Ah, I love a leading question. Vache and I talked ahead of time about what he wanted to cover, and this was a biggie.
Vache gives a knowing smile. “Right. On its face, it’s just a cooking class. You can go to Sur La Table any day and learn how to make cioppino. But this event is more than following a series ofsteps. Armenian food isn’t simply food, it’s a testament to tradition passed on through the generations where our ancestors used ingredients they were cultivating and connected to. It’s all about the shared tradition, people coming together to create and eat. Our food stands for survival and is a stand against cultural erasure. The fact that there are thirty young Armenians here, learning from an expert, means they are honoring their ancestors’ survival. Armenians being together, learning, and continuing to pass on traditions is an act of resistance. We are using sacred recipes from our ancestral lands we cannot access.”
Damn. I’ve got chills. I’ve heard some version of this before, but I don’t know, coming from Vache right now it feels more immediate and important. Plus, this segment is going to be killer, and my whole body is buzzing with that adrenaline I get when I know I’ve got a good story. It’s not breaking news, but in a way I like that better; it allows me to take my time with my interviews and think about the story as a whole instead of rushing something out based on gut reactions. I quiet down to listen to and record Vartouhi as she explains what we’re making today.
In English, smattered with accidental Armenian (since not everyone speaks Armenian), she begins, “On the menu today is ‘football’ kufte, mutabel, and sarma.” Her accent is strong, her words precise, each coming out with a point. “First, the football kuftes. They are so named because of their oblong diamond shape and color.”
And they are absurdly delicious. If sini kufte is a pain to make, these are their feisty younger siblings. They’re smaller, and it’s wickedly tricky to keep their shape while baking or frying. No one in my family makes them; when they appear on the table at family gatherings, it’s because they were purchased from anArmenian caterer or market in LA. So it should be especially cool to learn any tricks from master Vartouhi.
“Mutabel is next. It is spicy, smoky eggplant dip. Usually appetizer.”
My great-uncle Varouj’s second wife used to make it for us, but since she passed on (RIP), neither her warm presence nor her excellent mutabel has appeared at any family functions.
“Next is sarma. We will be making a rrrrreal sarma.” Her trill on herRis so long I get sucked into her words, like, hell yeah, it’s going to be real. “In America they call sarma ‘dolma,’ from the Greek tradition. But ninety-nine percent of American dolma eaters have not tasted the deliciousness of the true sarma.” Her finger is raised along with her voice, like she is sharing a great injustice in the world. Then she quiets. With a slyness, she says, “I teach you how to make.”
It’s true. The kinds I’ve gotten in stores are dry and unseasoned and make you feel like you’re chewing cud. When an Armenian cook makes them, they are so limp from oil and lemon juice that they can fall apart in your hands. Authentic sarmas are stuffed full of complex sweet and savory spices. I’m stoked that I get to see this demonstration live.
The class begins and I roam the room, watching, taking photos, filming (always with permission of course). Vartouhi’s commands are followed by the skittering of knives, participants’ heads focused on their work or peeking at their neighbors. I ask Vartouhi if I can take a photo of her station and post a great colorful food shot to Instagram, the grape leaves being the centerpiece.
I get so swept up I forget I’m here to pick up guys. Uh, who was supposed to be here again? Mom wanted me to meet some PhD guy. The room is open, and there aren’t too many men, so Ieasily spot him. He’s tall, with dark eyes and hair, pleasant looking. He has a look of kindness about him, but I can tell by the way he’s moving and talking, very loose and almost floppy, that I’m probably not going to be physically attracted to him. I’ll do a drive-by and confirm.
He’s mashing up smoked eggplant and chatting with a cute woman next to him. “You know the eggplant emoji right? Think about what I’m doing right now. Ouch. Ouch! I’m dying by proxy.”
He contorts his face into cartoonish pain, and I turn right around and walk away. Besides, his companion is tittering at his joke, so they seem well matched.
Wanting a conversational sorbet, I head back over to my group. Feels a bit presumptuous to assume they’remygroup, but none of them have made me feel otherwise. I’m putting away my phone, aka my fancy news camera, for a break from filming when I pick up on Arek saying to Erebuni, “Wait, Sheila works at Cloudbase now? Your ex. The one who was always trying to sell us that shit weed. I’m going to track her down and offer her a bag of oregano.”
Hold on. He’s talking about Erebuni’s ex?Her? Sheila?
Erebuni lifts the food processor full of the beige concoction and scoops mutabel onto a plate. “Please don’t. I haven’t talked to her in almost a decade. The news just popped up on LinkedIn.”
Yes,her. I take a step back. She’s not straight. She’s not straight. She’s not straight. She’s scraping the sides of the processor, flicking every last drop of the food into the white ceramic bowl, which makes me think she’s a perfectionist, and also, wow, she’s not straight. She’s rolled up the long sleeves of her lace cardigan so they don’t get dirty, and the plain beige apron she has on over herwitchy outfit makes her all the more darling, like she’s brewing up a sweet charm. And part of me wants to step in and wave and say, “Me, too. I am also not straight, Erebuni.” The second I think that, I know I need to cool it.
Then she turns to face me because, oh yeah, I’ve been hovering behind them for, like, thirty seconds. I smile in a way I hope conveys friendly, casual, and not as if world-shattering information has just been conveyed. As I inch closer, my neck aches like I pulled a minor muscle, because I’ve been standing so stick-straight trying to drown everything out and absorb their conversation.
Arek flashes me a smile, then continues, “Which team’s she on? Customer happiness?”
Erebuni has a pinch of chopped parsley in her hand, and she dusts it over the mutabel. Erebuni’s mouth twists. “Sales.”
Arek chortles; he’s practically choking. “Once a salesman always a salesman. At least she’s got a better product now, if I can humbly say that.”
I know Arek is just jibing her, but Erebuni looks a tad uncomfortable. Like, her complexion got wan, and I wonder if it’s because I’m there and we’re talking about specific inside jokes from the past, or if it’s because she’s not out (which, I mean, neither am I) and she’s worried people will hear. Probably not that since Arek is one of her best friends and wouldn’t do something so horrible. Or the worst option, which is that this woman is a gorgeous goddess who broke Erebuni’s heart, and she’s still in love with her after all these years. I instantly hate Sheila.
I step closer, “Ready for your close-up?”
She places a couple of pomegranate kernels atop the appetizer, and it looks super professional. Kind of rude of me since I justasked her a question, but I say, “That’s beautiful. You’re great at styling food. You should show off your skills on Instagram.”
Yep. Planted the Instagram seed because she hasn’t accepted my request and hasn’t followed me, and I am dying to find out what’s happening without being a creeper and asking, “Why aren’t you following me yet?”
“I barely use it. Oh—” Her face shifts to something of remorse. “You gave me your info, right? Sorry, it slipped my mind.”
That wave of shame washes right over me, like I am being so obvious about Instagram. Pathetic. It feels like she’s sayingIslipped her mind, though I know that’s not true; she texted me the day after we met. I make some noises and words like “Oh, no, it’s not... you know.”
Erebuni lowers her voice. “And you’re sure you want to interview me? Like I said, I didn’t take the lead in organizing this event, it was mostly Kiki. I’m sure she’d love to be on camera.” Erebuni tilts her head toward this Kiki.
Karoline Kassabian, aka Kiki, is the head of Explore Armenia. A handsome woman, she might be called, in her midforties with thick, banquet-ready hair and fingers fettered by diamonds. Today she’s sporting a chartreuse blouse that I’d be nervous to get stained, but what does it matter to her? She’s probably got another ten like it. She’s around in the community, and I vaguely know of her, though not enough to say hi (thank God). She’s sipping a glass of white wine and gesturing to one of her friends’ mutabels and saying something that reads from across the room like a mean joke.
I also get the feeling, based on the way Erebuni spatKiki, that the two of them do not get along. I wonder if it’s more than just their different vibes.
