The pull between Western and Arabic worlds: An excerpt from Sydney author Amal Awad’s ‘Bitter and Sweet’

“It was a moment of divinity.”

Amir silently unloaded the contents of two plastic bags. He set out a box of kataifi pastry, unsalted butter, a tub of akkawi cheese, a ball of mozzarella, a small lemon and a bag of shelled pistachios. He then went to the pantry and returned with salt and a bottle of orange blossom water, which landed on the counter with a thud.

‘Do you want to play some music?’ He turned to Zeina. ‘Some Fairuz, maybe? Farid al-Atrash?’ His eyes glittered with mirth, a genuine smile peeking out of his beard. ‘Funny.’

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‘You wanted a dessert. Let’s make one.’ A thrill ripped through her as she scanned the ingredients on the counter. ‘Would you judge me if I said I’ve never made knafeh?’. ‘It’s not that hard. We just have to work some magic with the cheese. It’s never going to be knafeh Nabulsieh, but we can get close.’

Amir ripped open the box of kataifi, extracting a bag of the shredded phyllo pastry. He began to pull it apart, then indicated to the shelf housing the pots and pans. ‘Can you get me that baking pan at the bottom?’. Zeina fished out a rectangular baking tray and placed it on the counter.

‘We need to soak the cheese.’ He dug out a large bowl and filled it with water. ‘Akkawi is too salty. It needs about an hour, but we’ll put more mozzarella to even it out.’

Zeina used her fingers to break up the block of cheese into small chunks, which she placed into the bowl of water. Then she grabbed the bag of pistachios and shook them. ‘Am I blitzing these?’. ‘Just crush about a cup’s worth.’

They worked separately but in sync. Zeina was running on instinct. She had eaten knafeh enough times that her tongue remembered the flavours and textures. The stringy, sweet cheese, the crunch of the butter-drenched kataifi shell, the hint of orange blossom water, the earthiness of the pistachio garnish. With the ingredients in front of her, it all came together easily in her mind, but she watched Amir at work.

She had crushed the pistachios finely and was running the mix through her fingers like sand. Amir blitzed the kataifi in the food processor. ‘Can you melt half of that butter?’ he said over the noise.

He stopped the processor and checked the length of the phyllo pastry. ‘Good. We want the strands to be about two centimetres.’ He put the first batch aside in a bowl, then ran the remaining lot of pastry through the food processor. When he was done, he poured the melted butter over the kataifi. ‘It needs to all be coated. Can you mix it?’

Zeina dug out a scraper and began to carefully fold the strands of pastry. Amir used a knife to cut the wrapping off the mozzarella, then stripped it away and dropped the cheese onto a cutting board. After stealing the knobby end for himself, he efficiently sliced the remainder into even pieces.

When he tasted the akkawi, he winced. ‘Still too salty.’ He drained the bowl then washed the cheese with his hands for a full minute. He tasted it again then nodded. ‘Ya’ani. It will have to do.’

He mixed the akkawi and mozzarella in a bowl, adding in a tablespoon of orange blossom water and some lemon zest. ‘Let’s skip the salt. But I forgot the food colouring,’ said Amir. ‘It won’t be orange.’

‘We’ll find a way to get through it,’ said Zeina. She was gloved up, pressing half of the kataifi mixture into the baking tray. When she felt his eyes on her, she looked up at him.

‘You’re weird, like your father,’ he said. ‘I am?’
‘Different, I guess.’
‘But not Arab enough.’

Amir smiled. ‘If it’s in here,’ he said, touching his heart, ‘then you are Arab. It’s not a place. Don’t listen to anyone who thinks they get to decide who you are. It says more about them than you.’ Zeina’s outlier status was not a condemnation. It was a blessing.

‘I don’t know how you’ve never visited Palestine,’ said Amir. ‘Hasn’t your friend gone back a few times?’.
Back.
‘She was born here. She didn’t go back.’
‘But it’s where we’re from. Nasser brought the homeland here. They all do.’ Amir snorted. ‘A homeland in a suitcase.’
‘But you haven’t.’
‘I don’t have a home, Zeina. I’m always a visitor. I like it that way.’

His words kicked her in the gut. She pressed in the last corner of the pastry base then pushed the tray to the side. ‘That’s why we get along so well.’ Amir waved her away. ‘I give you shit about not being Arab. Look at us, though. Arabs don’t know who they are in their own countries. Australia is a colony.’

‘Stolen land.’
‘How do you feel at home when you come from a place where people are being robbed of their earth?’
‘I know.’

They fell into silence while Amir evenly poured the cheese mixture across the pastry base. ‘Cover it all,’ he murmured. Amir pressed the final corner of cheese and the pastry beneath it disappeared. Then he distributed another layer of the kataifi across the top. ‘We’ll cook it until it’s golden brown and the cheese is melted. Don’t let the cheese brown.’

‘40 minutes on medium heat,’ said Zeina. ‘We need to make the syrup, yes?’ She combined caster sugar and water in a pot on high heat. After bringing it to the boil, she turned down the heat, occasionally stirring until the sugar was fully dissolved. She switched off the flame then added in a tablespoon of orange blossom water.

‘Very nice,’ said Amir when he tasted it, and put it aside to cool.
‘It’s not hard, but it’s fiddly,’ said Zeina.
‘Fiddly?’
‘Lots of bits and pieces.’
‘I warned you.’
‘I’m not complaining.’

While they waited for the knafeh to bake, they cleaned then drank Arabic coffee at the kitchen counter. Amir finished his before Zeina, then turned the tiny cup upside down, perching it on the edge of the saucer. The final touch was the syrup and pistachio garnish. ‘You do it,’ Amir told Zeina.

The scent of the knafeh ignited her hunger for cooking, making her feel somehow restored. As her excitement grew with each drop of syrup over the knafeh, she knew she would make this again. Needed to make this again. She sprinkled the crushed pistachios across the top with flourish.

It looked glossy-magazine good. ‘We did this,’ said Zeina. Amir cut into it and the sound of the crunch brought a stupid smile to Zeina’s face. ‘Beautiful,’ he said in an exaggerated accent and Zeina roared. ‘Don’t be stupid, Zeina, we need to eat.’

She was shaking with laughter when Amir extended a plate towards her. ‘I am literally crying,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘A’mou was a character, wallah.’ His eyes were glassy as he sectioned off a piece for himself.

Zeina used her fork to cut a chunk, slammed by the aroma of orange blossom. When she took the first bite, she closed her eyes in bliss. The golden, buttery kataifi, the melted sweet cheese, the even sweeter syrup. It was a moment of divinity and she surrendered.

This is an edited extract of Bitter and Sweet by Amal Awad. Published by Pantera Press, August 2023, $32.99. Available to purchase here.