Mohammed Farhat has been hand-rolling kibbeh for well-off Syrian housewives to serve at their parties for 50 years. He explains to Rasha Elass how he has turned his culinary expertise into a thriving family business.
A little before nine in the morning he arrives at the house, his grandson standing next to him, a couple of inches taller. Both men take off their jackets and head straight to the kitchen sink. They roll up their sleeves and scrub their hands from fingertip to elbow, like surgeons preparing for an operation.
"People like to see us scrub like this," Anas Farhat, the 23-year-old grandson later explains. "If they don't see the whole process from start to finish, some people refuse to eat the kibbeh."
Not to be confused with a kababji, someone who sells kebabs, Anas's grandfather, Mohammed Farhat, 67, is a kibabji: he rolls kibbeh into all sorts of round shapes at the behest of well-heeled housewives in Damascus. He is among the first - some of his clients claim he is the first - to turn hand-rolling kibbeh at private parties into a thriving business, one successful enough to pass on to his sons and grandsons. Business is so good that leading up to Ramadan, which is high season for fine cuisine, they are booked at least one month in advance.
In Arab society, housewives are constantly expected to throw elaborate dinner parties, often with more than a dozen dishes. And in the Levant, kibbeh is almost always on the menu. For Farhat, who is better known as Abou Ahmed the Kibabji, this means some days he has to visit two private kitchens, so he likes to start early. "Shall I come over after the morning prayer?" he asks over the phone when I first requested he come to my mother's house. Morning prayer would have been at 3.57am. We settle on nine.
I asked Abou Ahmed to come to my mother's house because in many Damascus homes the kitchen is a private area, and I did not want to invade a family's space. Also, there is much personal preference in making kibbeh: the size of the ball, the thickness of the shell, the ingredients of the stuffing and the cooking style (it can be fried, grilled, baked, stewed in tomato sauce or cooked in yoghurt). Last night, the clocks shifted forward for daylight savings and Anas looks in need of a cup of coffee. His grandfather, on the other hand, has been up since morning prayer, looking well-rested and rosy-cheeked in his business suit.
It's no surprise that one of the first things they do is ensure the customer watches them wash their hands. Hygiene conditions in restaurants are not closely monitored by authorities, so it is common in Syria to get food poisoning or other illnesses from eating out. It is not uncommon for locals to decline to eat salad in a restaurant or a stranger's home for fear it has not been washed properly. They often peel their fruit and when buying minced lamb, a family member will watch over the butcher's shoulder as the order is prepared.
So, it's a good thing Abou Ahmed is fastidious and demanding when he takes over the helm in the kitchen. "Black pepper. Where's the onion? I need a long wooden spoon. A sieve. I need a sieve. Flour? It's time to add more ice. Where's the salt shaker? It was right here! Don't worry, don't worry. Yes, we can" - the flow of commands doesn't cease. It is no wonder that housewives usually hire extra help just to keep up with him.
Hanaa Jallad, a regular customer, describes Abou Ahmed's chaos of scattered utensils and ingredients using a common local expression: "When he comes over, my kitchen floats." Cuisine of the Levant is labour-intensive and does not cater to the needs of busy working adults. Developed over centuries in kitchens where all the women of a household pitched in, recipes demand cooks with plenty of time and endurance. And kibbeh is one of the more labour-intensive dishes.
Abou Ahmed starts by mixing the ground lamb with bulghur by hand, while Anas grinds the 2lb of fat that comes in one chunk. "People these days prefer to purchase the fat separately like this. And then they add it themselves into the meat," explains Abou Ahmed. As he sautés the lamb fat with 4oz of butter, I feel my heart miss a beat. People used ghee in the past, but today cooks often use butter or oil instead, believing they will be lighter on the arteries.
The lamb fat is part of the stuffing in kibbeh mishwi, which is the grilled variety of kibbeh, along with pomegranate and sautéed ground lamb. Unlike the usual egg shape that kibbeh balls take in stewed, fried or yoghurt dishes, grilled kibbeh is domed: one side is flat and the other round. It is served piping hot, and when a guest sticks a fork in, the lamb fat should sputter out. It is absolutely delicious, but the unaccustomed stomach may struggle to digest it.
By noon prayer time, the kibabjis have rolled, stuffed and closed 75 small kibbeh balls for labaniyyeh (the yoghurt dish), 75 medium-sized balls for the fried dish and 50 for the grilled. They have also filled a large tray for siniyyeh, which is a flat, pizza-like kibbeh baked in an oven, and about a dozen kibbeh saucers on the saj oven. Kibbeh saucers are the speciality of one of Abou Ahmed's three sons, Mahmoud. For three years he has run his own "kibbeh factory" to keep up with demand, hiring six junior kibabjis from restaurants and setting up shop in an empty flat on the outskirts of Damascus.
He joins us half way through the morning, bringing his signature saj kibbeh stuffing, seasoned with just enough pomegranate paste to give it a tart edge. Since my mother does not have a saj oven in the kitchen, Mahmoud makes the saucers, stuffs them and places them in a pan to cook. They come out looking like pizza-sized UFOs. Abou Ahmed has worked with food since he was 15, after he left his home in Palestine. He has worked in the kitchens of all the iconic restaurants in Damascus, including Nadi al Sharq, al Ferdous and the Sheraton.
"I used to move around on motorcycle from one job to the next, until motorcycles became outlawed in 1989," he says, his hands busy with kibbeh. But one particular night in 1955 stands out in memory as the event that, as he puts it, got his career rolling. "Back then, we had a manual machine to grind the meat," he says, referring to when he was a sous chef in al Kamal Restaurant in Marjeh, another iconic relic. He lived at the restaurant.
"I used to hide a small piece of ground meat inside the machine, and take it out at night when everyone was gone to practise making kibbeh," he says. "One morning, the manager found the kibbeh ball I had made the night before. It was next to my mattress." Back then, the kibbeh ball was much larger than the typical one today and Abou Ahmed made them especially big, around the size a Fabergé egg. (He showed off his skills at a competition in the 1990s, where he won a prize for kibbeh with 15 balls, one inside the other.)
"The manager showed it to the owner, and the owner demanded I make one in front of him," he says. From then on, Abou Ahmed made a living rolling kibbeh for restaurants and cafeterias, including his time as main chef at the Officers' Club and the school of nursing. "At one point, I was making kibbeh for 150 nurses in training," he says. "And I used to race against time. I'd put a clock in front of me and roll. I got to making six or seven kibbeh balls per minute. And I tried to get it to be seven every minute, but I couldn't. It was always either six or seven."
Since then, his pace has slowed to three or four kibbeh balls per minute - twice the speed of an average person. And he is still known for many signature balls, including the prize-winner, which his son claims no one else can make. "The shell has to be thin enough to be translucent, just like this," Mahmoud says, holding up a freshly made example against the light. "But it can't be so thin that it breaks. No one gets it just right like he does."
Anas calls it "the bomb". Though it's no longer a popular order, some households still demand it. "Some people tell me they prefer to eat just one bomb rather than five small kibbeh balls. This way, they feel they didn't overeat," says Anas. "And they can stuff it with whatever they like. Some people put meatballs inside, some put a boiled egg or shawarma. And some people even like to stuff it with hot sauce then give it to someone to eat without telling them what's inside. You know, like a surprise."
As we discuss various kibbeh, I ask the three generations of Farhats what happens when their family has a kibbeh dinner. Who makes what? And which part is delegated to the women? They are a large family with two sons and six daughters. Except for the married daughters, they all live in one four-storey building. "In our family, the men roll the kibbeh. Not the women," says Mahmoud. "Yeah, the women just eat it," says Anas.
To make the kibbeh shell, use "hard" meat such as beef or mutton. An Arab butcher should know the best cut. Make sure it's lean because fat will make the shell too soft. Ingredients for kibbeh shell: 1/2 kg meat 1/2 kg soft bulghur (do not use the coarse variety) 1 large white onion 1 tbsp flour 1 tbsp cornflour Salt and pepper Mince all ingredients together twice to ensure a good mix. If you can still see the bulghur grains or feel them by hand after mincing, then you need to run it a third time through the mincer. Set aside in the refrigerator. You can use it right away or refrigerate for another day. Do not freeze. Ingredients for kibbeh stuffing: 1/2 kg minced lamb 1 onion 2 tbsp pine nuts Cooking oil Pinch of cinnamon Salt and pepper Sauté the pine nuts and set aside. Chop the onion into very fine pieces, then sauté. Add the minced lamb until it's cooked. Turn off the heat then add the pine nuts and mix gently. Now you can choose your kibbeh style. Take a small piece of kibbeh shell, then fill the shell with some of the stuffing. Siniyyeh is the simplest and least time-consuming. Serve it with a salad, lentil soup and baba ghannoush, and it's guaranteed to leave a lasting impression.
