LGBTQ bars have had a tough run lately. Shuttering in concerning numbers, many have been struggling with soaring rents and an increasingly challenging business model (not to mention dating apps, which make it easy to flirt from the couch). But happily, and against all odds, many of our go-to LGBTQ spaces are still standing—thriving, even. What’s more, they need your business more than ever in light of discriminatory anti-transgender legislation and distressing Don’t Say Gay laws. To that end, here’s a pared-down list of our favorite queer bars, restaurants, and clubs in major cities across America. Drop in for a drag show, catch a late-night DJ set, or simply pull up a stool at the bar. No matter your gender or orientation, you’re in for a good time.  

The Stonewall Inn, New York City

“We really are like the gay Church,” said co-owner Kurt Kelly. Mecca for America’s gay liberation movement, Stonewall is the site where a dayslong protest for LGBTQ rights ensued in 1969 after police violently raided the establishment. In 2019, an estimated 5 million people made the pilgrimage to Greenwich Village to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the pivotal event. Today, Stonewall is more than its brick-and-mortar location; behind the scenes, the Stonewall Inn Gives Back Initiative is taking the “Stonewall Inn legacy to the most marginalized in our community and in the toughest places to still be LGBTQ+,” said Stacy Lentz, Stonewall’s co-owner and CEO of the nonprofit.    

Round-Up Saloon, Dallas

Next time you’re in Dallas, lasso up your friends and take them to this kitsch Oak Lawn dance hall where queer culture meets line dancing and twangy country music. Thursdays are the best nights to go for the uninitiated; that’s when instructors give free lessons on, say, how to do-si-do your partner and dance the “Hoedown Throwdown.” Nobody goes for the gastronomy (the menu is basically burgers, fries, and wings)—though it helps to have something to nibble on to mitigate the dangerously generous pours.

Cheer Up Charlies, Austin

Austin’s LGBTQ residents are up in arms: It may be too late to protect three emblematic Fourth Street queer bars from the wrecking ball as they’re slated to be replaced with luxury highrises. That makes Cheer Up Charlies—which is safe, for now—all the more important to support. With a well-furnished outdoor patio, bubbly staff, and a vegan food truck always parked outside (sweet potato fries! blood orange hard cider!), this bar is our favorite spot for partying in Texas’ blissfully “weird” capital. 

Atlantic House, Provincetown, Massachusetts

The “A-House,” as locals call it, is so old that its original owner was a mounted postman who died of cholera. Opened in 1798 as a stagecoach inn, it became a hub of Bohemian life at the turn of the 20th century as artists and writers fled gritty, industrial Boston for a freer and more solitary life. As early as the 1950s, the A-House was an openly gay establishment, a badge it wears proudly to the present day.   

Big Chicks, Chicago

The first thing you notice when you walk into Big Chicks in Chicago’s Far North Side is the diverse clientele: a wonderfully motley mix representing virtually all ages, races, physiques, and gender identities. Translation? Everybody feels seen at Big Chicks. Consider starting your evening with updated diner fare at Tweet (the sister restaurant) next door, before unbuttoning your shirt and heading over to the dancefloor. 

Akbar, Los Angeles

Akbar is all “good vibes and pretty guys,” according to Los Angeles-based music and travel writer Taylor Henderson. But it nearly shuttered due to the pandemic, when it was running up debt to the tune of $10,000 per month. In a do-or-die plea for aid, the owners created a GoFundMe page that, to their surprise, met its goal within 24 hours. Such is the commitment of this cozy watering hole’s clientele, which doubles as a community space and open mic venue.

Slammers, Columbus, Ohio

Here’s a not-so-fun fact: There are only 33 lesbian bars left in the entire country. And Slammers, fortunately, is one of them. A downtown Columbus standby since 1993, this indoor-outdoor establishment serves pizza and jalapeño poppers and strong drinks against the backdrop of live performances. There’s also karaoke, darts, and pool for those who like some friendly competition. 

Jolene’s, San Francisco

A relative newcomer on the Mission District scene (est. 2018), Jolene’s is a casual queer bar whose Insta-famous neon sign says it all: “You are safe here.” At a time when lesbian bars are closing at an alarming pace, Jolene’s is bucking the trend as a non-male-centric space that doesn’t feel exclusive. The bar food punches well above its weight with dishes like craggy fried chicken served with mashed potatoes and succotash, and cheese-cloaked sliders served alongside thick-cut fries. 

Pony, Seattle

Whenever Mark Stoner wears his Pony hat in another city, he can’t believe how many people stop him to say, “I love that bar!” The owner of this Seattle institution housed in a defunct 1930s gas station loves the compliments, but to Stoner, what “feels even better” is “when marginalized people in our own LGBTQIA+ community tell me that it’s one of the only spaces where they truly feel safe and relaxed,” he said.

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Like many Americans above a certain age, I have a soft spot for warm, creamy artichoke dip—you know, the one with the spinach and parmesan and gobs of cream cheese and mayo. But a recent trip to Morocco reminded me how well artichokes play with a whole host of other ingredients, like ras el hanout, fresh herbs, and preserved lemon. Next time you’re on appetizer duty, consider this head-turner of a dip that takes no more time than the old favorite.

Featured in “Why You Should Heart Artichokes (If You Don’t Already).”

The post Cheesy Artichoke Dip with Preserved Lemons and Harissa appeared first on Saveur.

“Girded for battle, burnished as a grenade” is how poet Pablo Neruda described the artichoke in his famous ode to the vegetable, but don’t be intimidated by its spiky appearance—with a few strategic snips and slices, this edible thistle is ready for the skillet, stockpot, grill, or oven in no time. And on nights when we don’t feel like busting out the chef’s knife and rubber gloves (lest the natural pigment blacken our fingers), we invariably reach for a bag of frozen hearts, which add texture and pizzazz to risottos, braises, and dips. Trust us, none of your kin will be the wiser.

Artichokes were prized in Ancient Rome, where nobles devoured them with gusto, and they have long thrived in the Mediterranean basin. Generations-old artichoke dishes run the gamut from scraggly carciofi alla giudia (fried Jewish-style artichokes from Italy) to soupy Spanish menestra (spring vegetable medley) and fried baby artichoke hearts dunked in Middle Eastern taratur sauce. 

Today some 50 types of artichoke grow worldwide, the most prolific of which is the globe, a hardy, mellow-tasting variety whose peak season runs from March to May.  Globes are available year round in many sizes—choose small ones for salads and frying and large ones for stuffing and steaming—but you can have even more fun with heirloom artichokes like chianti, poivrade, or fiesole. Whichever is available to you, seek out buds with tight, compact leaves and as little browning as possible. 

The artichoke recipes that follow—our favorites, hailing from near and far—celebrate spring, the perfect time, according to Neruda, to “undress this delight [and] munch the peaceful paste of its green heart.”

Artichoke Bruschetta with Capers and Cherry Tomatoes

Katie Reicher, executive chef of Greens restaurant in San Francisco, brings us this Italian American-inspired artichoke bruschetta that comes together in 12 minutes. Get the recipe >

Jacques Pépin’s Artichokes Helen

Cream, tarragon, and brandied mushrooms lend old-school French flavor to these dainty artichokes perfected by the culinary legend. Get the recipe >

Turkish Braised Artichokes with Peas and Candied Lemon

“Artichokes have a special place at the table of Istanbulites,” says Gamze Ineceli, an Istanbul-based researcher and expert in Anatolian food studies. Her classic zeytinyağlı enginar (braised artichokes) with peas and candied lemon is a family favorite perfected over generations. Get the recipe >

Artichoke Risotto with Capocollo and Pecorino

At Masseria Moroseta in Puglia, rice bubbles away in a purée of vegetable stock and braised artichokes before getting crowned with capocollo, pecorino, and more artichoke hearts. Get the recipe >

Grilled Artichokes

Don’t be fooled by the singed edges—these artichokes are tender, and beguilingly smoky, through and through. Get the recipe >

Raw Artichoke Salad with Parmesan and Mint

Faintly bitter baby artichoke hearts, thinly sliced with a mandoline, are tossed with mint and nutty Parmesan in this delicate salad. Get the recipe >

Artichokes with Lemon Za’atar Dipping Sauce

Refreshingly tart and herbaceous, this recipe can be a DIY (dip it yourself) appetizer or elegant plated first course—whichever suits your mood. Get the recipe >

Roasted Artichokes

It doesn’t get more classic than these pull-apart artichokes braised with white wine and a dozen cloves of garlic. Get the recipe >

Fried Artichoke Hearts with Taratur Sauce

We fell in love with these artichokes blanketed in taratur (garlicky tahini sauce) at a mom-and-pop restaurant in Damascus, and have been whipping them up on the regular ever since. Get the recipe >

Pasta Shells with Artichoke-Clam Sauce

In this aromatic dish, based on one from Marseille restaurant Le Grain de Sel, shell-shape pasta is dressed in a light tomato and clam sauce with artichoke hearts. Get the recipe >

Spring Vegetable Stew

Any gently simmered mixture of vegetables is truly greater than the sum of its parts. It’s important to cut the ingredients to the proper size and cook them sequentially, starting with the ones that need longer cooking. Get the recipe >

Menestra de Verduras

Spanish menestra is not your grandmother’s peas-and-carrots vegetable medley—it’s studded with crisp nubbins of jamón and stars breaded and fried artichoke hearts. Get the recipe >

Seared Halibut with Artichokes à la Barigoule

Soft, gently braised artichokes pepped up with fresh lemon juice round out this restaurant-worthy (yet low-effort) French main. Get the recipe >

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“Here is a great big old bad artichoke—and some people are terribly afraid of it.” That’s how Julia Child opened her artichoke episode of “The French Chef,” which aired in 1964. Sixty years later, that statement rings as true as ever. 

And who could blame the fearful among us? Artichokes are prickly enough to draw blood, tough enough to dull a knife, full of what Julia calls “fuzzy hairy business,” and often expensive enough to make any budget-conscious cook balk. What’s more, peeling the vegetable with bare hands can leave palms and fingernails a ghoulish brown for days, thanks to a phytochemical called cynarin that stains the skin. 

But here’s the thing: despite all that, they’re worth the hassle. Whether they come fried and scraggly (“Jewish-style” in Italy), braised in olive oil until spoon-soft (like Turkish zeytinyağlı enginar), whizzed into a cheesy dip (à la Land of the Free), or gratinéed with cheese and mushrooms (as is popular in France), artichokes are as phenomenally delicious as they are versatile. And they can even be fun to cook with—you just have to know your way around them.

Being a good shopper is step one. “Choose artichokes as you would flowers,” wrote Judy Rogers in the hallowed Zuni Cafe Cookbook. “Look for perfect ‘blooms’ with unblemished ‘petals.’” The comparison checks out because an artichoke is, in fact, a thistle that we eat at the bud stage. 

“Perfect blooms” are preferable when you’re serving artichokes raw—say, shaved on a mandoline and tossed in lemony vinaigrette—as they’re sweeter and more attractive that way. But Jacques Pépin isn’t as picky as Rogers: “I wait until artichokes are old and yellowish—then buy them on sale for about a dollar each,” the author and television personality told me over the phone. “When I’m making artichoke bottoms, those are everything I need. I just trim off the discolored leaves.” Pépin likes filling the cavities with creamed mushrooms and finishing them under the broiler.

The way to remember the difference between artichoke bottoms and hearts is that only the latter have their leaves attached. Generally speaking, the bigger the artichoke, the more fibrous and inedible its choke (that fuzzy business!) and outer leaves. That’s why tender baby artichokes, which require little to no trimming at all, are so prized—and pricey. But as James Beard points out in American Cookery, “Size makes no great difference in the quality.” Making the most of the vegetable, then, depends on how you prepare it.

Artichokes can be laborious if you’re paring dozens of them for a crowd, but they can also be effortless: Boil them whole for 20-ish minutes, squeeze some lemon juice over the top, dunk the leaves in melted butter, and call it a day. Indeed, people have been advocating a “less is more” approach since at least 1655, when a French squire named François Pierre La Varenne published a number of artichoke recipes in his Le cuisinier françois. In a departure from the exotic, spice-centric cooking of his forebears, La Varenne and his contemporaries “treated vegetables as food in their own right” and “made much use of the globe artichoke and very little of spices,” according to Food in History by Reay Tannahill.

Artichokes were something of a novelty in La Varenne’s time. In Ancient Greece, cabbage, celery, lettuce, and cardoon—the artichoke’s predecessor—were mealtime staples, but the prickly vegetable as we know it today? Surprisingly, there’s no written record of it until 1466, though science points to its domestication around the beginning of the first millennium. The artichoke cropped up in Europe relatively late, believed to be introduced to Sicily by Arab farmers. (Perhaps that’s why the Spanish “alcachofa” and Italian “carciofo” stem from the Arabic word “al kharshuf.”)

It didn’t take long for Europeans to go gangbusters for the vegetable; by the mid-1500s, they were a sensation as far north as Great Britain. In the ensuing centuries, some of the world’s most celebrated artichoke recipes would be invented: Italian carciofi alla romana, braised whole with mint, parsley, and garlic; French artichauts à la barigoule, cooked in white wine and olive oil; and Spanish alcachofas con jamón, simmered until soft and shot through with nubbins of salty ham.

But being native to the Mediterranean, the artichoke took some time to reach North America, and even longer to catch on. The first recipe for the vegetable on this side of the Atlantic appears in the 1886 Philadelphia Cook Book by writer and dietitian Sarah Tyson Rorer. Beard writes, “They were called French artichokes at the time, and no credit was given to the Italians.” That era’s veneration of all things French obfuscated that Italian Americans in California established some of the country’s first artichoke farms. We probably have those Italians to thank for the artichoke hearts on our pizza and in our salads, and for the creamy all-American artichoke dip popular at potlucks. 

Canned or frozen hearts certainly have their place (they’re perfect on bruschetta and blitzed into dip), but a fresh artichoke, prepared well, is a true wonder of spring. So, next time you see the green orbs at the market, toss one into your shopping cart. Set aside a few minutes to trim it with care, and steam it until it’s soft and sweet. Then take a page from Pablo Neruda’s “Ode to an Artichoke” and dig in: “Scale by scale / we undress / this delight / we munch / the peaceful paste / of its green heart.”

Recipes

Jacques Pépin’s Artichokes Helen

Get the recipe >

Artichoke Bruschetta with Capers and Cherry Tomatoes

Get the recipe >

Turkish Braised Artichokes with Peas and Candied Lemon

Get the recipe >

The post Why You Should Heart Artichokes (If You Don’t Already) appeared first on Saveur.

Though traditionally deep-fried in olive oil, torrijas—Spain’s quintessential Holy Week dessert that falls somewhere between French toast and bread pudding—are subtler and less greasy when baked, as this knockout recipe from Madrid’s Panem bakery goes to show. Challah or good white sandwich bread may be substituted for the brioche. If you own a kitchen torch, you can use it in lieu of the broiler in step 5 to brûlée the bread on the top and sides. Panem doesn’t top its torrijas with cinnamon sugar, but the flavor combination is so classic that it felt like heresy to exclude it completely. Torrijas will keep in an airtight container in the refrigerator for three days, though they lose their sugary crunch after a day or so. The bread slices may be halved into rectangles in step 2 for smaller servings.

Featured in “Torrijas Are Spanish ‘French’ Toast—With a Few Tantalizing Twists,” by Benjamin Kemper.

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Despite—or perhaps because of—the fact that I’m a food writer, my pantry is an absolute circus: The cupboards are crammed so tightly with oils, spices, and tins of fish that removing a single item feels like losing a game of Jenga. 

But being a pantry packrat has its perks. After all, who doesn’t love a shelf-stable ingredient that can turn an entire meal around in minutes? That jar of marinara that saves your skin after a night out. Those dried Moroccan rose petals that transform an everyday meal into a restaurant-worthy indulgence. That punchy tikka masala mix whose eye-pleasing packaging is as inviting as its contents. 

Whether you’re shopping for stocking stuffers or oh-là-là gifts for family and friends, you’ll find something for everyone in this list of pantry pinch-hitters.

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I’m not sure if it was Droosh’s loopy logo, eye-poppingly colorful tins, or mouthwatering recipes that drew me in first, but suffice it to say, these spice mixes have become a fixture in my kitchen. Founded by three cousins eager to share their family’s Indian home cooking with the world, Droosh relies on top Indian spice purveyors, which makes their blends phenomenally fragrant.

Heami Lee

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Send the whole kit and caboodle to your dumpling-loving gift recipient (which is pretty much everyone, who doesn’t love dumplings?). This gift bundle includes everything necessary for dumpling consumption, beginning with a cookbook— First Generation by Frankie Gaw—and onwards to exceptional soy sauce, white sesame oil, chili crisps, pineapple miso hot sauce, and a dumpling paddle and chopsticks, all sourced from artisans in Taiwan and packaged for Yunhai. — Ellen Fort, Senior Editor

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When I was tasked with sampling 20 cans of top-quality Spanish tuna for a conservas story (tough gig, I know), one tin edged out the rest: Don Bocarte’s wild red tuna belly. The fish is marbled with so much fat that it’s nearly spreadable, and it comes in a pretty embossed box with a sachet of flaky salt for sprinkling. I love flaking it over vinegary potato salad, or tossing it with tomatoes, onions, and a simple vinaigrette as they do in the South of Spain.

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Just saying “persimmon” feels chic—so imagine presenting someone you want to impress with this duo of organic estate-grown olive oil and Fuyu persimmon vinegar. The former hails from Ojai, California and blends columella and Noccelara del Belice olives from century-old trees, while the latter is produced using sweet California persimmons harvested during the autumnal equinox. 

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“Single-origin” isn’t a term you see often in the spice aisle, since even the world’s most prestigious spice companies aren’t, say, getting all their black pepper from a single source. But when you buy Vân Vân’s dried purple shallots or sparrow ginger, you can see the ingredients’ place of origin—down to the village—right on the package (Phan Rang and Lâm Đồng, Vietnam, respectively). All the spices and aromatics come packaged in multicolor, whimsically illustrated sleeves, and they’re well-priced at $53 for a six-spice bundle.

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Shouldn’t gifts be something the recipient might not buy for themselves? No home cook in their right mind needs three pounds of Maldon, and that’s precisely why you should purchase this unapologetically over-the-top tub for the flaky-salt fiends in your life. Depending on whom you’re giving it to, it very well may constitute a lifetime supply. Embrace the absurd!

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If you think fish sauce is an exclusively Asian ingredient, think again—the Italians of Campania have been making it for centuries according to their distinctive method. The condiment is essentially the concentrated fermented juice of anchovies caught off the Amalfi Coast, and it’s added as an umami basenote to everything from pastas to sauces to vinaigrettes. Pro tip: A few drops of colatura will take your Caesar salad and pasta aglio e olio to new heights.

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Fabada is a sight to behold: Plump, white beans measuring an inch in length swim in a brilliant orange broth that brims with hunks of chorizo, pancetta, and blood sausage. This is Spain’s answer to cassoulet—only requiring a fraction of the elbow grease. Any creamy white bean will work in a pinch, but for a gift any Spanish-food-loving cook will geek out over, it’s worth seeking out real-deal DOC fabes de La Granja. 

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A bouquet of flowers is nice to look at, but for a serious cook, a twee little jar of edible rose petals is far more useful. Plucked from Moroccan Damask roses, these ultra-fragrant, lavender-tinged petals look gorgeous on everything from tagines to biryanis to rice pudding and cheesecake. 

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For a country roughly the size of South Carolina, Georgia—at the crossroads of Asia and Europe—boasts an astonishingly varied cuisine. In the east, heading toward Azerbaijan, wine-scented stews, salty cheeses, and barbecued meats rule the table, a testament to the region’s deep-rooted traditions of winemaking and animal husbandry. Along the subtropical Black Sea coast in the west, hazelnuts, clarified butter, and cornmeal are culinary staples. And the farther west you go, the spicier the food gets, thanks to the local hand-pounded chile paste called ajika (now likely available at a supermarket near you).

To wrap your mind (and palate) around the full breadth of Georgian cuisine, give our best Georgian recipes a whirl, from spicy beef kharcho to Chechen-style rolled pasta to vegetarian stunners like pkhali and soupy spiced beans. And while you’re at it, pour out a glass of kvevri wine and repeat after us: Gaumarjos! (“To your victory!”).

Adjaruli Khachapuri

Filled with a runny egg and melted cheese—traditionally a mix of imeruli and sulguni—this recipe from the Black Sea region of Adjara is best eaten hot. Here, a blend of low-moisture mozzarella and tart, salty feta gets you close to the original. To eat the khachapuri, tear off pieces of the crust and dunk them into the well of molten cheese, egg, and butter. Get the recipe >

Megruli Khachapuri

The cheesiest khachapuri of them all comes from the western region of Samegrelo. Stuffed and topped with salty cheese, it’s stick-to-your-ribs country fare at its finest. Get the recipe >

Shila Plavi (Funeral Rice)

One of Georgia’s most comforting—yet shockingly little-known—dishes is shila plavi, a peppery Georgian lamb pilaf similar to risotto that’s traditionally served at funerals. Our favorite recipe comes to us from chef Sopo Gorgadze, who uses arborio instead of the usual long-grain rice and adds so much black pepper and caraway that their quantities look like typos. Get the recipe >

Beef Kharcho

Kharcho is a catch-all term for spicy Georgian beef stew. Though it hails from the Black Sea region of Samegrelo, today it’s a staple across many former Soviet countries. Some versions are brothy and flecked with rice, while others, like this one served at Salobie Bia in Tbilisi, are ultra-thick and all about the ground walnuts and spices. Chef Giorgi Iosava ladles his kharcho over creamy millet porridge, a soothing counterpart to the punchy, piquant stew. Get the recipe >

Zhizhig Galnash (Beefy Chechen Noodles)

Zhizhig galnash, beef and dumplings with pungent garlic sauce, is Chechnya’s national dish. We learned to make it at Nazy’s Guest House in Pankisi, a remote valley inhabited by ethnically Chechen Muslims called Kists. You don’t need any special equipment to make the pasta dough, which is surprisingly easy (and quick!) to shape. Don’t let the short ingredient list fool you—it amounts to a decadent, impressive feast. Get the recipe >

Leek Pkhali (Vegetable Dip)

You could call Tekuna Gachechiladze the pkhali queen of Tbilisi for her mouthwatering, innovative takes on Georgia’s traditional vegetable-walnut spreads. Pkhali can be made with any cooked vegetable—traditional choices include beet, spinach, carrot, and green bean—but Gachechiladze eschews those for sweet, melty leeks, which she blitzes together with walnuts, cilantro, and spices. Tahini and olives are unorthodox add-ins that today’s Georgians happily get behind. Get the recipe >

Georgian Roast Chicken With Bazhe Sauce

Bazhe is a velvety, coriander-scented walnut sauce that’s a staple of Georgian home cooking. You’ll often find it served chilled as a sidekick to cold boiled chicken, but this version (by Ninia’s Garden chef Meriko Gubeladze), sings alongside a freshly roasted bird: The heat draws out the spices’ bouquet and the walnuts’ fragrant oils. Get the recipe >

Georgian Cheese and Herb Dumplings

Khinkali are twisted knobs of dough stuffed with seasoned meat, spiced mushrooms, mashed potatoes, or—in this case—mild cheese and fresh herbs. The boiled dumplings were once exclusively mountain fare but are now widespread across Georgia. Ground black pepper is the traditional accompaniment. Get the recipe >

Sinori (Rolled Flatbread with Butter and Cheese)

A rich breakfast dish from the Adjara region, sinori is usually made by spreading flatbread generously with butter and nadughi, a fresh Georgian cheese, but Meri Makaharadze, the head of a cheesemaking co-op in Georgia, prefers the more rustic, aged shushvela (which we’ve substituted for Emmental with excellent results). Get the recipe >

Badrijani Nigvzit (Eggplant-Walnut Roll-Ups)

This classic supra starter consisting of fried eggplant slices spread with garlicky walnut paste makes a wonderful companion for wine and cocktails. Get the recipe >

Lobio (Stewed Beans with Walnuts and Spices)

This wonderfully complex bean recipe is thickened and seasoned with a paste of pounded walnuts and the dried petals and fresh leaves of the orange French marigold plant. The kick of acidity comes from tkemali, a traditional Georgian condiment made from unripe green plums, herbs, and spices. Get the recipe >

Ajapsandali (Spicy Eggplant Stew)

If you like ratatouille, you’ll love ajapsandali, a garlicky eggplant dish brimming with fistfuls of fresh herbs. Compared to Georgia’s fussier, technique-heavy recipes like satsivi (turkey cooked in walnut sauce) and khinkali (soup dumplings), ajapsandali is basically a free-for-all, a blank canvas ideally suited to recipe-averse cooks: No one is getting canceled for making ajapsandali “wrong.” So go forth, and get chopping! Get the recipe >

Khmeli Suneli

This traditional Georgian seasoning is often blended into vegetable dishes such as pkhali, spinach-and-walnut pâté garnished with pomegranate seeds, and badrijani nigvzit, garlicky eggplant roll-ups stuffed with walnut paste. But truth be told, we love its earthy, fenugreek-forward flavor on just about everything. Think of it as the curry powder of the Caucasus. Get the recipe >

Muslim Georgia: A Journey to the Hidden Kitchens of the Kists

The Walnut Whisperers of Georgia

The 17 Essential Dishes of Tbilisi—And Where to Eat Them

The post 13 Outstanding Georgian Recipes to Cook Right Now appeared first on Saveur.

Welcome to One Pot Bangers, Benjamin Kemper’s column, where you’ll find our freshest, boldest cooking ideas that require just one pot, bowl, skillet, or sheet pan. Busy week? We’ve got you covered with these low-effort, high-reward recipes from around the globe.

As a 15-year-old exchange student living in Madrid, I couldn’t imagine anything less thrilling than the words “green beans for dinner,” but there I was at my host mom’s table—a fork in one hand, a napkin wherein to spit in the other—bracing for another round of culinary culture shock.

But despite the beans’ unsightly appearance—they seemed wholly devoid of chlorophyll—I was sold from the moment I caught a whiff of them, all garlic and pork and smoke. These were my first judías verdes rehogadas, romano beans tossed with pimentón-laced olive oil and nubs of salty jamón.

The “rehogado” part, I’d later learn, refers to the oil-alium-paprika sofrito (cooked sauce) that sizzles away while the beans are boiling. Spaniards love preparing cabbage, artichokes, and countless other vegetables this way—boiled to death (hear us out!), then flavored with sofrito—but I always come back to green beans.

This time of year, I seek out the flat, meaty romanos my host mom always cooked with, though they’re increasingly hard to come by stateside. (Regular old string beans are also traditional and work well.) Though typically a first course, I like turning these stewed beans into a satisfying meal by sliding a fried egg on top and mopping up the garlicky crimson juices with plenty of country bread.

Note: If using fresh beans, slice or snap off the stem ends, then cut into 1½-inch pieces.

The post Smoky Spanish Green Beans with Garlic and Jamón appeared first on Saveur.

“Until the 1650s there wasn’t anything remotely like distinct, codified ‘national’ cooking, anywhere,” writes Anya von Bremzen in her new book, National Dish. Those are fighting words if, say, you’re a chef specializing in “authentic” Japanese curry, an Italian American exalting the primordial Italian-ness of pizza, or a food writer (cough) publishing recipes for Thai this or French that. 

On a whirlwind tour of six cities—there’s Parisian pot-au-feu in one chapter, pizza in Naples the next—Von Bremzen celebrates the colorful histories of canonical dishes like ramen, mole, and borshch. But she also picks at their accepted narratives like a scab: Was pizza Margherita truly invented in 1889 to honor the queen of Italy, as Wikipedia and umpteen scholars would have you believe? (Spoiler: It wasn’t.) Are mezzes really Turkish, considering there was no cookbook with the term “Turkish” in its title until the 1970s? (Probably, but it’s complicated.) 

Answering these fraught questions, Von Bremzen’s prose is anything but academic—it’s as bold and richly textured as a steaming bowl of shoyu ramen. In Oaxaca, kernels of maize “glimmer like multihued amber.” In Seville, tapas are “little road signs or historical plaques, couched in the language of the plate, marking the long epic national narratives of power and politics.” 

Von Bremzen is no newcomer to the intersection of food and national identity. Born in the Soviet Union (more on that in her memoir, Mastering the Art of Soviet Cooking), she has written a potpourri of books, including Paladares: Recipes Inspired by the Private Restaurants of Cuba, Please to the Table: The Russian Cookbook, and The New Spanish Table.

National Dish reads like a lively, personal spin-off of those titles. It’s as if, after spending decades fact-checking culinary history for myriad articles and cookbooks, she finally reached her foodie “fakelore” quota and said, “That’s it, I’m calling BS.”

That frustration can be felt in the occasional rhetorical bomb—for instance, when Von Bremzen writes that many national dishes are “products of a late-capitalist cultural logic that treats identities, belonging, heritage, and origin myths as commodities subject to the rule of the marketplace.” But she’s equally quick to point out that although identities are social constructs, that fact doesn’t make them any less real or important.

Last month, I gave Von Bremzen a ring at her apartment in Queens to get a window into how she grappled with some of these sticky subjects. Here are the highlights from our conversation.

BK: How did this book idea come about?

AVB: I guess it all started with the collapse of the Soviet Union. My first book, Please to the Table: The Russian Cookbook, was about all the different cuisines that belonged to an empire. And it came out right when [the USSR] was breaking up into many countries. I hate to say it now, but the book had a sort of imperial perspective, with “Russian” in the title. Later I did this book called Greatest Dishes: Around the World in 80 Recipes, which had me researching iconic foods like pizza, risotto, and mole—and that got me thinking, gee, there’s so much material here, but in a cookbook you can only do so much. 

What is the best thing you ate while researching?

Pizza. Because who doesn’t love pizza, especially when Enzo Coccia is making it. Then there was pringá in Sevilla. It’s basically a full Andalusian cocido [meat stew], just distilled into a slider. You get four perfect bites that are the essence of Spanishness—the pimentón, the chorizo … all in a tapas-scale version. And in Mexico I loved all the different moles. Especially with the warm handmade tortillas made from heirloom maize. The way they puff on the comal. The toasty scent and earthy corn. Those tortillas—it’s like comparing mac and cheese from a box to something your Southern grandmother made. 

Tell me more about those moles. What role does mole play in Mexican culture today?

It’s everywhere. In Mexico City, you have chefs like Enrique Olvera making borderline metaphysical moles that are aged for over a year and served at different stages of maturation. What’s interesting is that mole is colonial—it represents a mix, or mestizaje, of ingredients both Spanish and native Mexican. Now, down in Oaxaca, there’s a lot of attention being paid to “indigenous” moles that have almost no Spanish elements. So you have a multiplicity of moles, not one colonial hybrid dish. 

The subtitle of National Dish is, “Around the world in search of food, history, and the meaning of home.” Did you find the meaning of home?

The book wasn’t about me, but it did make me reflect on my childhood in the USSR. Borshch, for example, represented home for me and for Russians in general, but when war broke out in Ukraine, borshch suddenly became political, with Ukraine rightly calling it theirs. I’m a ruthless cosmopolitan of sorts, so for me, “losing” borshch seemed justified. It was a way of decolonizing it from, and for, myself. Many other Russians wouldn’t agree with me, though. Home is an idea we carry inside us, but it can divide us, too. 

What was the most surprising discovery you made?

For me it was this whole story about pizza Margherita—how the dish got its name from a queen who allowed a pizza to be named after her … The claim is repeated in every academic source, yet it turns out, it’s fakelore. So many of the “traditional” dishes I looked at are actually recent inventions. For instance, people think Japanese curries from Sapporo and Hokkaido and whatnot are old, but they didn’t exist before the 1980s. 

Did researching this book change your view on cultural appropriation as it relates to food?

When we talk about cultural appropriation, we’re really talking about racial injustice and other power imbalances. I think it would be much more useful to talk about those issues directly. So, instead of “he appropriated my mofongo,” maybe it’s, “there is racial injustice in the food sector.” National identities change all the time. When most dishes were invented, current borders didn’t exist—so how can you really claim something is from Syria or Lebanon or Turkey when it was eaten under the Ottoman Empire? The philosopher Kwame Anthony Appiah says that when you treat culture like corporate property that belongs to someone, you’re not acknowledging the fluidity and complexity of cultural exchange. Nations do that with food. I wish every time we talked vaguely about cultural appropriation, there was a “donate” button, because ultimately only political action can effect change.  

In the book, there’s constant tension between universality and propriety. That a dish like pizza can be eaten everywhere, with new iterations being created all the time, and yet many claim it’s from a specific place. How do you walk that tightrope?

After writing this book, I’m much more in the universalist camp. When you start reading about this stuff, you see how recent borders are, and how histories are appropriated and mythologized for the purpose of commercial and political interests. But regardless of the actual history of a dish, what’s more important is how people feel about it. 

On that note, UNESCO recently said dolma, stuffed vegetables, were part of Azerbaijan’s cultural heritage. That didn’t sit well with Turkey and Armenia, countries that also lay claim to the dish. Are these international organizations perhaps hurting more than they’re helping?

When UNESCO gives dolma to Azerbaijan, they’re not saying the dish belongs to that culture; they’re saying they want to honor the dolma-making tradition of Azerbaijan. Of course, that’s not how it’s read. And because everything is about marketing and nation-building and place-branding, countries use these designations in promotional campaigns—not just abroad but at home as well. I think these organizations mean well, and their phrasing is ok, but it’s all very complicated. 

One of the most fascinating passages was about cucina povera, and how we get it all wrong. 

Yes. There’s this whole myth that peasant cuisine was wholesome and wonderful, but when we look at what people actually ate in Italy or France, for example, we find horror stories of scarcity, hunger, and bleak gruels. Sure, our ancestors ate more healthy whole grains, but they definitely wanted the white rice. We poo-poo white bread and industrial food now, but when they became accessible to the masses, imagine what a revolution that was. 

I was struck by the fact that American perceptions of certain food cultures often don’t jibe with reality. You mention that sake accounts for six percent of booze consumed in Japan. Beer is Spain’s alcohol of choice by a landslide, not wine. Where does this disconnect come from?

It’s natural to orientalize cultures, to imbue them with the essentialist qualities we want to see in them. When you go to Turkey, you want to see Turks eating Turkish food. So when you realize Japan has some of the best French, Italian, and hybrid food you can imagine, it’s hard to check the “authenticity” box. That’s where the cultural appropriation question comes in: What do you do when a country like Japan wants people around the world to appropriate its food? At the same time the world was falling in love with sushi, Japanese people were turning away from their traditional diet. Ironically, the success of Japanese food abroad encouraged Japanese diners and chefs to rediscover authentic local cuisines. 

What do you hope readers come away with?

I want people to understand that identity is transactional, complicated, and really important, and that food is a part of that. I hope readers will be skeptical of essentialist stories and canned bits. To recognize that food histories are dynamic and open-ended.

The post The Problem with National Dishes appeared first on Saveur.

Welcome to One Pot Bangers, Benjamin Kemper’s column, where you’ll find our freshest, boldest cooking ideas that require just one pot, bowl, skillet, or sheet pan. Busy week? We’ve got you covered with these low-effort, high-reward recipes from around the globe.

When I’m in charge of dessert but baking is the last thing I feel like doing, these dense and chewy raspberry chocolate blondies always save my skin. Something about the raspberries and almonds puts these bars in fancy-pants territory—even if the batter comes together in a single bowl. Feel free to customize this blondie recipe based on whatever’s lurking in the recesses of your cupboard: White chocolate instead of milk is a no-brainer here, or you can nix the berries and add ½ cup of toasted shredded coconut in their stead.

Note: For extra-nutty blondies, melt the butter in a small pot set over medium-high heat. Continue to cook, using a silicone spatula to stir occasionally, until it turns light amber and smells nutty, about 2 minutes more. Transfer to a heatproof bowl and cool to room temperature before using in step 2.

The post Raspberry Blondies with Chocolate and Almonds appeared first on Saveur.

In Tbilisi at this very moment, someone is pounding walnuts and garlic for bazhe, spooning cilantro-flecked filling into dumpling dough for khinkali, and dipping long strands of walnuts into saperavi syrup to make the prehistoric confection called churchkhela. 

Food ambushes you in the Georgian capital—in the best sense imaginable. One minute, you’re overtaken by the smell of sweet, buttery khachapuri wafting up from a basement bakery. The next, you’re haggling with street vendors over cherries and tarragon and sour green plums. Turn down one street, and smoke clouds your vision as pork kebabs crackle on a streetside grill. Walk up another, and the sound of glasses clinking on a restaurant patio reminds you that you’re mere miles from the birthplace of wine. 

Tbilisi is easy to love but tricky to navigate when it comes to food. Newcomers often wonder, what are the must-try dishes, and where can great versions be found? Last spring, I spent a month trying to answer those questions, letting my stomach guide my feet. Here’s where I netted out.

Cucumber and Tomato Salad at Khasheria

3 Vekua St. (Inside the Orbeliani Food Hall), +995 595 89 29 25

If there’s one thing you can bank on in Georgia, it’s that no matter where you are—city or countryside, fancy restaurant or greasy spoon—cucumber tomato salad will be on the table. At its simplest, the dish is a cool, crunchy foil to whatever hearty mains are on offer, often just sliced tomatoes and cucumbers sprinkled with parsley. More memorable versions—like the one served at star chef Tekuna Gachechiladze’s casual outpost, Khasheria—are drizzled with unrefined Kakhetian sunflower oil and add ground walnuts, sliced green chiles, and torn fresh herbs like cilantro and purple basil.

Pkhali at Shavi Lomi

28 Zurab Kvlividze St., +995 32 296 09 56

Georgia’s greatest gift to plant-based cooking is pkhali, the family of colorful vegetable spreads made with everything from spinach to leeks to beets to carrots. If it’s kicking around your vegetable drawer, you can probably pkhali [verb] it. At Shavi Lomi, a candlelit Tbilisi institution where the floorboards creak and cats roam the courtyard, you get the full pkhali experience: multiple spreads rainbowed alongside one another, plus all the traditional accoutrements (cheese, corncakes, and pickled bladdernut blossoms called jonjoli). The pkhali arrive in a gobi, or big wooden bowl, and after savoring the thrilling textures and flavors with your dinner companions, you’ll understand why gobi is the root word of megobari, or “friend.”

Tolma at Sulico Wine Bar

27 Mikheil Zandukeli St., +995 511 10 27 27

Tolma—vegetables filled with meats, grains, or a combination of the two—are a staple throughout the Caucasus region. (Controversially, in 2017 UNESCO linked the tradition to the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Azerbaijan.) In Georgia, it’s no surprise that stuffed grape leaves are the most popular variant, given the country’s outsize wine production. The tolma at Sulico are outstanding—juicy, featherlight bundles of spiced ground meat enrobed in tender (never fibrous!) grape leaves. Pan-fried just before serving until the edges are singed and wispy, they come with yogurt sauce and cinnamon sugar for sprinkling.

Khachapuri at Gunda

5 Besiki Square, +995 551 50 00 40

Khachapuri, Georgia’s indomitable cheese bread, is so ubiquitous that its average price is a national bellwether for inflation. Even gas stations sell decent khachapuri, but to wrap your mind around all the fascinating variations (historians have counted 47), head to Gunda, a new khachapuri-only restaurant that’s reviving ancient ingredients and techniques. Gunda is the sole restaurant in Tbilisi that brings in rare regional cheeses and uses only endemic Georgian flours (as opposed to the Russian or Ukrainian all-purpose stuff) in its doughs. One of those flours, made from an Imeretian wheat strain called makha, was extinct in Georgia until the owners recovered it from a Danish seed bank. Come decision time, the egg-topped, boat-shaped Adjaruli is the most ‘grammable of the lot, but don’t sleep on kotori, the little-known Tushetian flatbread filled with sheep’s-milk cottage cheese and painted with melted butter.

Beef Kharcho at Salobie Bia

17 Shota Rustaveli Ave., +995 551 92 77 22

Kharcho, a meat stew spiked with Georgia’s favorite chile condiment, ajika, is such a crowd-pleaser that it was adopted by cooks across the former Soviet Union, where it remains a mainstay from St. Petersburg to Samarkand. Some kharchos are brothy and flecked with rice, while others, like my favorite rendition served at Salobie Bia, are ultra-thick and all about the ground walnuts and spices. In a basement dining room beneath Rustaveli Avenue, Tbilisi’s maple-lined main artery, Chef Giorgi Iosava spoons the braise over creamed foxtail millet akin to polenta. The brisket and silky porridge are so delightfully soft that the combo ought to be prescribed after wisdom tooth surgery.

Lobio at Salobie (Mtskheta)

7 David Aghmashenebeli St., +995 555 67 19 77

You don’t expect to reach life-altering bean nirvana at a highway rest stop on the outskirts of town, but there I was, staring down at some of the finest Brown Food I’d ever tasted at a picnic table at Salobie. As I’d later learn, Salobie’s success is built almost entirely on beans: Day in, day out, cooks ladle the spicy stewed kidney beans into individual clay urns, topping each with a disc of homemade mchadi (griddled cornbread) that fits snugly inside the rim. Salobie’s lobio recipe is under lock and key, but in every spoonful you can taste the cilantro, marigold petals, chiles, and heaps of sweet sautéed onions.  

Khinkali at Cafe Daphna

29 Atoneli St., +995 595 69 00 11 

The only upside of the Mongols’ bloody conquest of Georgia in the 13th century is that they left behind a dumpling-making tradition that continues to this day. Khinkali are primo mountain food—caloric, hot, and deeply satisfying—but they’re also popular down in Tbilisi, where everyone has their favorite sakhinkle (dumpling and beer house). Mine is Daphna, a newcomer by the Dry Bridge flea market with inviting picture windows and millennial-pink plates. Their cilantro-forward “kalakuri” dumplings get my vote for their supple hand-rolled dough and well-spiced pork and beef filling.  

Shkmeruli at Craft Wine Restaurant

54 Egnate Ninoshvili St., +995 599 66 33 00

Fried chicken is great, but have you ever tried shkmeruli? There’s no definitive formula for the down-home Rachan dish, but the throughline is garlic—an entire head of it, in fact, cooked in butter with the chicken’s juices to make a rich, soppable sauce for the crisp poultry. Most shkmeruli recipes call for tremendous amounts of whole milk or cream, but the cooks at Craft Wine go creamless (per the original recipe, according to them) to give the chicken the spotlight. I love that they debone the bird for you, a cheffy flex that you (and your shirt) will appreciate. 

Bazhe at Ninia’s Garden

97 Dimitri Uznadze St., +995 32 219 66 69

Bazhe is a velvety, coriander-scented walnut sauce that’s a staple of Georgian home cooking. Traditionally served alongside cold boiled chicken, the condiment also plays well with grilled vegetables, meats, and fish. At hot-spot restaurant Ninia’s Garden, chef Meriko Gubeladze spoons the sauce over grilled baby eggplants and serves them as an appetizer with crusty bread. Her bazhe recipe has become my go-to—it’s lighter and tangier than most, thanks to the double whammy of acid in the form of white wine vinegar and fresh pomegranate juice. 

Ajika Ribs and Ghomi at Amra

Lisi Lake, +995 568 39 34 30

Tbilisi is such a vibrant melting pot that you can taste dishes from regions as far flung as Samegrelo on the Black Sea coast, which is known for its fiery, assertively spiced dishes like kuchmachi (offal stew), kharcho (see above), and ajika-rubbed meats. At Amra, which occupies a charming pavilion on the banks of Lisi Lake, the ajika veal ribs are a must. They come sizzling in their sauce, which you should absolutely swirl into a side order of ghomi (corn grits) or elarji.  

Chakapuli at Sasadilo Coca-Cola Dining Room

114 Akaki Tsereteli Ave.

They don’t make restaurants like Sasadilo anymore. Hiding among the bodyshops, factories, and warehouses by Didube bus terminal, this proletarian canteen has the feel of a Soviet-era stolovaya: Construction workers hunch over steaming bowls of soup, off-duty cops sip tarragon soda while leafing through the paper, and aproned waitresses zigzag around the room carrying enormous trays of grub. Based on appearances alone, you’d think the food would be mediocre at best—but then, you’d be wrong. On a recent lunch with my friend and food tour guide Paul Rimple, I couldn’t believe my taste buds when I tried Sasadilo’s chakapuli. The meat (usually lamb or beef) stew can be gristly and bland, but here it was downright invigorating, enlivened with tart green plums and a garden’s-worth of tarragon. Beware, the staff don’t speak English, and payment is cash only.  

Ajapsandali at Sofia Melnikova’s Fantastic Douqan

Stamba Dead End, +995 592 68 11 66

Not unlike ratatouille, ajapsandali is a spicy, rib-sticking vegetable stew made with eggplant, tomatoes, peppers, and fistfuls of fresh herbs. It’s kind of a culinary free-for-all—in fact, Georgians use the word ajapsandali to call something a “mess.” Though the dish is occasionally served hot, I like it better chilled, scooped onto crusty tonispuri bread and drizzled with good olive or sunflower oil. That precise combo makes an ideal light lunch at Sofia Melnikova’s Fantastic Douqan, an indoor-outdoor restaurant with a charmingly overgrown yard that plays Soundcloud techno sets as background music. 

Badrijani Nigvzit at Pictograma

31 Atoneli St., +995 595 85 71 87

Badrijani nigvzit, fried eggplant slices spread with walnut paste, is a fixture of the supra table. It’s always good, but it’s rarely great—the eggplant is easy to over- or undercook, and if you’re not careful with the spices and garlic, you’ll quickly overpower the walnuts’ delicate flavor. At Pictograma, Tbilisi’s only restaurant devoted to the cuisine of Khevsureti in northeast Georgia, let’s just say they know what they’re doing. The eggplant is meaty and melty all at once, and the walnut paste, redolent of khmeli suneli, is so fluffy it verges on a mousse. A generous flick of pomegranate seeds brings the whole dish together, adding sweetness, bite, and crunch.   

Wine at Vino Underground

15 Galaktion Tabidze St., +995 599 08 09 84 

One of the most defining features of Tbilisi’s skyline is Mother Georgia, 65-foot statue of a woman holding a sword in one hand and a cup of wine in the other—as if to say, “welcome to town, but do not mess with us.” Wine is so central to Georgian culture that even in Tbilisi, grapevines furl around apartment balconies and become homemade garage wine. But many visitors are surprised to learn that the bulk of Georgian wine is not the sublime, kvevri-fermented “amber” stuff sold in trendy wine shops around the U.S., but rather boring European-style plonk. To drink your fill of those oddball wines you won’t find anywhere else, pay a visit to Georgia’s most legendary natural wine bar, Vino Underground, which stocks cult (and often unlabeled) bottles from the country’s most experimental vintners. Keep an eye on the bar’s Instagram for winemaker-led tastings and events.   

Abkhazura at Kaklebi

Tskneti Highway, +995 557 76 00 66

It’s worth the cab ride up to Kaklebi—a hilltop restaurant with cascading terraces and multiple dining rooms—for the abkhazura alone. This meatball dish is the culinary star of the Black Sea region of Abkhazia, and it’s phenomenally fragrant with coriander, summer savory, garlic, and fenugreek. At Kaklebi, the patties come studded with barberries, whose cranberry-like acidity cuts through the richness. Before being tossed on the grill, chef Meriko Gubeladze (of Shavi Lomi and Ninia’s Garden above) wraps the abkhazura in a web of caul fat, which crisps up like bacon as the meatballs cook in the flames.  

Tkemali at Dezerter’s Bazaar (Meet Me Here Tbilisi)

5 Abastumani St., +995 593 969 985  

You can snap up all sorts of edible souvenirs at Dezerter’s Bazaar, Tbilisi’s main market—wine, chacha (brandy), spice blends, a decapitated pig’s head … But half the time, you won’t know what you’re looking at as you roam the stalls—unless you book a market tour with Tbilisi journalist and culinary tour guide Paul Rimple (whom we met at Sasadilo). Paul introduced me to Tina Nugzarashvili, who makes such killer tkemali that I always bring a bottle home. Tkemali is a puckering plum condiment that’s so ubiquitous in this part of the world that you could call it Georgian ketchup. Brimming with garlic and ground spices, it goes on everything, from fried potatoes to baked trout to mtsvadi (pork shashlik; try it at Kakhlebi). Nugzarashvili’s tkemali stands out for its kick of heat from fresh chiles and its mentholated bite from fresh pennyroyal leaves. 

Churchkhela at Badagi

4 Roman Miminoshvili St., +995 597 11 10 22

Georgians aren’t big on dessert, but if there’s one sweet that binds the nation, it’s churchkhela, a primordial power bar of sorts that’s made by repeatedly dipping strands of walnuts (or in West Georgia, hazelnuts) into thickened grape juice. After hanging to dry for a few days, the churchkhela are hardy enough to take into battle—as they historically were. Don’t trust the churchkhela sold at the airport or souvenir shops; instead, pay a visit to Badagi, a confectionery that keeps things old-school (no artificial colors or flavors). Not only does churchkhela make a striking and affordable gift for friends—sliced into coins, it also looks gorgeous on a cheese board.

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The post The 17 Essential Dishes of Tbilisi—And Where to Eat Them appeared first on Saveur.