Lamb with saffron and a miniature Persian court. A humorous culinary story

 I always suspected that my kitchen is a place of magic. Not the kind where you wave your hand and the broth cooks itself. But the kind where if you gape, instead of an exquisite dish you get something that even in the Middle Ages would have been considered a weapon of mass destruction.

Today's challenge was worthy even for the bravest chefs of antiquity: lamb with saffron according to the recipe of the cooks of King Xerxes. The frying pan assured me that this recipe was the pinnacle of Persian cuisine. Tomato and coffee beans looked at me approvingly from the kitchen table, like the highest culinary council.

"Let's begin!" the frying pan solemnly proclaimed. "Take a piece of lamb. Preferably the hind leg. But if you do not have royal reserves, what you have will do.

I pulled the meat out of the fridge.

- The first step is the marinade. The meat should feel like a guest at a Persian feast, not a prisoner in a saucepan! - said the frying pan.

The tomato nodded in agreement:

- The main thing is not to forget about the onion. In Persia, it was more important than gold.

I took two large onions and cut them into thin half rings.

- Now add lemon juice and olive oil, - the frying pan continued. - And coriander, cumin and, of course, saffron!

The coffee beans whispered among themselves:

- Saffron is the gold of cooking! It was more expensive than silver, and in ancient times, for counterfeiting saffron, they could chop off your hands.

I carefully dissolved a pinch of saffron in warm water. The entire kitchen was instantly filled with a subtle, spicy aroma.

- Now mix the meat with the marinade and leave for a couple of hours. Or, if you want a truly Persian taste, overnight.

The tomato sighed:

- We don't have much time, like Xerxes before Thermopylae. Let it marinate for at least an hour.

I covered the bowl with film and put it in the refrigerator.

Time to cook!

An hour later, I took out the meat and heated the frying pan.

- Add the ghee. In Persia, they called it "the butter of eternity." It didn't spoil for years.

I melted the butter. The onion began to fry, filling the kitchen with a tart aroma. Then I added the meat.

- The fire should be moderate, like a balanced shah. Not too strong - otherwise the outside will burn and the inside will remain raw.

I turned the pieces of lamb. They sizzled, browned, and the kitchen instantly filled with the smells of an oriental bazaar.

The coffee beans reminded:

- It's time to add spices! Turmeric for a golden color, cinnamon for warmth, ginger for piquancy. And a little salt and black pepper.

I obediently added everything to the pan.

- Now add water and simmer. Long. The longer, the better. And if you want real flavor - a little honey. Persian cuisine loves to combine sweet and salty.

I dripped honey, and the smell became even richer.

- Now we wait.

We sat down at the table, sipping tea, and the pan quietly muttered something about ancient feasts under its breath.

The final touch

After two hours, I removed the lid.

- Add pomegranate syrup! It will give the dish a sour taste and make the flavor richer.

I obediently dripped syrup.

- Now try it!

The lamb was tender, soaked in the aromas of the East.

The tomato remarked contentedly:

- Xerxes would approve.

Coffee beans added:

- And Leonid would ask: "Where is my Spartan soup?"

We laughed. Dinner was a success.