Sharbat: Lemonade With A Persian Twist

By Heidi Noroozy
 
The weather turned hot this weekend, and as the mercury climbed toward 90, I eyed my lemon tree with speculation. The bright yellow globes dancing among the green leaves beckoned me, practically begging me to do something with them before they fell off the tree and rotted on the ground. “How about a nice, refreshing glass of iced lemonade?” they seemed to say. Or even better, a glass of sparkling Persian sharbat.

I drank a lot of sharbat on my recent trip to Iran. When the weather turns warm, this summery drink replaces the ubiquitous tea that is served at the beginning of—and throughout—any social gathering. It is a delightfully refreshing beverage that starts out as a fruit or herb-based syrup and ends as a sweet-sour tingle on your tongue.

The first time I tasted sharbat was in the streets of Tehran—and I do mean in the street and not on it. I was sitting in a car at the time, caught in a traffic jam on Vali-Asr Avenue on a sweltering day in late August. Just when I thought I was going to melt right into my seat, a stranger thrust a tray laden with plastic cups of pomegranate-flavored sharbat through the open window. It was either a mirage or a miracle.

Neither one nor the other, actually. It was a holiday called Neem-e Sha’ban, the birthday of Imam Zaman, the last of the twelve Imams, divinely ordained leaders of the Shia faith. Shia Muslims believe that Imam Zaman disappeared in the 8^th century and will return to the world on Judgment Day.

His birthday is a big holiday in Iran, an occasion for joyous celebration. Cheerful lights are strung across the streets of Tehran and colorful banners are wrapped around tree trunks. People go into the streets and share boxes of pastries and drinks with everyone they meet. In cold weather, the beverage is likely to be tea or hot cocoa. In summer, it is sharbat.

Sharbat is a popular beverage throughout the Middle East and South Asia, from Turkey to India. It is mentioned in The Thousand and One Arabian Nights, and Lord Byron is said to have enjoyed it on a trip to Istanbul in the early 1800s.

The drink is made in a variety of flavors—herbal, floral, and fruity. Some popular ones are rose (sharbat-e gol-e sorkh), willow essence (sharbat-e bidmeshk), and orange blossom (sharbat-e bahar narenj). It can be made from many kinds of fruit, such as sour cherry (sharbat-e albaloo), pomegranate (sharbat-e anar), or rhubarb (sharbat-e rivas). One of the oldest varieties is sharbat-e sekanjebin, which is made from a mint-flavored syrup of vinegar and honey. (Trust me, it tastes much better than it sounds.) Grated or sliced cucumber is often added to enhance the taste.

With all the ripe lemons in my back yard, sharbat-e ablimoo was the best way to cool off in this weekend’s sweltering weather. It’s so easy to make, you hardly need a recipe, just some lemons, sugar, water, ice, and a splash of rosewater (an essential addition to most kinds of sharbat). But to get you started, Azita Mehran, my favorite Persian food blogger, has an excellent recipe at Turmeric & Saffron.

Give it a try and let me know how it turns out. Noosh-e jaan! Enjoy!

Good Luck Lemons

Last spring, I was fretting over my Meyer lemon tree. Weeks of rain brought out a flurry of new green leaves, but nary a blossom. The previous year, you could barely see the leaves for all the tiny white blooms covering them. I could smell their fragrance through my open window as I sat at my computer thinking up clever ways for the villain in my suspense novel to thwart my detective. But after such abundance, the tree seemed to have gone into a sulk.

A friend informed me that the situation was of my own doing. Apparently, I failed to take the proper precautions to ensure ongoing bounty. She wasn’t talking about fertilizer, pruning or proper irrigation.

“Sprinkle some salt around the perimeter,” she advised. “Then burn a bit of esfand and wave the smoke over the tree.” If performed during a season of abundance, this ritual will prevent jealous neighbors from putting the evil eye on the tree and ruining the next year’s crop. Esfand comes from a shrub that grows wild throughout the Middle East, and it produces a strong, woodsy odor when burned.

I have this advice on excellent authority. My friend is from Shiraz, a city in southern Iran, famous for its lovely gardens and fragrant citrus groves. Her family grows Seville oranges in their garden, and the trees are so bountiful that the blossoms end up in a variety of dishes, with plenty remaining to form big, juicy fruit. Some of the blooms add fragrance to tea, while others are turned into moraba-ye bahar-e narenj, or orange blossom preserves. To collect the flowers, the women spread large sheets under the trees, shake the branches until the blossoms snow down all around, then gather them up in the cloths.

I even have the proper tools for protecting my lemon tree from the evil eye:

First, you heat the wand over a flame until the metal coils glow red, then you dip it in a bowl of esfand. The seeds crackle and release their scent in a cloud of pungent smoke. I burn it in my kitchen to get rid of cooking smells, especially fish. My husband complains that this simply replaces one bad smell with another, but I like the scent. It reminds me of hiking in the forest and camp fires.

The ritual precaution seemed to work well for my Shirazi friend, so I tried it. And wouldn’t you know it – my lemon tree is now covered with lovely yellow globes, nearly ready for harvesting, with a second crop of tiny green fruit following close behind. I predict a steady supply of lemons throughout the coming year.

Do you observe any superstitions or rituals in your daily life? How well do they work?