Pomegranate Soup Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Praise

  prologue

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  epilogue

  pomegranate soup

  a conversation with marsha mehran

  suggested further reading

  questions and topics for discussion

  Copyright Page

  praise for

  pomegranate soup

  “The recipes Mehran weaves effortlessly into the text add to the novel’s delight and depth, as does her pitch-perfect ear for Irish intonations.” —Newsday

  “A stylish entry into the food-lit lineup.” —Good Housekeeping

  “Vibrantly alive and populated with rich characters, this is a delicious first novel flavored generously with Persian spices and Irish temperaments. Marsha Mehran writes with a deft hand and a sparkling imagination.”

  —AMULYA MALLADI, author of Serving Crazy with Curry

  “The writing in this lyrical debut is matched only by the delicious Persian recipes woven throughout.” —More magazine

  “Marsha Mehran describes the food in mouthwatering detail—with a dash of magical realism.” —Chicago Tribune

  “Heart- and stomach-warming . . . Mehran’s lighthearted voice will win readers over.” —Kirkus Reviews

  “These characters come to life; they’re as uniquely simple or as deeply complex as the dishes that eldest sister Marjan concocts. . . . Personal demons and questioned loyalties play out like a movie on the page (think Joanne Harris’s Chocolat), making the reader feel like an eye-witness to all the events. A satisfying summer read or book club pick; highly recommended.” —Library Journal

  “To give the reader a better appreciation for the pivotal role of food in the novel, Mehran includes recipes for some Iranian specialties. . . . Stark contrasts between the sisters’ lives in Iran and Ireland and between the Irish and Persian cultures energize Mehran’s tale.”

  —Booklist

  “Pomegranate Soup, a delightful debut novel, goes from Iran to Ireland and catches the flavors of both cultures through unforgettable scenes and characters. The three Aminpour sisters enchant us with their optimism and aroma of pomegranate soup, lingering beyond the pages.”

  —NAHID RACHLIN, author of Foreigner and Veils

  “A wonderful treat, a flavorful, rich little dish . . . Mehran has an unerring eye for detail, and she applies it well to her description of the three sisters. . . . Even non-cooks . . . will be beguiled by Pomegranate Soup’s zest for life.” —BookPage

  For Christopher, always

  Everyone knows,

  everyone knows

  we have found our way

  Into the cold, quiet dream of phoenixes:

  we found truth in the garden

  In the embarrassed look of a nameless flower,

  and we found permanence

  In an endless moment

  when two suns stared at each other.

  I am not talking about timorous whispering

  In the dark.

  I am talking about daytime and open windows

  and fresh air and a stove in which useless things burn

  and land which is fertile

  with a di ferent planting

  and birth and evolution and pride.

  I am talking about our loving hands

  which have built across nights a bridge

  of the message of perfume

  and light and breeze.

  —FORUGH FARROKHZAD

  “CONQUEST OF THE GARDEN”

  prologue

  DAWN ROSE OVER CLEW BAY and the small Irish village of Ballinacroagh. Had Thomas McGuire stopped to admire the fanfare of saffron rays, he might have missed the beginning of the end of his rule over the sleepy seaside town. But as was often the case with men of his temperament, Thomas had little time for daydreams. The obstinate businessman had charged out of his hard bed at five-thirty that morning, determined as ever to tend to his growing empire of three pubs, two spirit shops, and one inn on Main Mall.

  The Mall’s slowly winding medieval street began with the greasy Blue Thunder chip and burger shop, and ended with a dusty fourteenth-century church and monolithic memorial to Saint Patrick in the town’s square. In between lay the usual combination of pubs, Clarks shoe store, religious relics shop, and Aran sweater and souvenir shop that one has come to expect of Hibernian towns situated in the shadows of Mother Nature’s handiwork. Unable to rival the glory of millennial sedimentation and ancient Celtic causeways, such places are happy just to exist on the peripheries with a bland shrug to improvement, for why even try? In Ballinacroagh the natural phenomena are dominated by Croagh Patrick, or the Reek, upon whose perch Saint Patrick had nestled for forty days and forty nights. The solitary mountain sits solemn and monkish, shadowing the village clustered at its base, its weary soul no longer fascinated by the sprawling valley of patchwork fields, stone-bordered lanes, and human folly taking place on Main Mall below.

  The first day of spring 1986 found Thomas McGuire standing on Ballinacroagh’s main street, shuddering in his boots from the bleak morning drizzle. The burly bar owner had just opened the cellar doors to Paddy McGuire’s, the moth-ridden public house he had inherited over twenty years ago from his father. Paddy’s untimely death in a tractor accident had made a then nineteen-year-old Thomas the youngest pub owner Ballinacroagh, if not the whole of County Mayo, had ever known. Such early dominion over the town’s favorite watering hole had, unfortunately, brought out the worst in the young man’s already volatile temperament. Thomas’s ill nature was the product of an undetermined mixture of sard (cold) and garm (hot), which nothing—not even Marjan’s famously equalizing recipe for tart pomegranate soup—could remedy. Not only was this lethal combination of humors the catalyst for countless irrationalities but it also left him poorly equipped to deal with the sensuous wafts of cardamom, cinnamon, and rosewater that, this very morning, were blowing his way.

  The smell first hit Thomas McGuire as he was directing the underpaid Guinness man down into the pub’s freezing cellar. Its spicy, sinful intonations reeked of an unknown evil, a godforsaken foreignness that set off alarm bells in Thomas’s large potato head and froze him to his spot. It was not until the Guinness man, Conor Jennings, also paused to catch a sniff of the air that Thomas realized the strange scent was very real indeed.

  “Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph. If that doesn’t smell like heaven I don’t know what does, then.” Conor leaned against the keg trolley and snorted through his pug nose. A forty-year-old bachelor who still lived with his thrifty mother, Conor had just come from a disappointing breakfast of watered-down tea (bag used repeatedly) and a rasher sandwich on buttered, day-old bread. As he stood there sniffing, his ample stomach gave a long, mutinous growl.

  Thomas scowled. “You’ll be seeing heaven sooner than you think if you don’t get yer fat arse back in there and finish the stock! Go on with you then, and stop wasting my time. Or would you rather I give Seamus O’Grady a call? I’m sure he’d like to hear how one of his routemen is doing.”

  It was a particularly harsh slap, even for Thomas McGuire, and Conor’s face flushed a deep pink as he hauled another keg from his van. Grumbling under his breath, he disappeared down the cellar steps, leaving the pub owner alone to investigate the source of the scent. T
homas’s awakened nose led him next door, to the run-down store that used to be the old Delmonico pastry shop, Papa’s Pastries. The Delmonicos had moved into town from Naples shortly after the Second World War and had operated the same doughy shop on Main Mall for over three decades. But ever since Luigi Delmonico’s death five years ago, the shop had been an empty shell, deserted and collecting dust. Or rather it used to be empty. Because, bleary-eyed as he was, Thomas could not deny the curious glint of light that was shining through the shop’s newspapered windows.

  The light grew brighter as he crept closer to the old pastry place, the dense, exotic aroma causing his stocky knees to quiver like a shy schoolboy’s. Thomas squinted through a small tear in the newspaper, half-expecting to confront the devil himself, but saw instead the glitter of something golden, a bright obscenity that occupied his entire field of vision.

  The surly drinks baron growled and spat on the cracked sidewalk below the shop’s red door. It was pure witchcraft, that was what. No doubt about it. And he was going to find out exactly who was behind it all.

  dolmeh

  30–40 canned grape leaves

  2 onions, chopped

  1⁄2 pound ground meat, lamb or beef

  Olive oil

  1⁄3 cup fresh summer savory

  1⁄2 cup fresh dill

  1⁄3 cup fresh tarragon

  1⁄4 cup fresh mint

  2 cups cooked basmati rice

  1⁄2 cup fresh lime juice

  1 teaspoon salt

  1⁄2 teaspoon ground black pepper

  Rinse grape leaves and lay aside. Fry onions and meat in olive oil over medium flame until meat is brown. Add chopped herbs to pan and fry for 3 minutes. Remove from heat. In a large bowl, combine the meat, onion, and herb mixture with rice, lime juice, salt, and pepper. Lay one grape leaf, vein side up, on a clean surface. Place one tablespoon of rice and meat mixture in middle of leaf, then roll from the base up, tucking the sides to form a tight pocket. Repeat until all leaves are stuffed. Line a greased deep baking dish with stuffed leaves, pour in 3⁄4 cup of water, cover with foil, and bake in oven at 220°F for 45 minutes.

  chapter one

  FOR MARJAN AMINPOUR, the fragrances of cardamom and rosewater, alongside basmati, tarragon, and summer savory, were everyday kinds of smells, as common, she imagined, as the aromas of instant coffees and dripping roasts were to conventional Western kitchen corners.

  Despite having been born in a land of ancient deserts, where dry soil mingled with the crumbled remains of Persepolian pillars, Marjan had a great talent for growing plants. She had learned from an early age how to tempt the most stubborn seedlings to take root, even before she could spell their plant names in Farsi. Guided by the gentle hands of Baba Pirooz, the old bearded gardener who tended the grounds of her childhood home, young Marjan cultivated furry stalks of marjoram and golden angelica in dark mounds of earth. The dirt drew its moisture from melted mountain snow, which trickled down from the nearby Alborz into Tehran’s wealthier suburbs, before flowing into the Aminpours’ large octagonal fountain. Bubbling at the center of the walled garden, the pool was lined with turquoise and green Esfahani tiles.

  While Marjan trained her eye to spot the first yellow buds of tarragon, or to catch a weed’s surreptitious climb up the stalk of a dill plant, Baba Pirooz would recount the long line of celebrated gardeners who had been born on Persian soil. “Avicenna,” Baba Pirooz began, clearing his throat, “Avicenna was the most famous plant lover of them all. Did you know, Marjan Khanoum, that this wise physician was the first man ever to make rosewater? He squeezed the soft petals for their oils then bottled the precious liquid for the world to enjoy. What a Persian, what a man!” the old gardener would exclaim, pausing only long enough in his lectures to ignite the strawberry tobacco he smoked in a knobby little pipe.

  As an adult, Marjan carried the warm memories of Baba Pirooz and her childhood garden with her wherever she went. Not a day passed by that she was not on the lookout for some mound of soil to plunge her fingers into. Using her bare knuckles, engraved with terra-cotta dust and mulch, she would massage her chosen herb or flower into the soil’s folds, whispering loving encouragements along the way. And no matter how barren that slice of earth had been before, once Marjan gave it her special attention, there was no limit to all that could blossom within its charged chambers.

  In the many places she had lived—and there had been quite a few in her twenty-seven years—Marjan had always planted a small herb garden, consisting of at least one stem each of basil, parsley, tarragon, and summer savory. Even in the gloomy English flats she and her sisters had occupied for the last seven years since leaving Iran, Marjan had successfully grown a rainbow of cooking herbs in the blue ceramic flowerpots lining her kitchen windowsill. Always the consummate professional, she could not be tempted to give up planting by any amount of rain.

  Marjan tried to keep her past perseverance in mind now as she stood in the old pastry shop’s kitchen mixing a second batch of dolmeh stuffing. She wished she’d had more time to cultivate a healthy ensemble of fresh tarragon, mint, and summer savory to add to the dolmeh that she and her younger sisters, Bahar and Layla, were making. Perhaps if she had planted something here in Ballinacroagh, she could have avoided the anxieties that were now creeping up her spine. But then, Marjan reminded herself, it was best not have such regrets, especially when she couldn’t do anything about them. There was still one more batch of the stuffed grape leaves to go—not to mention a half dozen other mouth-watering delicacies—and Time, that cantankerous old fool, was not on her side.

  The Babylon Café was set to open in less than five hours. Five hours! In this new town whose name she could hardly pronounce, let alone spell. Ballinacroagh. Ba-li-na-crow. A whole town full of people who would come to taste her fares with questioning eyes and curious tongues. And unlike her other stints in the kitchen, this time she would be responsible for everything.

  Marjan’s heart quickened as she browned the ground meat and onions together over the low, dancing flame. The satisfied pan hissed as she introduced dried versions of her precious herbs, the only sort she had been able to buy at such late notice. Even in Iran, there had been times when Marjan had had to resort to cooking dolmeh with dried herbs. By soaking them overnight, she had discovered, they worked almost as well as their fresher relatives. Using her entire torso, Marjan mixed the herbs with the cooked rice, fresh lime juice, salt and pepper. She stirred with all her might despite the unrelenting ache in her shoulders, for such strong rotations were necessary to the dolmeh’s harmony.

  Pausing to rub her tired arms, Marjan glanced across the kitchen at her sister Bahar, who was rolling up the first batch of dolmeh. With her wide and piercing eyes, Bahar always looked intense when she worked with food—as if her life depended on whichever vegetable or herb was being sacrificed on the chopping block before her. Surprisingly, of the three Aminpour sisters, it was petite Bahar who possessed the greatest upper arm strength. Fragile in most every other way, Bahar had shoulders and arms that were as powerful as those of a man twice her size, which came in handy whenever jars needed to be opened or there was mixing to be done.

  Marjan picked up the wooden spoon and returned to the dolmeh. Her sister looked too busy now to help her beat the remaining stuffing, for not only was Bahar concentrating on rolling her own grape leaves but she was also keeping Layla’s work in check. No matter how many times Marjan was reminded of the differences in her younger sisters’ personalities, there was nothing like the simple act of rolling dolmeh to show her how poles apart Bahar and Layla really were.

  Bahar, guided by a stern inner compass, smartly slapped each grape leaf (vein side up) on the chopping block. It was a consistent, methodical march that started with a no-nonsense scoop of stuffing with her left hand, followed by a skilled right-handed tuck of the grape leaf. Then, bringing the dolmeh to a clean surrender, she briskly rolled the grape leaf from the bottom up. Despite her rather gruff manner, Bahar’s
method for rolling dolmeh was always successful; she ensured that her little bundles of good fortune were secure on the road up, lest all that she had gathered should fall asunder.

  Rolling was always where Layla faltered, for her method was more carefree and altogether too trusting. Although Marjan and Bahar demonstrated the right way endless times, Layla would still leave her dolmeh vulnerable to the elements. One could always tell which bundles were hers, for if neither of her older sisters was quick enough to catch the spill of stuffing, rerolling the grape leaf while shaking her head, the moment of truth came forty-five minutes later with the opening of the oven door. Among the neat, aromatic green fingers expertly tucked by Marjan and Bahar would be the younger girl’s unmistakable burst parcels of golden filling. And for some strange reason, they always smelled of Layla’s signature scent—rosewater and cinnamon.

  It was a familiar enough smell, this faint perfume that accompanied Layla’s every move, but odd for a recipe that did not contain either ingredient. The cinnamon-rose dolmeh never really surprised her sisters, though. Layla had a way of raising expectations beyond the ordinary.

  WHEN THOMAS MCGUIRE’S spits and curses hit the pavement outside the old pastry shop, Bahar was in the middle of removing a ready tray of dolmeh from the oven. After forty-five minutes they were as perfectly symmetrical as the greatest Persian carpets, the tray a clean loom upon which the stuffed grape leaf fingers were lined in even clusters and patterns. Although the kitchen was at the back of the shop, the sound of Thomas’s vulgar excretions carried clearly to Bahar’s sensitive ears. Gasping with surprise, she reached for the hot tray of dolmeh with bare hands and paid dearly for her distraction with the start of smoking blisters.

  “Quick! Get under the cold water! Layla—aloe vera ! Bahar, stop squeezing your thumb like that!” Marjan yelled, pushing her sister toward the sink. As the eldest of the three, Marjan was accustomed to directing her sisters in emergencies.