Tzatziki
“Just a little…Tzatziki…”
I love the word Tzatziki. Some of my friends call it Tatziki. It's one of those satisfying words that feels like the answer to a million-dollar question—something James Bond might say with effortless charm:
“What are you making, James?”
“Just a little…Tzatziki…”
Say it with a raised eyebrow, and you'll see what I mean.
When I was a kid, my eldest sister dated a local butcher named Khalid; he was Kenyan Pakistani. To me, he was the best boyfriend ever. He wore silk scarves, open-necked shirts, gold medallions on his chest, and danced with the joy and expressions of Kishore Kumar at our house parties.
My parents adored him for his flamboyance and kindness—and because he got them cut-price meat!
I loved him because part of his kind nature meant that he invited all the children on his dates with my sister, and I got to bring along my best friend. At 13, with a nearly non-existent social life, family dates with my sister felt like a thrilling escape—a chance to do something grown-up, like go out to a restaurant. We’d cram into the back of Khalid’s meat van, giggling and sliding around as he sped along, blaring the latest Bollywood hits and hamming it up as he sang along.
Khalid took us to loads of Pakistani restaurants, but his favorite was a tiny shack on Southall Bridge that sold incredibly spicy kebabs. I loved them, but the green chilies blew my head off, leaving me gasping for water. The best thing about this place was the colorful drinks like Faloodah (a sweet, creamy drink with tiny strands of vermicelli) and sweet Lassi. Both were like magic potions, instantly cooling the blaze on my tongue and bringing me back to life.
Lassi
Khalid loved kebabs so much that whenever we ventured beyond Pakistani cuisine, it was always to Turkish restaurants. He had a knack for finding great Turkish food long before Harringay in North London became a mecca for Kurdish and Turkish cuisine in the '90s.
One evening, we landed at a family-run spot on Newington Green roundabout. Khalid ordered a meze for us. My best friend, Nisar, was familiar with some of the items, having eaten out more often than I had at that age. But I could barely pronounce the names of the dishes I tried, all of which were alien to my palate: humus, tarama, cacik, halloumi, babaganoush, lahmacun, dolma, and pita bread.
As a teenager, I wasn’t impressed—everything was cold, and coming from a Guyanese house, I wasn’t used to that. However, I did like one thing: cacik (known as tzatziki in Greek). The creamy, tangy yogurt paired perfectly with the bread and turned out to be surprisingly refreshing and satisfying. When the hot dishes arrived, I was thrilled to discover that cacik went beautifully with every kind of grilled meat and also worked with the salad and rice.
As I got older, Turkish cuisine gained more recognition in London, especially in my new neighborhood of Dalston, home to the famous Mangal restaurant. I discovered the Greek islands in my twenties, visiting Paros, Ios, Corfu, Spetses, and Poros. The one thing I always ordered was tzatziki. It was incredible, but when I returned home and tried to recreate it, it never tasted the same. Why?
Because the Greeks have the best yogurt in the world.
And because I was making it wrong.
My attempts at tzatziki morphed into something far removed—a yogurt-based dip with mint, coriander, onion, tomato, and a splash of hot pepper sauce. My Guyanese influence had led me astray. But my wife, ever the tzatziki purist, teased and prodded me into sticking to the basics: full-fat yogurt (Fage), dill, garlic, lemon, olive oil, paprika, salt, and pepper. I’d been happily living with this version for years until a trip to Crete earlier this year revealed yet another twist.
After a swim, I walked back into the house we’d rented to find my sister piling heaps of salt onto a bowl of grated cucumber. Horrified, I yelled, “Stop! What are you doing?”
“Making tzatziki,” she replied calmly.
“Why so much salt?”
“Salt draws out the moisture.”
She tilted the bowl to one side, gave me a snarky look, and jumped into the pool. I was skeptical, but curiosity got the better of me. Thirty minutes later, I returned to find a puddle of lime-green liquid at the bottom of the bowl.
During our dinner of roast chicken, crispy pan-fried potatoes, Greek salad and local greens, I admitted that her tzatziki was far superior to mine and absolutely delicious with the meal: grated cucumber with just the right texture, pungent garlic, subtle dill, lemon, and luxuriously creamy Greek yogurt. So I now use her proper recipe, below.
My Sister’s Recipe!
2 cups of full fat yoghurt—none of that watery low-fat gloop
Half a cucumber - grated, salted and drained—squeeze out all the moisture after draining.
Nice sprig of dill - washed and finely chopped
1 large garlic clove finely chopped or crushed
Juice of 1 lemon
Salt and pepper
Pinch of paprika
Large tablespoon Extra Virgin Olive Oil - EVOO
Method:
Throw all ingredients, apart from EVOO, into a nice bowl and mix—add EVOO at the end for the drizzle effect.
Add more/less lemon/garlic for preference.
Serve with fries, roast potatoes, meatballs/kebabs or just enjoy with salad and warm pita.
