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Members of St. James Armenian Church making kataif
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Imagine it: layers of phyllo dough filled with sweetened cheese and finished with a sweet syrup. The outside crunches, giving way to a rich, creamy interior.
Baklava? Think again. This is cheese kataif, an Armenian delicacy. Unfortunately, unlike the nearly ubiquitous baklava, you can’t just walk into a restaurant and order it. That makes this dense square of deliciousness a rarity in Richmond, and, for food lovers, all the excuse they should need to seek it out during the Armenian Food Festival Sept. 8-10 at St. James Armenian Church.
The festival has exposed curious Richmonders to a delicious world beyond pimento cheese and biscuits — a world made up of the delicate savory crackers known as simit, or the Hye burger, made with a blend of spiced ground lamb and sirloin. Or the glorious confection called kataif.
St. James, located on land purchased nearly 70 years ago with money raised from bake sales, is a hive of highly regimented activity on the day I drop by: kataif day, the day the women of the church make the trays of kataif for the festival.
Hair pulled back in nets, each focuses intently on her specific task. I stand off to the side in the kitchen, watching as pink-nailed fingers shred the phyllo dough into smaller and smaller strands until it resembles mounds of vermicelli. Now comes Linda to pour a pot of clarified butter over the shredded dough. Followed by Georgette, who spreads the slightly sweetened cheese on top. The women won’t tell me what’s in the cheese — the secret is not to be shared — but a quick taste reveals, at the very least, rosewater. To finish the confection, a top layer of dough is added, and the pan is wrapped and hauled off to the freezer to be stashed until the festival, when it will be baked and drizzled with a sugary syrup.
As the women work, Lily Thomas, the organizer of the Women’s Guild, circles the room to ensure there isn’t even a tiny deviation on the production line.
As children who were brought to the U.S. in the 1940s by their parents and grandparents, as part of the massive exodus spurred by the Armenian genocide, they tell me that they didn’t always have the luxury of an oven to bake the traditional holiday dish. Instead, they were often forced to cook it over gas flames or, as Lily’s father did, “on a charcoal fire.”
Others baked the kataif in secret, afraid that any outward indication of being Armenian could make them a target of the authorities again. Those anxieties have eased with time, and kataif has been restored to something of its original meaning in their lives.
Something, but not entirely.
It can never just be a simple treat, as it is for all the rest of us who have only just been introduced to this gloriously sticky dessert. For this generation of Armenians in Richmond, it will always be a resonant reminder of their long journey here.
