I can’t help but agree.
One of the highlights of my college career was a trip to Tunisia that I
made with a mentoring professor and a few other lucky students. Although
I was already seriously interested in cooking, and a flat-out push-over
for trying new ethnic cuisines, I credit this trip with giving me
first-hand insight into the brilliance of culturally inspired fare.
The trip centered around the examination of Roman ruins on the North
African country-side — fascinating history lessons accompanied by long,
hot bus rides, scrappy terrain, and sparse desert landscapes. We
trekked through the ruins at Carthage, Dougga, and El Jem.
I had the opportunity to travel with a band of Berbers on camel-back. I took tea overlooking the sea at Sidi Bou Said.
I
even mastered the art of bartering in the open air markets of Tunis,
Sousse, and Hammamet. Despite all those adventures, the highlight of the
trip was still, remarkably, culinary.
It would be irresponsible to go without mentioning the gargantuan prawns
I ate for lunch at a small road-side restaurant off the coast of the
Mediterranean. And a shame to leave out the experience of eating the
freshest (and most delicious) local figs one evening for dessert. And
certainly the egg and shrimp brik (Tunisian filled pastry, sometimes
known as a burek) I ate during a dinner at my hotel is worth mentioning.
But, it was something much more simple… a condiment… that captured
my heart.
We flew into Tunis early in the day. After an exhausting (and loud) bus
ride to our hotel, we were not only extraordinarily jet-lagged, but also
particularly famished. So, most of us headed down to the hotel’s
restaurant for a bite to eat. The restaurant offered an extensive
buffet, which included interesting variations on German fare (meant to
accommodate the German tourists) and a variety of Tunisian stews. Since
the spread seemed a bit overwhelming for the uninitiated, a group of us
opted for some small plates — selecting our food from a smaller
“antipasti” bar of sorts, featuring a wide variety of olives, pickles,
condiments, and freshly baked bread. Among the offerings was a deep red,
oily-looking paste that we were told we could eat with stew or spread
on sliced bread.
One
bite of the spicy spread, and I was hooked. Harissa became my
condiment of choice — and the flavor accompanied me, without exception,
for the remainder of my trip.
Harissa, as I’ve known it, isn’t much more than a paste made of dried,
smoked chiles, a bit of garlic, and some olive oil. But, for those who
have sampled it, it’s a pleasure that goes well beyond the sum of its
humble parts. Smoky and sharp with a definite kick, harissa livens up
just about anything.
The sauce is excellent when served simply — as I first encountered it
— with a loaf of crusty French bread. However, it’s extremely versatile
and makes a great accompaniment for grilled meats, a superb addition to
pasta and pasta sauces. It’s also excruciatingly good spread on a
sandwich.
Best of all, thanks to Milwaukee’s own, Spice House, you can recreate the flavors of Tunisia at home.
Recipe for Harissa Paste courtesy of The Spice House
And a few of my favorite recipes:
What’s your most dramatic taste memory?
