The history of migration is a history of food.
People have been moving from one country to another, from one continent to another, running away from misery, poverty or war. They left families, loved ones, homes and jobs.
They moved bringing with them few pieces of clothes, a couple of bites of bread and some money, when not stolen by their Charon(s), modern ferrymen of desperate souls, hopes and dreams.
Nothing else, except for their dignity, education and culinary tradition.
They were often assigned to tough jobs, in construction sites or mines, but in some cases they were able to start their own business, trying to reproduce the taste of the Bolognese ragout of their childhood or ‘sinking’ the fingers into a sticky bread dough.
Together with the original recipes, to feel a bit less the loneliness and the absence from home, they were bringing in colors, music and the welcome customs of their hometown (sometimes even questionable in taste).
Customers were experiencing food in a new way and they were traveling the world at table.
Nowadays in Luxembourg, where unfortunately less and less restaurants make the efforts to bring in the emotions and vibes of their country of origin and/or propose a sort of evolution and where palates seem dormant on an average standard, we had to wait for a Syrian pharmacist and his cooking army of ladies, fleeing from war, to start tasting the authentic taste of fattoush and its pomegranate vinegar, the smoky flavor of baba ganoush, the cinnamon touch of the kibbeh…
The terrace of Siriously is probably the best summer escape… a curtain in the wind of Mahmoud’s house in Raqqaa.