The search for the best harissa

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In Tunisia, harissa is as essential a condiment on the table as salt. It is ubiquitous, from the chic restaurants of whitewashed Sidi Bou Said to the roadside bars of Mahdia.

“It’s the basis of all our cooking,” says Tunisian painter Myriame Dachraoui as she prepares lunch in her kitchen in La Marsa, a bohemian coastal suburb of Tunisia. Today, Dachraoui is making ojja, a classic harissa recipe similar (and sometimes indistinguishable) from Tunisia’s most famous dish, shakshuka, adding red dabs of thick paste from a plastic bag to the pan as if she were applying the finishing touches to her canvas. The amount matters: not too much, not too little.

It is the basis of all our cuisine.

“Before eating, Tunisians prepare a little appetizer,” she explains. “They add olive oil around the harissa to balance it and soften the spiciness, then sprinkle tuna and capers on the bread to dip in.” This is not the “industrial” mashed or tubed harissa you find in British supermarkets (notably the famous Tunisian brand Le Phare Du Cap Bon). The version she uses – as does virtually everyone in Tunisia – is homemade harissa arbi (the name comes from the Arabic verb harassa, to pound): a thick, fragrant sauce typically made from roasted red peppers and baklouti, a mix of spices and herbs, and olive oil.

It is often smoked on the charming island of Djerba, where, near the chilli fields of Gabès, the ancient Jewish population preserves alternative recipes to traditional Tunisian cuisine. kitchenOn our visit, a brik (a stuffed, fried dough) served with harissa in the Sephardic quarter of Hara surprised Dachraoui. Further south, taking the Islamic centre of Kairouan as a starting point, another type of harissa pounded with onions and garlic called h’rousse becomes a favourite condiment. Then, at the eastern end, nestled on the sparkling shores of Cap Bon, which stretches like a finger into Sicily, is Nabeul, the birthplace of harissa, where Moorish refugees from Andalusia settled in the 17th century, bringing with them the vital pepper. Visitors are greeted by the spiced aroma of the market, where dried peppers hang outside yellow-tiled shop fronts and street banners declare: “Nabeul: capitale mondiale de’harissa.”

Most of the factories and chilli plantations are located in the surrounding area, with endless green paths tended by women and men wearing palm-leaf hats to protect them from the sun. These workers, who endure the midday heat, follow a 1,000-year-old Amazigh calendar called Ajmi to guide their agricultural cycles.

The harissa festival organised every October in Nabeul by the colourful and famous chef Rafik Tlatli inspires such pride. Standing in white, Tlatli wears on his chest an impressive medallion surrounded by various badges from competitions and events around the world. He is the ambassador of Tunisian cuisine abroad. He is Mr Harissa. “We are the largest exporter in the world, but our priority with the festival has always been to make sure that people come to Nabeul to buy and learn about authentic local harissa,” explains Tlatli. “It is part of our identity.”

Harissa is embedded in the national consciousness: pharmacies promote the medicine with illustrations of sensitive peppers suffering from indigestion, and empty Cap Bon cans are repurposed as pencil holders or vases. In 2022, the paste was added to Unesco’s list of Intangible Cultural Heritage, as a Tunisian product (keyword: Tunisian). Much is owed to Tlatli, who has pledged to boost the reputation of Tunisian harissa abroad. He wrote the initial letter to the UN. “Once we started making progress, the government joined us in taking action,” he says. When I ask him if there is still debate about its origins, he jokingly replies: “Who says so? I will find them!”

“The UN recognition certainly disproved many arguments,” says Sami Lamiri, founder of Lamiri HarissaWe meet at La Marsa. Lamiri spends half his time here, meeting with producers, and the rest in London, where he grew up and where his harissa has become popular with chefs and home cooks, largely through word of mouth. The business is part of his mission to introduce an authentic product to the UK. “When we started three years ago, I was smuggling jars in my suitcase using my grandmother’s recipe,” he says. “People loved it, so it took off.”

On each of his bottles, in bold capital letters, you can read: “Imported from Tunisia – the home of harissa.” It makes a clear point. “There are very few Tunisian restaurants in London, so people are not aware of how important harissa is,” says Lamiri. His brand has gained a following in Tunisia and is sold in the Bleue! fashion store in Sidi Bou Said. “Harissa is part of every Tunisian’s life. As children, my cousins ​​and I would make bets on who would eat the most,” he says. “As an adult, Lamiri has allowed me to rediscover my heritage, find a home here and, as we grow up, take people on the journey with me.”

It’s a journey I happily revisit when I return to London. I see Lamiri Harissa in a Shoreditch delicatessen, then in a bakery near Charing Cross. When I have a cold, the two jars of scarlet harissa from the souk in La Marsa that I keep in the fridge remind me of a piece of advice from Dachraoui, a kind of folk tale passed down through the generations: when you’re sick, you eat harissa. Of course you do. Whether you’re sick or feeling homesick, for Tunisians harissa is always the remedy.