That’s not hummus.
Hummus. Humus. Humous. Humous. However you want to spell it, whatever we eat in the UK isn’t it — in fact, I’d argue it’s hardly worthy of the same name.
A national fridge-staple, reliable crowd-pleaser, regular at the picnic and trusted ally of plant-eaters worldwide, the humble chickpea has made quite a reputation for itself. At its best, hummus is one of life’s greatest pleasures — worthy of slathering, dunking and dousing both your food and yourself in — at its worst, it’s scarcely differentiable from the mixture we spread between bricks. Hummus is a cause I care deeply about, and for that reason, it pains me to watch the British nation suffer and settle for such hummus-mediocracy.
Seven years ago, when I made the move to a plant-based diet, and at a time when vegan options were scant, the dip was my sole subsistence; hardly a day went by when it didn’t make an appearance at one meal or another. I thought I’d become a connoisseur of the stuff. But it was only later that year, as I embarked upon my first of many trips to Israel, that my real education on hummus began.
Pronounced “hoo-moose” and served with fluffy pillows of “peeta-bread” — pronounced with a hint of an American accent, or you risk not being understood — the dish is regarded as the un-official “national dish” in Israel. The direction translation of ‘hummus' from Arabic is simply ‘chickpeas with tahini’ — but, my, what an understatement that is. Its exact birth place is still disputed between various countries in the Levant and Middle-East, but it’s safe to say that the Lebanese, Syrian, Palestinians, Jordanians and Israelis all know how what they’re doing.
As opposed to some other middle-eastern cultures — where hummus is served as one of multiple mezze dishes — hummus, in Israel, is the star of the show. It isn’t just a dip, but an entire meal; it’s part of their culture, a way of life.
Across the country, they have eateries dedicated to hummus, serving it up in a myriad of tantalising combinations. There, hummus is an entirely different entity: warm, with a satin-like texture, bejewelled with caramelised onions and garlic mushrooms, and drizzled with rich tahini. It’s a decadent affair, served in bowls big enough to dive face-first into.
Upon returning back to the UK, the hummus in my fridge tastes acrid, artificial and gritty by comparison. I always vow to never let it pass my lips again, yet it’s somehow unavoidable.
The masters of Middle-Eastern cuisine — chefs such as as Ottolenghi and Noor Murad — have attempted to impart their knowledge of homemade hummus to the British population, however it’s sadly fallen on deaf ears. Instead, most of the UK continue to be led astray by caucasian health-bloggers, whose focus is on minimal calories and maximum speed — a recipe for hummus sacrilege.
The trouble is: we rush our hummus. We deprive it of time, attention and TLC, at the expense of flavour and texture.
Like the best of us, (dried) chickpeas need time to rest in order to access their fullest potential; while you get your eight hours of beauty sleep overnight, your chickpeas should too, soaking in water. They need warmth (cooked on a hob for around half an hour) and to be stripped of their top skin; steps that are demanding of time, but are essential to the end result. Tahini should be added generously and olive oil should be nowhere in sight. Ice cubes or cold water added to the blending process will help to aerate the paste and make it silky-smooth.
When serving the hummus, don’t spoil all of your efforts with shop-bought pitta: the flaccid, sorry-looking kind that looks more like a dry, shrivelled hand than is does a form of bread. Pitta should be plump, cloud-like, and of an infinite supply — but that’s a whole other article in itself.
Most importantly, be generous with your portions. Packed full of plant-based proteins, good fats, fibre, vitamins and minerals, why deprive yourself to of both health and hummus? Israel’s youth are renowned for their radiant skin and natural glow, and I have strong suspicions that hummus is their secret.
But if making your own hummus sounds more like an ordeal than a labour of love, Yarden and Sabra — Israel’s exported own brands of hummus — are the next best thing. Studded with pine nuts and chickpeas, which I dig for like gold, swirled with za’atar or flecked with roasted red-pepper, these brands offer a flavour for every mood — lest you ever find yourself at risk of hummus fatigue; though, only available in a handful of enlightened supermarkets like Sainsbury’s and Waitrose, getting your hands on a pot can feel something of a miracle.
Lastly, if this deep dive into hummus has triggered something inside you and, like me, your love affair with hummus has no limits, I strongly recommend taking a pilgrimage to Hummus Abu Hassan in Jaffa, Tel Aviv. Do not be deterred by its unassuming exterior, what you will experience inside will be nothing short of enlightenment. The customer demand there is so high, that they are wiped clean of their hummus soon after midday, every day.
It’s plentiful. It’s authentic. It’s real hummus. Your tastebuds will never be the same again.