berenjak, soho
Berenjak, soho (£££)
Kebab’s are a funny one... Often, our fondest memories of the Middle Eastern heavyweight come from a van or neon-lit shop front. Arguably, when we’re not our best selves, Or, a takeaway staple—sat down in front of the TV. Yet, despite the range of scenarios in which we accept the kebab, the quality is often undeniably good (compared to what you’d expect at 3 a.m. on a street corner, shish-pitta-salad-chilli sauce-garlic sauce in hand). There’s pride in the humble kebab, but it often feels just that: humble.
Humble and unassuming, we don’t often think of kebabs as more upmarket, or, to put it another way, it’s not a meal you’d be thinking of queueing three hours for. Enter Berenjak, the Persian restaurant people (and admittedly myself) queue over three hours for. The question I’m aiming to answer is therefore: what makes Berenjak better than the locals?
On slightly sunnier days, you may be able to sit at one of a handful of seats outside, and from those, you may have a seat looking into the kitchen, the centrepiece of which is the steel coal pit, on which all the kebabs are perfectly cooked. Inside, you’re met with a dimly lit interior, a small number of booths, and a wrap-around counter, again looking into the open kitchen. All the staff are friendly, like you’ve been coming here for years. Perhaps the reason for the extended wait is that you’re not rushed here; the emphasis seems to be on enjoying yourself, not turning over tables.
The menu isn’t extensive, but that’s by no means a bad thing. Where our seats were at the end of the counter, watching the mesmerising repetition of the breads being made, we started by ordering both breads on offer: taftoon (a soft, pillowy, seeded flatbread) and sangak (crispier strips of baked bread). Both breads are essential for the meal, not just for their flavour but as vehicles for the mazeh (the range of dips, meaning literally in Farsi, tastes).
Conscious only two of us, we ordered two mezeh, the mast o musir and the hummus. The social environment is definitely aided, and clearly purposefully, by the plates on offer. Made to share; made to reach over and scoop more hummus whilst you laugh over a story. Hypnotised by the taftoon coming out of the oven, our mezeh arrived before we knew it. The mast o musir, a yoghurt-based cheese dip, is creamy, but the curd makes its presence known. Fresh and bright, but cut through intensely with cold-pressed oil and shallots. The sangak for me was the perfect pairing here, the char of the bread marrying with the otherwise light and confident mast o musir.
When I tell you, this was no hummus you’ll pick up in the shops, nor have I had before (in England or the Middle East, mind). Earthy and nutty (yet with a deeper flavour than your normal hummus—thanks to the walnuts and the replacement of traditional tahini), it ended with a zesty and acidic note (the sumac). Here, the taftoon shined, the pillow-like bread holding its own while still letting the hummus shine, the sesame of the bread not clashing at all.
With enough mezeh on our plates left to carry us through the rest of the meal, our kebabs arrived. Though we conversed throughout the meal, our attention could never fall away for too long from the coals in the kitchen and the precision and art of the chefs in perfecting kebabs after kebabs. We decided on the jujeh kebab (boneless chicken breast) and the jigar (grilled liver and sweetbread).
Staring at the jigar, what you ordered is what you got. A small mountain of cubed meat, liver, and sweetbread, garnished lightly with a sweet and acidic onion salad. The meat here was soft—it melted in your mouth—but full of flavour. The liver and sweetbread had a deep meaty flavour, but also had clear notes of the coals on which they were cooked. Dripping with their juices, every kebab is set upon lavash bread, folds of soft and thin bread, perfect for soaking up and not leaving any flavours to waste.
When I took my first bite of the jujeh, I simply smiled. I would say I chewed, but the meat truly melted in my mouth. Never in my life will I be able to have chicken kebab again, for this kebab has set a cruel standard. The marinade here has done two miracles: firstly, the flavour, which is slightly sweet but also earthy (again, helped by the cooking over coals), but also the tenderness. Squeezing a little bit of the sumac-dusted lemon wedge, the acidity is perfect to cut through the meat.
While you could have easily had a meal of the lavash or taftoon bread and kebab, we ordered two other sides as well. The sibzamini (like a Persian potato bravas), crisp mouthfuls of potato, with equal parts earth tomato-based sauce, and fresh yoghurt on the side. The potatoes here did a great job of adding another texture, having something crisp to balance the otherwise soft and light dishes in front of us. We also ordered the torshi haftebijar and picked cauliflower, carrot, and cabbage. Out of curiosity, we ordered these, and whilst I wouldn’t have them again, they made a fun twist when adding them in conjunction with the jujeh or even the cigar.
And then, just like that, our plates were empty. As mentioned at the start, despite the hour-long queues out the door (even at eight or nine at night), at no point did we feel rushed or that we had to finish so another could take our place. Our meal was relaxed, with a true focus on having an enjoyable experience. We were truly trying to capture the ethos of the restaurant, emulating the dinners and nostalgia of the founders memories.