Ditch your pumpkin spice latte and warm up with dizi instead
Created with AIPRM Prompt “Human-like Rewriter – V1.6”
Embark on a culinary adventure by bidding farewell to the conventional pumpkin spice latte and indulging in the warmth of dizi instead.
This week’s gastronomic suggestions encompass a robust stew, ideal for the chilly climate, and what might just be the ultimate tuna sandwich in the cosmos.
The fervor surrounding pumpkin spice perplexes me, as does the inclination to tether a flavor exclusively to a season. My palate delights in cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, and clove individually, seamlessly integrated into my pumpkin pie. The notion of infusing them into a latte, Spam, or Cheerios eludes me. Allow me to propose a superior alternative—a dish that promises inner warmth, irrespective of the season. Enter the Iranian lamb and chickpea stew, known as dizi, and a contender for the paramount tuna sandwich in existence.
Dizi, a Specialty from Nersses Vanak
When the weather forecast predicts rain and the mercury plummets, Romik Abediyan, proprietor of Nersses Vanak, experiences a touch of anxiety. Situated inconspicuously in a narrow Glendale strip mall, Abediyan’s eatery stands as one of the scarce establishments offering dizi in the region. And when the external environment turns frigid, this Iranian lamb and chickpea stew becomes an irresistible choice.
“We usually find ourselves sold out,” he confesses. “Production is limited, and my father is the sole craftsman.”
Abediyan’s father meticulously concocts the dizi, simmering lamb, chickpeas, white beans, potato, tomato, and onion with a dash of water and a hint of turmeric, allowing the amalgamation of meat and vegetable essences with the cooking liquid. As the stew simmers, the lamb’s gaminess mellows, harmonizing with the sweet tomato.
The nomenclature traces its roots to the petite vessel used for cooking the soup. At Nersses Vanak, diminutive metal bowls resembling miniature pitchers or vases house this delectable creation. If prepared in a larger pot, Abediyan notes, it is termed abgoosht.
“Originating from Iran, it served laborious workers,” he explains. “A centuries-old recipe handed down from my grandfather.”
Abediyan’s family operated a restaurant in Tehran for nearly six decades, with dizi standing out as one of their specialties.
Upon ordering, patrons are presented with a choice: self-preparation or kitchen execution. Opt for the former. The ritualistic serving and preparation add a ceremonious touch, ensuring warmth and engaging everyone at the dining table. Don’t overlook requesting a side of torshi, comprising tart, pickled vegetables.
The stew arrives in its metal vessel, its rim stained with the broth’s reddish hue and adorned with dried herbs. Accompanying it are a meat smasher resembling a diminutive amalgamation of a metal plunger and Thor’s hammer, warm blistered flatbread, and an empty bowl. Gently cradle the pitcher’s neck (mind its heat) and pour the soup into the bowl, reserving the potato and lamb chunks. Use the smasher to pulverize the remaining meat and vegetables into a thick paste. Should the task seem daunting, rest assured; your server will intervene, vigorously swirling the smasher to create the paste. You may enlist the assistance of fellow diners.
Once the paste attains a robust consistency, either scoop it into your bowl or fashion wraps using the provided flatbread and fresh herbs. Personally, I prefer adding dollops of the mixture to my hot soup, relishing it as lumpy meat and bean dumplings. Post-consumption, introduce torn flatbread pieces for chewy, stew-infused croutons.
“Some attempt to replicate, but it’s not quite the same,” Abediyan asserts. “We excel in dizi, among the best, I can assure you. I don’t boast, but we do well with dizi.”
Unless augmenting your meal with kebabs, a single order of dizi per person allows for a personalized stew expedition.
Tuna Sandwich from Bub and Grandma’s
Bub and Grandma’s recently unveiled restaurant in Glassell Park boasts an array of delectable offerings. The bakery display flaunts doughnuts, croissants, muffins, pie, cake, and cookies. The open kitchen provides a front-row spectacle of various sandwiches—roasted cauliflower and cheddar with jammy balsamic onions, brisket with apple mostarda, and roast beef and cheddar steeped in au jus. During a recent visit with friends, we embraced the temptation to order nearly every item on the menu. While all offerings were enticing, my heart unequivocally belongs to the tuna salad.
A lunchtime staple, often encased in plastic wrap and stowed in lunchboxes and office fridges nationwide, the tuna sandwich is renowned for its reliability and satiating quality. However, owners Andy Kadin and chef Zach Jarrett aspire to etch their tuna sandwich into your culinary memory.
“I realized during the sandwich’s development that people harbor strong opinions about tuna,” reflected Jarrett during a recent discussion. “Everyone’s tuna salad is a personal affair.”
My customary approach involves meticulous tuna draining, shredding to a sawdust-like consistency, and incorporating generous helpings of mayo, diced dill pickles, and red onion. My father prefers an extra dollop of mayonnaise on his bread, while my mother occasionally swaps mayo for mashed avocado and adds extra sweet pickles. Chances are, you, too, have a go-to variation.
Kadin and Jarrett drew inspiration from what they deem the epitome of a perfect tuna sandwich at Palace diner, situated about 15 minutes outside Portland, Maine, where the sandwich is accompanied by a wedge of iceberg lettuce.
“We devoted considerable time to perfecting it,” Jarrett confessed. “That, and every other aspect,” Kadin added.
The foundational elements of the salad involve oil-packed tuna, drained and combined with mayonnaise, housemade sweet pickles, chopped celery, and pepperoncini. Nestled on unbraided challah crafted by lead baker Christopher Lier in vintage milk bread tins, the bread embodies the desired traits of softness, sponginess, and eggy richness.
Exhibiting the towering profile reminiscent of classic deli sandwiches, the tuna sandwich features an oversized wedge of iceberg at its core and a mound of tuna salad. A firm squeeze ensures an even distribution of ingredients to all corners and edges. Slivers of red onion and additional sliced sweet pickles from the tuna salad adorn both halves of the challah, each spread with mayonnaise and yellow mustard—a touch that flirts with heresy, depending on the observer. In my view, it elevates the sandwich.
“That combination of lettuce and yellow mustard triggers a specific taste memory, akin to how American cheese leaves an irreplaceable void,” remarked Jarrett. “It’s just right.”
The initial bite unleashes a wave of nostalgia—school lunches on the playground, beach picnics with packed coolers, and hastily prepared rainy-day sandwiches by my mother. Jarrett toasts only one side of the bread, serving it on the interior for an initial bite of soft, pillowy bread followed by a satisfying crunch