This week with the death of Mahsa Amini in Tehran and the world’s focus on the plight of women and the men who support them I want to share a story of an extraordinary woman who meant a lot to me. It begins thirty eight years ago.
The nineteen eighties were a time of great growth for me. I finished my MBA degree at UCLA and embarked on an exploration of careers until I finally understood deeply that the kitchen was where I belonged. It didn’t take much time for restaurant dreams to take hold, and I eventually embarked on a design-build experience that gave me more than an architecturally interesting caffe on Melrose designed by Morphosis. I ended up getting involved with the project architect Michele Saee, an Iranian, schooled in Italy. We had a mind meld and then he took me to Shamshiri in Hollywood for my first bite of Persian food. The server brought a whole peeled onion to the table with a side of butter and lavash and my friend bit into it like an apple. I thought “This cuisine is for me!” Eventually I was invited home, then a cramped apartment of a newly arrived, slightly shell shocked extended family for whom everything had changed. Except one thing. Food and the extraordinary hand of the matriarch in the kitchen. Sharifeh kept that family going through sheer will and generosity as they settled in, moved to larger quarters and started carving out a life.
Our relationship was a bit of a roller coaster. I was after all, a hippie-ish native Angelena, who was seeing her son. Those mom claws occasionally made an appearance except when we cooked together. Or rather, she cooked and I watched and tried to remember. It wasn’t long before I realized how gifted Sharifeh was. Her food was miles above anything I ate in a restaurant or at the tables of other family members.
Eventually I needed to understand the cuisine and try my hand at it at my own house so I found the Persian book shop on Westwood Blvd and asked if they had any cookbooks in English. Yes, I was told, one just came out. The bookseller handed me Food of Life by Najmieh Batmanglij the now celebrated author who brought Persian food to American home cooks. The first dish I made was for Nowruz, Persian New Year. It was Ashe-e-Reshteh, a noodle soup that has four different beans and legumes in it, five if you count the split chick peas in the garnish. It was my introduction into the mass quantities of herbs and greens used in the cuisine and to kashk, a fermented dairy product made with wheat or barley. It looked kind of like sour cream but was nothing like it. And, of course, instead of testing it first I plunged in and invited a bunch of people over including his family and made a giant pot of soup. Michele was skeptical. Until he put a spoonful into his mouth. My tiny apartment was filled with people and I happened to look across the room and caught his expression. It was filled with the shock of taste recognition and confusion about how I pulled it off. That batch of soup became legendary but really I just followed Najmieh’s instructions.
Sharifeh left this material world several weeks ago and to honor her and the family I made the soup again for her fortieth day remembrance.
This was a woman who came of age during the time of the Shah in Iran. She wasn’t forced to wear a hijab and yet there were so many cultural obstacles put on her aspirations. Every time I was with her I thought about what she could have accomplished if she had come of age at a different time. And yet she made a difference to those around her here in LA and in Tehran where she traveled often to help family. There was so much courage in the way she lived. Sharifeh leaves behind a husband of 70 years, a son, daughter, son-in-law, grandchildren and a great grandson. And this grateful friend. Please do whatever you can to support the courageous women who are putting their lives on the line to make change in Iran.
Soup for Sharifeh
I loved Sharifeh's food and grew up with it. She was an artist at work when she cooked. Fearless. If something didn't turn out they way she wanted she would start over from scratch a few hours before her guests show up. I love that about her. Thank you for this tribute. She loved you dearly and always talked about you.
Thank you so much Evan for this beautiful tribute. I was witness growing up that everything my mom touched looked different and tasted different. She had a love relationship with everything she did. Even if I was the only person visiting, she would set the table with the same beautiful touch and care she would give to a house filled with guests.she was a very special and strong woman.