Maman's recipes eased my homesickness
Hami Sharafi left Iran to chase big dreams abroad, but discovered his true calling was closer to home
words PUNTEHA VAN TERHEYDEN
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In 2010, Hami Sharafi said goodbye to his mum, dad and sister, and left Tehran for the UK. Hami, 42, says, “I wanted the opportunity to do something big with my life, but in Iran, opportunity didn’t exist. Instead, you had to make your dreams limited.”
Growing up, Hami helped his mum Azam and dad Hossein at the family restaurant in Shahsavar in Mazandaran Province, a city located on the beautiful northern coast.
“We had so much fun, our guests didn’t want to leave. We’d party together until 1am every night. Coming to the UK was an amazing opportunity – one I’d been looking for my whole life – but it was very sad being apart from so many people I loved.”
Hami’s lack of access to Persian food became a sticking point. “When you come from a family where food plays a big role and your maman is the best cook, it’s something you really miss. In Middlesbrough where I was living in 2010, Persian food was non-existent.”
In Iran, Hami had completed cooking courses in international food, but didn’t cook Persian food. “I really missed Maman’s food, but our cuisine takes time and effort – you don’t cook for just one person.”
Hami found a local charity supporting refugees and people on lower incomes and began volunteering, cooking there weekly. “I called Maman and said ‘I want to cook macaroni Irani.’ Italians will cry at the way we make bolognese, but everyone at the community kitchen loved it. I asked Maman about her loobia polo (cinnamon lamb and green beans in tomato rice), then, zereshk polo – fluffy white rice with barberries and saffron chicken.”
As Hami cooked for more people at the shelter, Maman’s recipes went down a storm.“I always made the food her way – it started easing my homesickness and kept me close to her. I was forever phoning, asking how to cook things. When she said ‘sauté the chicken with onions and tomato purée,’ lifelong memories of watching her do that flooded back. Without noticing, I’d learned how to cook like her.
“It was like a war in Maman’s kitchen: the oil splattering, newspaper on the floor to stop the mess going everywhere. I didn’t have to ask how long I should cook anything, because I had memories of how things should look and smell.” As for the amounts, it was all ‘ches
