Making Manoushe at Z&Z
the ultimate comfort food made of dough, za'atar, and (good) olive oil.
“There is a saying, that we pickle everything except our wives”, Issa, part owner of Z&Z said as he held up a glass jar of homemade pickled radishes for me to photograph. The jar had been recycled and the old label remained, the insides now filled cheerfully pink. The pickles are his original recipe, and are served with manoushe at Z&Z in Maryland.
I met Z&Z in 2016 through Johnny Dubbaneh, one of Issa’s sons and part owner, upon my move to DC. I’ll never forget the first time I visited Johnny and his family at their stall at the farmers market. The smell of toasted za’atar and deeply vegetal olive oil wafted across the sunny grass and into my nostrils. The smell was so familiar that it immediately transported to the market I had frequented in Kfar Saba. I would always buy a manoushe, rolled up and handed over in printed paper already translucent from the olive oil and labne liberally sandwiched into its crevices.
Johnny is Palestinian, and grew up in the DMV area. His father, Issa, grew up in Palestine and Jordan before finally relocating to the US. While he roasted up a hefty amount of eggplants for babaganoush, he told me the story of his lineage. He turned the eggplant, the purple skins turning black from the char of the open flame as he described the orange tree groves he remembered and loved in Jaffa, just south of Tel Aviv.
To me, everything tastes better with a little za’atar. In fact, for most of my 20’s, my go-to recipe was a big bowl of pasta smothered in butter and za’atar so heavy the pasta was barely visible. For Johnny and his siblings, za’atar was a part of their earliest memories. It’s what their mom packed them for school lunches (in the era when having anything other than a PB+J was a recipe for bullying). It’s what their grandmother made for weekend dinners, it’s even tattooed on Johnny’s forearm in his grandmother’s handwriting.
For us, za’atar is a part of our identity— an inextricable part of who we are. Za’atar binds us together, returning us to the matriarchal kitchens of our families in sweet comfort.
I visited Z&Z at the crack of dawn. Johnny pulled out bins of rough, flour-y dough to prepare the manoushe for the market and the shop. As I sipped a hot cup of cardamom coffee, Johnny vigilantly monitored the temperature of the dough and added vibrant-green olive oil to the bowl. The dough pushed through the industrial mixer, glistening as it developed. Eventually, the dough was soft and plush. It reminded me of the underside of my grandmother’s arm. Johnny pulled the glutinous dough from the mixing stand back into the bins for resting. I learned that it was Johnny's grandmother who made the original dough recipe, and for a time, she prepared all of the dough for Z&Z. As the business grew, Johnny and his siblings continued to develop the recipe for their expanding needs while maintaining the original essence of the dough that has been passed down through generations.
Every woman has their own dough recipe. This is something I notice often, especially in people who carry the responsibility of maintaining their cultures through stories and traditions, recipes and rituals. These recipes become a valued currency, a talking point, a tool for preservation.
There was one Saturday sometime in 2010—I was in university, and my friend Anat invited me to join her at her grandmother’s home. She’s Yemenite and every Friday, her grandmother would make a bread called kubaneh. Every family has their unique recipe, but all of them yield a similarly crispy, oily, and dense bread. We had our kubaneh that Saturday with a bowl of chicken soup. I returned to my apartment full-bellied and indulged in the most restful nap.
During my morning at the bakery, Johnny showed me how to make my own manoushe. I stretched a ball of prepared dough, flipped it onto a paddle and topped it with liberal za’atar sourced from Jenin, and olive oil. We tipped it into the piping hot oven and watched it bubble up in mere minutes. I sliced the same vegetables I’ve watched my father slice at virtually every meal time we’ve ever shared. Tomatoes and cucumbers with olive oil and salt, fresh cheese and pickles. We brought everything to the table, and Johnny poured me a cup of mint tea.
I think about my grandmother and my many memories in her kitchen, most of which began with a Tupperware of pickles that are always well-stocked in her refrigerator and always homemade. All of us grandkids would come in, sweaty from the Middle Eastern heat and open the fridge to pour ourselves a tall glass of chilled water. We would pull out the oblong Tupperware, peeling back the lid to reveal the moss-colored Persian cucumbers, and fish one (or two) out with our fingers. We’d take a crunchy bite, revealing the pickle’s briny, juicy innards.
I think my safta makes the best pickles, but I also think that Issa makes the best pickles. As Johnny and I shared our meal of manoushe and salad, I took a bite of one of Issa’s pickled radishes, the tangy flavor brought me straight home, and I’m sure it brought him there too. To a place and people we love.
Shabbat Shalom, and Chag Sameach.