The world in a hummus bowl

The bowl of hummus, decorated with a sprig of parsley and a pinch of paprika, is a mainstay of summer suppers on the roof or by the pool. But a Levantine friend should be forgiven for giving our chilled dip, scooped up with a water biscuit or carrot stick, a miss.

The mystical poet, William Blake, could see the world in a grain of sand. In Syria, Jordan, Lebanon, Palestine and Israel, the modest chickpea represents a cultural universe. The classic bowl of hummus – with its simple ingredients and many tricks – is a key symbol of a way of life.

“Hummus” simply means chickpeas in Arabic. The proper full name of the dish is “hummus bi tahina” (chickpeas with sesame paste) and the reason is that there are Middle East peasant forerunners that dressed up the mashed chickpeas with a variety of spices.

The creamy hummus we know today is a Levantine creation of an urban elite – probably Damascus in the late Arab period. Its simplicity (just chickpeas, tahini and lemon juice in Syria, with garlic associated with sharp Beirut) is meant to highlight the excellence of the individual ingredients and the palate of the connoisseur.

It should be eaten freshly made, warm or at room temperature. When served properly, its edges border the rim of an earthenware plate, while its middle is a crater holding a puddle of olive oil.

That’s not mere decoration. It’s a visual boast about the cook’s technique. The hummus should be creamy enough to be shaped with the back of a spoon but not so liquid as to slide back down into the oil.

It’s served with warm bread. Vegetables accompany it as a salad. It’s paired with roast meat, not grilled fish.

Preparation calls for patience. The chickpeas should be skinned (or else you’ll taste the grit). They should be dried and cooked for two hours, not tinned and instant. Ideally, they should be blended while hot but then left to rest for a day. When mixing with the other ingredients, add ice, not cooking water, for the creamiest taste.

As for the right doses of tahini, lemon juice and garlic: that’s what the arguments are about. Everyone has their own formula and fixed ideas about when to add the tahini.

Hummus is not really meant for people standing around a buffet table. Like coffee, it’s best enjoyed seated at your favourite haunt, while the world goes by and a waiter is at hand to bring more warm bread and accompanying dishes.

Just as you’d boast about where you have your coffee in Rome, Levantine flaneurs compete in proclaiming their favourite eatery in Beirut or Amman. It’s about more than food and stomach. It’s about a state of mind and the art of living.

A hummus dish, accompanied by salad and minced lamb, is a sight to upload on X (formerly Twitter) or Instagram. Tripadvisor has a special section on the best hummus in each major Levantine city. In Lebanon, five-star restaurants are judged on the fluffy quality of their hummus.

It’s about more than food and stomach. It’s about a state of mind and the art of living- Ranier Fsadni

With that in mind, it’s easy to see why the hummus sold at many European supermarkets would be considered ghastly – a buttery sludge of artificial flavourings and vegetable oil.

In Malta, even good quality hummus did not come to us directly from the Levant. In its current version, the origin is most likely the UK of the 1990s, when hummus broke out of its associations with Lebanese restaurants and began to be sold by up-market stores as a cosmopolitan emblem of Cool Britannia.

That explains why, in Malta, we categorise it as a dip, not breakfast or a meal. It came to us as something to add to wine and cheese parties. We’ve no problem serving it chilled, like the wine, with the same biscuits that go with cheese.

And, given that we think of it as a dip, there’s no shudder when we learn of peppers or sun-dried tomatoes being added. What a Lebanese or Palestinian would see as an outrageous imposter, we see as an interesting variation.

There lies one reason why hummus has been a global export success. It’s charted a way to blend unusual combinations of spices and ingredients made available to us by the global economy. In colloquial English, “hummus” nowadays can refer to almost any newfangled dip, even one without any chickpeas or tahini.

A second reason is that hummus violates no dietary laws. Even vegans eat it. If they raise a problem, it’s not the usual one of tut-tutting at your enjoyment; it’s getting them to contain their enthusiasm about how good hummus is for you, animals and the planet.

The global success of hummus has had an impact on the Middle East: the so-called “Hummus Wars” between Israel and Lebanon. The latter has tried, and failed, to have hummus registered as a strictly Lebanese product. Meanwhile, some Zionists have claimed to find (on the basis of unconvincing etymology) an early reference to hummus in the Old Testament.

Around 15 years ago, Lebanon and Israel competed to break the Guinness world record for the biggest plate of hummus. Such competition seems innocent given the catastrophe today but it is a reminder that a love for hummus is one thing that Middle Eastern Christians, Muslims and Jews all share.

As for us, let’s continue to enjoy hummus any way we like. But, as we spoon some on our plate, let’s also spare a thought for the fastidious art, global commerce and culture wars it represents.