Persian delight

My excitement at making pizza is always tempered by the prospect of preparing the dough. It takes too damn long. “You want pizza,” I say to my mother, “you should’ve told me yesterday.” “Well,” she says back, unfazed, “I’m telling you now.”

My go-to dough is based on a recipe by the pizza-obsessed Peter Reinhart. You can find an abridged version here (I haven’t read the original which is said to run for six book pages, notes and all). It’s really not much work, but it does take overnight to ferment so instant gratification is totally out of the question. Doubtless a number of you are wondering why I don’t just order pizza like normal people do. Let me see… Maybe because I’m loathe to pay upwards of ₱300 for something I can make for a third that amount?

And then I catch an episode of Eat Street (the show about American food trucks) where this guy makes pizza using Persian flatbread. Although my knowledge of flatbread is limited to pita (I have had some, I mean), I have this notion that making them is fairly simple. After some Googling, I decide on lavash, which, although Armenian in origin, is apparently common fare in Iran. I pass on Alton Brown’s recipe (too chip-like) and go for the bready version by the sisters at My Persian Feast.

Now comes the part where I rave about the dough. It is not only simple — with minimal kneading (the recipe doesn't even mention to do that) and a mere hour to proof — it gives me the crispiest crust since my tortilla pizza. And I don’t mean Greenwich-cracker-crispy, which I don’t fancy; this one definitely tastes/feels like bread. If I have anything to complain about, it’s that I can’t stretch the dough to my desired thinness without it sticking all over the place (in fact, the recipe warns against over-rolling to prevent the development of gluten and making the resulting bread dry and tough). I lift it while gently stretching along the edges and hope gravity does the rest of the work, but I’m too clumsy so I switch to slapping it from one palm to the other (ineffective). I’m telling you, it is not as easy as it looks on TV. Back to the rolling pin.

Floury and sweaty, I then contemplate on how to lift the rolled dough off the counter without ruining its shape. And then it comes to me: pizza peel! That’s the paddle-like thing used to slide pizza in and out of the oven. Or, in this case, the smoking cast-iron skillet (no oil). The bread puffs up in less than a minute (if yours does not, the pan is probably not hot enough), and in around five I have my very first lavash!

Honestly, I will not be trading my pandesal for lavash anytime ever. It’s a cultural thing, I guess. But I will not be making pizza with pandesal, either. After the bread has cooked on both sides, I brush the surface with a basil-walnut pesto (with the bread still in the skillet, heat lowered) and garnish with quartered tomato, sautéed beech mushrooms, sliced onion (next time I should cook them with the mushrooms to wilt them a bit), some shredded iceberg lettuce, and chunks of mozzarella — for an estimated total cost of ₱100, mostly for the mushrooms. Then I slide the skillet under the oven broiler and wait for the cheese to melt, about three minutes (see, not much time to cook those onions).

And then I dive in.

Oh joy! The extra time it takes to garnish and bake the pizza renders that crust extra-crispy. I’m not saying I’m ditching Peter Reinhart’s dough, but for sheer ease and convenience — not to mention taste and bite — lavash is a worthy contender to the throne. Of course now that the cat’s out of the bag, I no longer have an excuse to put off making pizza until tomorrow, hoping Ma will forget by then (she often does). Who says life is fair? Ask the Iranians. Their country is the nose job capital of the world, and what do Filipinos notice about them?

The smell. (FYI, I have never met an Iranian.)