"Don't mess with Yahya!" warns one of the waitresses as my friend R. and I blast through the kitchen's double doors to say hello. "Uh-oh," I think to myself, "he must be one of those chefs who's notorious for growling and yelling like a cornered cat." We waved hello and then beat a hasty retreat back to the bar for a glass of wine.
As it turns out, the man does not merit the warning. Yahya Salih, chef/owner of the newly opened Mesopotamian restaurant YaYa Cuisine, came out of the kitchen to mingle with his guests once most of the food had been consumed. It was his opening night and after everyone had left - and despite the fatigue of a 16-hour day - he spent an hour explaining his traditional Iraqi dishes to me. His smiling eyes and easy laugh had a settling effect, and I peppered him with questions until finally my friend R.'s eyelids started to droop.
Yahya's passion for the food he grew up with punctuates most of his sentences and, at one point, he hauled a tub of what resembled coffee ice cream out of the kitchen - a "secret recipe" he created - and told me the story behind it. In Iraq, yogurt mixed with salt is placed outside where, over the course of a month in the hot sun, it hardens into a solid, dry rock. Piece by piece, this dried yogurt is added to a braising liquid for lamb shanks and helps tenderize the meat. Yahya leaned in close, and speaking in a conspiratorial whisper, proudly admitted the truth: "I figured out how to make this in three hours. No one else can do that!" Then he laughed.
I can't guarantee you'll see Yahya if you go for dinner, but the company of his food will delight you just as much. Because this was a party, his family was gathered around; a tumult of simultaneous conversations in Arabic and English went on all around us. We ate from a lavish spread he'd set out against a wall with a mural of ancient Iraq in the background. There were the familiar Middle Eastern staples: smooth baba ghanoush flush with the eggplant's natural sweetness, mounds of pale hummus sprinkled with bright orange paprika, and pyramids made from tabbouleh wrapped in Romaine lettuce leaves. The tabbouleh was a perfect balance of grains, tomato, parsley and lemon juice. Pita, soft and plentiful, stood guard next to the dolmas, which were presented cold and bursting with rice and meat. But the triumph of the night waited at the end of the table.
Built in five tiers like a wedding cake, the kuzi was a flaky phyllo crust wrapped around hunks of lamb, rice and plump raisins, and seasoned heavily with cinnamon. A sauce of pomegranate spiked with rosemary pooled in bowls alongside; though one of the guests swore with gustatory drama, "The sauce MAKES the dish!" I preferred the savory pie all alone. A nearly identical sculpture stood next to it; the perda pilaf, with chicken in place of lamb, was adorned with a bright pink raspberry-cinnamon dressing. Both the creations looked about to collapse when I walked by; everyone had served themselves such great helpings from the bottom tier that they were leaning precipitously to one side.
And then there was the mazgoof: an entire salmon, eyes staring out blankly at the crowd, flesh buried in an avalanche of carrots, red peppers and broccoli. The vegetables provided crunchy contrast to the melt-in-your-mouth tender fish. Yahya rubs the fish with tomato paste and a mix of spices, including allspice and curry, before cooking it. I noticed an unmistakable smoky flavor, like the fish had been cooked over a wood fire. I couldn't persuade Yahya to tell me how he does that in his kitchen, but his brother, Karim, shared another story. "Back around 750 AD there was a famous poet in the Muslim empire called Abu Nuwas." Legend has it that Abu Nuwas was not only a gifted wordsmith, but also a Dionysian-style worshipper given to carousing and drinking. "Even the caliph could not say what Abu Nuwas could write in his poems, it was so rude!" Karim explained with a twinkle in his eye. On the banks of the Tigris River in modern-day Baghdad runs a street named after the great poet; casinos and night clubs have sprouted and you can order mazgoof there, cooked on spikes over a real wood fire. "Maybe one day you will go to Baghdad and have mazgoof on the Tigris, after all this settles down," he added hopefully.
Like the crowd, the desserts were a family affair, a labor of love from Yahya's sister-in-law. The baklawa oozed honey in all the right places, and we went back for seconds of cookies crunchy with pistachios. A sweet milk pudding called laiali Baghdad, its shimmering white surface dotted with more bright green pistachios, glistened in the warm glow of the bar's persimmon-hued walls. I was so full I couldn't manage more than a bite.
But nevermind; I will be back soon.
(NB: the transliteration of Arabic in this text is correct to the extent I could verify it, but there may be other acceptable variations.)
YaYa Cuisine, San Francisco, 2424 Van Ness, 415-440-0455
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