By Ferhat Dirik
An Ode to Lamb
As I woke up in the west of Ireland, visiting the edge of Europe where the Atlantic shows no let up in wind, cold crisp air and beauty, making my way down the open glass corridors of my partner’s parent’s home and finding a comfy chair, I peered outside and saw lamb frolicking boundlessly across green pastures. Spring born, tenderly young, too young to visit an abattoir in these parts of the world. I quipped “If my dad was here, he’d be lighting up a barbie and showing no remorse”, which brought some laughs but also held true. The man would absolutely delight in grilling these babies and proudly reference their tender textures (of course they’re tender: How many protein-shake downing babies do you know with tough muscles and heavy limbs?) and soft meats. And he would have been correct, because I have tasted first hand on many an occasion a young, heartbreakingly young lamb grilled, or slow cooked over the oven, or raw in the form of a Kurdish tartare with pepper paste, onions and a world of chilli. And that was all before I hit the age of 7. Never did we, my siblings and I, question the nature of the animal we’d be consuming as we’d be fed meat for breakfast, lunch and dinner on most days and days especially when our dad was home. He’d often say “If there isn’t meat in the meal, I don’t count it a worthy dinner” and it would be true – or at least, his truth. This wild idea became indoctrinated in my own impressionable brain for many years after, way into my mid 20s, where I’d find myself consuming insane amounts of lamb on a daily basis. My justification (at the time)? I was running a very good kebab restaurant and it was all too delicious not to enjoy. I recognised my privileges and I indulged in them, day after day, night after night (I still secretly yearn for my midnight Mangal 2 feasts with lamb sweetbreads, lamb ribs, ezme salad, pide soaked in lamb fat and a dark, deep glass of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo). I devoured animal after animal, stockpiling enough bodies on my hit count to populate a microstate.
Then, something emerged in me. Something I repressed. Something I had shut down as I tweeted silly anti-vegan slogans to the masses and waged war on Nando’s for being chicken-led (and a bit crap). Something I knew to be true, but which I constantly drowned out at a vague attempt to look cool and appear nonchalant towards life and nature; a little emo me acting like I didn’t give a shit. My truth bolstered through the ranks of denial: I love animals. I love nature. I love sheep. I love lamb. Lamb are so fucking cute. Look at them, all frail and curly. Look at the stupid, idiotic smile they all carry. Stupid lamb, why are you smiling? Why am I smiling? Lamb, stop it. Stop. Ok, ok wait, let me just… ok now I’m stroking your stupid smiling head and you’re letting out a “Baaaaaaaaah”. Who says “Baaaaaah?” Are you a little baby Scrooge reincarnated and haven’t yet learnt “Humbug”? Why did I ever eat so many of you? What did you ever do to me to deserve that?
Feeling conflicted, I visited farms. I drove country roads. I saw them everywhere and I felt joy. Was I seeking redemption, an atonement for my sins? I gradually faced my demons head-on and stared at my restaurant’s giant butcher’s display counter filled to the brim with tender, red-fleshed delights and I felt guilt. Meat for the masses as we’d do over 150 covers a Saturday, at what cost for the environment, for nature, for earthkind?
Yet. Yet still I was, and still I am a gluttonous, carnivorous beast. My hunger and strong urge for satiation overrides my ethical, empathetic sensibilities. I wrote the first half of this newsletter (essentially all of the above) and walked out of the restaurant that evening and devoured a lamb Adana Köfte from a nearby spot. Did I weep as I stuffed minced animal joy in pillowy soft pide bread in my salivating gullet? Absolutely not. No amount of raw chopped sumac onions inside my baton-shaped wrap of joy could bring water to my greedy eyes. I vacuumed up the whole thing like a ghostbuster suctioning in a ghoul.
But there is a middle ground. I consciously consume way less lamb now, avoiding it like a dark addiction and relapsing only when I can bear it no longer. I cannot recall the l last time I scrumptiously forayed into the dark arts of a veal cutlet. No suckling pig for this tribesman. Poisson is poison. The levels of consumption of animals has lessened, though it’s still to a degree which could still trigger a militant vegan into committing heinous acts on me. But I am now at least at peace. We source the best looked after sheep and cows in the land. Our lamb has been replaced by ex-dairy producing mutton, who have lived a long, harmonious life via the considerate, loving care of Matt Chatfield in Cornwall - whose techniques of regenerative farming makes the possibility of sustainable livestock appear hopeful in this burning, decaying world of dystopia. I visited his farm and saw happy, free sheep with an abundance of character only matched by the vast land they were free to roam. These creatures live a long life and are only culled at an elderly age, bringing bags of wisdom and experience (or let’s be more truthful here: FLAVOUR) with each bite. They even have names. The sheep have names. They exist and they have names. Their cooked fats are masterful expressions of healthy living, melting at the tongue and soothing the palate like a drug. Equally, the Mr Txuleta beef we sell are from the same way of life, ex-dairy British cows adopting the same industry-leading Basque farming techniques to ensure a longer leading, happy life for dairy-producing cows before they’re culled at an old age. Essentially, old, happy, big animals who are converted to tasty delights when they’re near the end of their cycle. Big. Old. Happy. Ethical. Meat. Delicious.
Essentially, Mangal 2’s identity crisis was my identity crisis. Fewer animals on the menu. Older, geographically closer, organically reared and sustainably-existed meats from happy farms.
And here’s a thought: Do you believe in reincarnation? Do we die, and our souls remerge in another living entity, and the cycle and continuation of life resumes? I’d like to hope so. And if true, do you know what I’d like to come back as? Kobe beef. A Cow in Japan massaged and fed beer all day, every day, whilst classical music is blared out to me, as if I’m some sort of medieval dandy living in a castle in a fortress in France. A life of oblivious pleasures in a land of wisdom, order, respect, culture and serenity. And then you eat me.