In 2017, while wandering around the Japanese town of Hakone, not too far from Mt Fuji, I stumbled upon a man making noodles in the window of a non-descript restaurant in a tiny alleyway. Armed with what I can only describe as a super-sized baseball bat (and I mean super-sized, because at one point he sat and bounced on it to complete his task), the man pounded high piles of dough I later consumed in gyoza and soup, relishing the taste and freshness of something that barely made a dent in my travel budget.
Mesmerised by the sheer intensity of the task and the look of complete concentration on the man’s face, I started chatting to the owner of the restaurant, who informed me that he was a Chinese immigrant, serving dishes that were an amalgamation of his own heritage dishes and those of his adopted homeland. I left his restaurant full and contented, and now, four years later, I still think about the effort required in noodle making.
In some ways, the monumental task of making noodles mirrored the preparing the Lebanese dishes I had grown up with as a child. My earliest memories are of the preparation involved in catering my Aunty’s wedding in our Lebanese village in the early 90s. This was a time when Lebanese parties were still somewhat traditional and modest in nature – before reception venues, motorcycle convoys and exorbitant décor. The women in the family gathered in the kitchen of my grandparents’ home for days before the ceremony, making food out of ingredients piled high in bowls that were literally big enough to bathe in. I learned then that our food was arduous to make, and yet, it was never not made with passion or love, no matter who it was being served to.
I learned then that our food was arduous to make, and yet, it was never not made with passion or love, no matter who it was being served to.
My experience in Japan many years later reminded me of those days, and highlighted something I had never before recognised: that classism and attitudes to otherness can dictate what dishes remain cheap and convenient regardless of what it took to make them, simply because of who was making them, and where.
Eat your way around Sydney and you might recognise this too: ‘ethnic’ or ‘immigrant’ dishes are offered at multiple price points, but those price points don’t always reflect ‘worth’. What they might reflect however, is a hierarchal attitude to foreign cultures where European foods are priced significantly higher than those of more ‘ethnic’ nations. After all, cacio e pepe (literally cheese and pepper spaghetti) and Steak Frites (steak and fries, and yes, I know that some steaks are worth more than others) don’t require any more time or effort than much-cheaper serves of dumplings with their intricate folds or Levantine pastries with their multi-step processes.
And on the off chance that we do see these dishes on a high-end menu, they’re often through the lens of an artisanal reinterpretation of the classic by a Western-trained chef, or at least, recreated and served in a way that differs from their humbler origins. After all, hummus can’t be worth much unless it is and to the migrant communities who built their lives on it, could it?
Although Sydney has embraced a few high-end Levantine venues, the majority of Levantine dishes are still budget in nature, and people seem to expect this.
Although Sydney has embraced a few high-end Levantine venues, the majority of Levantine dishes are still budget in nature, and people seem to expect this. Ditto the cuisines of other nations – Vietnamese, Chinese, Thai. But hospitality is paramount in Levantine culture, and while we’d readily give food away for free, it’s also food that is embedded with a value that isn’t always recognised.
It’s the kind of food that takes considerable effort and much preparation. Men and women tend to vines with adoration and precision, old ladies spend their energies working arthritic hands around spiced and grounded meat to mould kibbe, and hours are spent devoted to the art of the perfect sambousik fold in order to balance its filling. Zucchinis are hollowed only to be restuffed, eggplants are slow-cooked only to be pureed, and vine leaves are rolled and wound into circular patterns so that they are served in style out of the stockpot.
Last week I joined my friend, the artist, writer and advocate Amani Haydar, for brunch in Bankstown, in south-western Sydney. We shared a plate of Fatteh, a Levantine dish of cooked chickpeas layered between pieces of crispy fried Lebanese bread and creamy yoghurt sauce, drizzled with melted butter and finished with a topping of lightly toasted nuts and a sprinkle of vibrant pomegranate seeds. It was a delight to behold, expertly-stacked together so that it could nourish my eyes as well as my belly.
Fatteh, a Levantine dish of cooked chickpeas layered between pieces of crispy fried Lebanese bread and creamy yoghurt sauce. Source: Sarah Ayoub
I wonder if we’ve realised that ethnic food serves multiple purposes. Foodies salivate over traditional fare, if my conversations with people over the years are anything to go by, and the more traditionally it’s made, the better. But would they pay for the time, care and effort that goes into these intricate dishes? While there’s no one to blame here, it’s certainly a topic to chew over.
Sarah Ayoub is a freelance writer and author. Follow her on Twitter at
