Cypriana: Vibrant recipes inspired by the food of Greece & Cyprus

YOGURT & PITA

yiaourti kai pita

Both yogurt and pita are synonymous with Greek and Cypriot cuisines and an everyday staple. Though styles may vary slightly from country to country, region to region and household to household, they are all, in essence, just simple recipes of humble origin that are still as popular today as they were thousands of years ago. I find a romance in making both, following processes that are as old as Greek civilization itself, and then finally devouring the fruits of my labour and tasting a little bit of history.

I am sharing the recipes I use at home here. You’ll notice in the yogurt recipe I give very precise temperatures, which is something I fundamentally dislike doing... But I’ve made it a ton of times and rarely hit them exactly, so don’t be put off as a little variation is okay. Also, as a rule, the longer you leave your yogurt fermenting, the sharper it will taste; personally, I think about 5 hours is good, but it is up to you.

Pita for me is synonymous with family barbecues and it almost feels as vital to proceedings as the charcoal! A little insider knowledge: if you ever find yourself at a Greek barbecue, keep a look out for a conspicuous-looking kitchen towel that’s warm to the touch with yeast-scented steam seeping out... that is where you’ll find the pita!

HOMEMADE YOGURT

spitiko yiaourti

Making your own yogurt is extremely easy and surprisingly satisfying. To kick-start the process, I use yogurt with ‘live active cultures’. Besides being good for you, they also do the job of speeding up the fermentation process.

2 litres/quarts full-fat/whole milk

70 g/⅓ cup active live natural/plain yogurt

a thermometer

MAKES ABOUT 750 G/3½ CUPS

Warm the milk in a large saucepan to just under boiling point; do this slowly to avoid a grainy textured yogurt. Keep stirring to avoid it burning at the bottom of the pan. You want the thermometer to read about 93°C/200°F. Once you’ve hit that temperature, remove from the heat and let it cool to about 45°C/115°F.

Mix 250–500 ml/1–2 cups of the warm milk into the yogurt, and then tip the lot back into the pan with the rest of the milk and whisk. Cover with a lid and let it ferment for about 5 hours at 43°C/110°F. You can do this in the oven with the light on or in a warm spot in the kitchen.

After the 5 hours is up, transfer the pan to the fridge to cool and set. Once chilled, decant it into a sterilized jar and it will keep for a couple of weeks. If this regular yogurt doesn’t float your boat and you want something more unctuous, then I suggest you go Greek! Which is just a simple case of straining... Line a colander with some muslin/cheesecloth, pour in the yogurt, tie the ends of the cloth and put the colander in a saucepan in the fridge. Leave for 1–2 hours until you have thick and creamy yogurt.

LEAVENED FLATBREAD

pita

Light, fluffy Cypriot-style pita is traditionally thinner and cooked until the steam inside puffs up and creates a stuffable pocket. To keep these supple, envelop them in a kitchen towel while they are still hot from the oven.

400 g/3 cups plain/all-purpose flour, plus extra for dusting

a 7-g/¼-oz. sachet dried active yeast

2 generous pinches of sugar

2 generous pinches of salt

2 tablespoons olive oil

250 ml/1 cup warm water

MAKES 8

Preheat the oven to 230°C (450°F) Gas 8 with a baking sheet inside.

Sift 340 g/2½ cups of the flour into a mixing bowl and add the yeast, sugar and salt. Mix briefly. Drizzle over the olive oil and pour in the warm water. Gently mix everything together into a 'shaggy mess' with a wooden spoon. Knead this 'mess' for about 5 minutes. If it’s too sticky, add the remaining flour and keep kneading until fully incorporated. Once the dough has a springy texture, pop it in a lightly oiled bowl and cover with a kitchen towel. Leave for at least 45 minutes and up to 2 hours to rise; it should double in size and be extremely light and aerated. Knock the air out of it and divide into 8 balls. Flatten with the palm of your hand, cover with a damp cloth and let rest for 15 minutes. Roll each ball to 5 mm/¼ inch thick, quickly place the pitas onto the hot baking sheet and back into the oven as quickly as possible to avoid losing heat. Once puffed up with steam, they are done.

UNLEAVENED FLATBREAD

pita horis mayia

Unleavened bread is made without any raising agents, such as yeast, so this recipe couldn’t be easier or quicker. These Greek-style pitas are soft and pliable and great for wrapping around meats and salad.

215 g/1 cup Greek yogurt

260 g/2 cups plain/all-purpose flour, plus extra for dusting

1 tablespoon olive oil

salt butter, for cooking

MAKES 6

Add the yogurt, flour and olive oil to a bowl with a pinch of salt, and mix with a wooden spoon to combine everything.

Then knead with your hands until a soft dough ball appears. It will seem too dry at first, but persevere, and add a little more yogurt or flour if needed.

Cut the dough into six pieces. Roll out each piece to 5 mm/¼ inch thick. I usually fry these in a frying pan/ skillet on a medium heat in a little butter (but you can use dash of olive oil if you like) for a couple of minutes on each side.

Once cooked, wrap in a kitchen towel to keep warm or let them cool; either way they’re great.

TIP If you want more gyro-style flatbreads but don’t have the time (or inclination) to make pitas from scratch, you can add a heaped teaspoon of baking powder to the flour in this recipe at the start; it won’t officially be unleavened but is a good ‘cheat’ to know!

MEZE

MEZE

meze

We have all come together to eat, family and friends, a sacred occasion but not a rare one. This time the congregation is eating out at a local taverna, one of many in North London, amidst the Cypriot community living in the neighbourhood. The word taverna is derived from the latin taberna which can mean inn, shop, shed or even workshop and I rather like the romantic notion that the latter is exactly what it is. A cook’s workshop, where they can fine-tune their offerings for their dining guests’ pleasure. Nothing too pretentious, just good food cooked in a traditional way.

We enter the taverna and walk to the table, all of us urgently strategizing where to sit – you only have a few seconds so the pressure is immense. Yiayias and papous have an automatic rank of seniority that only comes with age and instantly dictates their seats but the young (basically the army privates of any Greek family) who have not yet earned their stripes are not given a choice. The old with the old, the young with the young. If you procrastinate too long you may get a seat in the wrong division, but that’s okay – you’ll jump to another one as soon as a call of nature leaves it free. Conversation starts to warm up as the piles of charred pitas arrive along with an array of colourful whipped dips and bowls of glossy olives. Once we are all settled in, a second wave of dishes appears; small plates, some steaming hot, some chilled, all delicious. I hear the music from Zorba the Greek playing in the background (and briefly wonder if it’s just in my own head) as the animated conversation around me reaches a crescendo and plate after plate of lovingly made food continues to appear on the table in front of us.

As the bottom of each plate starts to peep through, a waiter discreetly slips it under another full one and another wave of mezedes hits the table. This time the scent of the ocean arrives with it: deep-fried calamari, octopus, grilled fish, an aquatic precursor to the meats. Lemons are juggled across the table, pinches of salt scattered across dishes, the concept of eating together is not contrived, it’s just the way it is done. Soon the smell of charcoal, charred lamb and rich stews meanders through the air, making the carnivores salivate as if the previous hours of food hadn’t existed. Then the meats arrive, again as before, small dishes, rich in flavour and just enough to share with a little left over. More pitas are ordered, wine glasses are topped up – kids sneak a sip whenever the watchful eyes of the higher-ranking family members wander. Heated debate, that to an outsider might sound like a family intervention, is just the whispering of sweet nothings for us, and I am guessing it’s the same for all the other Greek and Cypriot families as well.

There comes a point when the food slows, empty dishes and plates start to disappear from the table and the unconscious hankering for something sweet is satisfied when a selection of bite-sized desserts arrive. Baklava, glyko – one or two bites is just enough to sate the need for sugar and are washed down with a strong Greek coffee and a shot of zivania (a clear Cypriot brandy). So what makes a meze? Simply put, it is small plates, any of your choosing, brought to the table on what appears to be a conveyor belt of food – the only criteria is that you have good company to share it with. The food is, of course, divine, but we all know it’s not really about that... it’s about the family, the friends, the conversation and the human connections. Philosophizing, making controversial statements designed to raise embarrassed laughter, debating about life, love and the world with a little local gossip thrown in for good measure – you know, all the important stuff in life. To share food is to create a bond and the tradition of breaking bread is as old as time itself with one purpose; to build relationships. So many cultures have their own tradition of small shared plates from Spanish tapas and Venetian cicchetti to Moroccan kemia. Sometimes it is as simple as a small selection of nibbles to be grazing on with a glass of wine at sunset, sometimes it is a substantial feast eaten as a meal, but there are no rules other than to enjoy the food, the company and yourself!

SEA BREAM & WATERMELON CEVICHE

me ceviche karpouzi

On hot afternoons in w, sometimes I’d be quietly lazing about, with only the scent of the sun-kissed earth between the lemon trees and sound of the waves meandering through the air for company... Suddenly I’d hear shouts of ‘Karpouzi! Karpouzi!’ as a gravelly voiced old farmer drove through the village in an open-top trailer piled high with watermelons. But I didn’t mind being startled and falling off my chair... they were damn good watermelons. My ceviche is inspired by those moments and the memory of eating the sweet fruit with the juices running down my chin and the salty breath of the sea.

1 sea bream fillet (120 g/4¼ oz.)

1 garlic clove

freshly squeezed juice of 2 lemons

70 g/2½ oz. watermelon, flesh diced into 1.25-cm/½-inch cubes

20 g/¾ oz. red onion, finely diced

1 teaspoon finely diced fresh red chilli/chile

a generous pinch of freshly chopped coriander/cilantro leaves

1 tablespoon olive oil

salt

crisply toasted pita bread, to serve

SERVES 2 AS AN APPETIZER OR 4 AS MEZE

If it isn’t already prepared, prepare the fish fillet by skinning and deboning it, and cutting away the darker meat that runs lengthways along the fish where the skin was. The easiest way to do this is, once the fillet is skinned and deboned, simply turn it over (skinned-side up) and cut a ‘v’ lengthways along the middle. Once done, cut the flesh into 1.25-cm/½-inch cubes.

Gently crush the garlic clove to just break the shell but keep the clove whole, more or less.

Add the garlic, cubed fish and lemon juice to a bowl, ensuring the fish is completely covered by the lemon juice. Let it ‘cook’ for 15 minutes, by which time it will have turned opaque.

Remove the fish from the lemon juice, shaking off any excess liquid, and place the fish in a clean bowl (reserving the liquid). Add the watermelon, red onion, chilli and coriander a little at a time, tasting to ensure the flavour is evenly balanced. Once done, add the olive oil, a pinch of salt and a teaspoon of the reserved lemon liquid.

Serve immediately. It goes well with some crisply toasted pita bread.

TIP You can substitute sea bream with sea bass. Always ensure you use the freshest fish possible.