Women, Life & Freedom With Jojo Sureh
(This interview was transcribed and edited)
What’s your name, what do you do and what do you say when people ask where you really come from?
I’m Jojo, founder of Cook to Care, a food initiative providing free meals to those who need them. We also provide skills and development programs to gang affiliated youth and prison leavers, and people without status here. We also host events like supper clubs to give culinary recognition to certain cuisines that don’t get it.
I get ‘where are you really from?’ every single time. No one has ever asked me, ‘What part of London are you from?’ It’s always, “Where are you from?” And my answer is, ‘What do you mean?’ I like making people feel uncomfortable. I don’t know if that’s bad and it’s not intentional, it’s just I think I’ve got quite a British accent, so I know they’re making more of a point because they can’t accept that I could possibly be born here. Then when I say, ‘I’m from London’, it’s always ‘How long have you been here?’
How about ‘what’s your heritage’?
If someone said to me ‘Are you from London and were your parents born here, too?’, or ‘What’s your heritage?’ I think that’s a fair question. The ‘Where are you from?’ is them stating they don’t think you are from here. So it is offensive.
My father’s Iranian, and my mother is Greek-Cypriot. I live with both cultures and religions. I grew up in an area in North London that is heavily Greek. And if you were Greek, you were very much only Greek. And if you were any other culture, you were only that as a whole. So me being Greek mixed with something that was non-Christian was always a thing. I used to lie about my middle name - my mum even changed my name to her name because she knew that it would be more recognised as Greek. She knew there might be some stigma - it was always there, even if it wasn’t conscious.
What were some of those feelings that you had growing up?
It was more about keeping up appearances. I was the brunt of quite a few jokes, which I would enable. I was at secondary school when 9/11 happened and there were these jokes around my father being Iranian Muslim. The association of terrorism was a running joke until I left school, and it was something I joined in on because I didn’t know anyone else who was Iranian other than my father. I didn’t know how else to deal with it; I just rode the wave because they were my friends but I didn’t feel comfortable.
It’s that thing of using self-deprecation to protect oneself.
I was always quite sarcastic. I think maybe that was born from having to follow the crowd from a young age but not understanding what I was really doing.
How has that followed you into adult life? It sounds like you were more in touch with your Greek side, not so much with the Iranian?
I never really felt connected to my Greek side, because I knew I had this Iranian culture behind me. My dad was the only person that was in London - the rest of my family were in Iran, or had slowly migrated to the USA. I only ever saw them every five years when they’d come and visit. My dad would take me to Iranian cafes to eat. So I was only exposed to that culture by my dad taking me to places, but it wasn’t people that I knew. I was always intrigued by it. And I felt more connected to that Iranian side, maybe because of the curiosity of not being as exposed to it.
My ability to cook comes from my Greek side, because my mum and grandmother brought me up. I knew that I wanted to replicate all the flavours of Iran that I loved with the skill sets that I learned cooking Mediterranean foods. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve become very obnoxious about being Iranian, making sure people know this isn’t just Middle Eastern food. Like, what even IS that term!
So I think as I’ve gotten older, I’m more confident about saying, YES, I am Iranian. Take my middle name - it’s not actually my middle name because I was born with two first names. Jojo/Joanna is Greek, and my Iranian middle name is Sureh, but I used to tell people it was Sue or Sarah. Now I identify myself with both my first names. I’m Greek, and I’m Iranian.
How did you learn about Iranian cooking?
It was really through replicating those favourite dishes from going to the cafes or restaurants when I was young. My father was a really good cook, but because I didn’t live with him, he’d always take me out to eat. When I did go to the USA on my own, or when my grandma or grandfather would come over, they would bring those flavours with them. But I wasn’t with them for enough time to actually learn how to cook, so I guess I found my own orthodox way of getting to the end result.
I’m plantbased now - a lot of the food that I used to cook before was meat. So I always treat vegetables like they’re meat; they’re marinated and braised for like three, four days.
Did your father ever taste your food?
It’s funny - when I was younger, my dad never really believed I could cook. Firstly because he never gave me the opportunity to cook - even though throughout my childhood, I’ve always been the friend who can cook. But that’s an identity that your parents don’t believe you have, so it was so farfetched for my dad. Now I’m 34, and in the last six years I’ve been cooking a lot more, but my dad still thinks I started cooking recently or because of the pandemic. It’s really bizarre.
That also comes from a cultural thing. My dad thinks, well, how did you learn? You’re not yet a wife! But he’s trying my food now and I feel uncomfortable because he over compliments it. I know it comes from him being shocked. I think it’s him thinking, oh, God, maybe I shouldn’t have shut her down or suppressed her so much!
So you’ve never visited Iran?
No, but my Father has always been back and forth.
It’s interesting to have never visited a homeland.
It’s true. But I know all about it. My dad has a medicinal thyme farm and the agriculture there is incredible. I think Iran’s agriculture and horticulture has the most variation of each type of herb or vegetable than any country in the world. It’s incredible how I know all this but can’t access it in such a direct way.
Did you ever feel like there were parallels between Greek and Iranian food culture and cooking?
I think it’s the concept of cooking in abundance and that everyone is welcome. But that abundance of food being as good a quality as anywhere else. There’s an art to batch cooking - lots of people think it’s putting everything in one pot. Like when people do a one stock pot and chuck everything in for one hour. I’m like, no, these things can take three or four days.
But in terms of the flavours they are very different. A lot of people still think that Iran is an Arabic country. I get a lot of people saying, oh, my God, I’ve had tagine when I went to Morocco… But we don’t have that! And our flavours are different: we use spices but don’t usually use chillies. A lot of things are aromatic and fragrant and we don’t use much garlic or pepper. I guess it’s more sweet and sour.
When would people say Persian vs Iranian food?
It depends. I change too, because I don’t know when and when not to. Technically we were once Persia, so all the flavours of Persia came from that one place. But at the same time, from a culinary perspective, there are dishes that are classified as Persian, and exist outside of Iran, like Afghanistan. I’m trying to say Iran more, but sometimes people correct me and say that’s Persian.
I’m just looking at the map now of Iran, which is huge.
It’s east of the Arabic countries, but the middle of what? Geographically, it’s the Middle East of Europe, which is where that term has come from. But the history of that term comes from colonising those countries and creating warfare in these places and then finding a geographic name to identify them as a whole.
Iran, along with the rest of the Middle East, are defined as terror countries. Culturally, they all get merged, when the majority of them are in Africa, a few of those countries are actually in Asia, some are Arab, some are Persian. This term, ‘the Middle East’, I don't get upset if other people talk about it, but it annoys me that it’s so flippantly used.
It’s a political construct as well. I remember listening to a podcast that educated me on the different terms like Levantine, Arab, Middle Eastern, and how they all mean different things.
Exactly. I also don’t like the word ‘cultural appropriation’, but using those terms in the wrong way does become cultural appropriation because they have different meanings and histories. Some of them are representative of significant times that those countries or regions have suffered. It’s not that hard to Google and get information on a basic level. Sometimes I find it’s people jumping on a bandwagon trend, which can be a good thing, but it’s not hard to spend an extra month to do the right research or message someone on Instagram saying, hey, you’re Iranian or Arabic or Korean, can I ask you a few questions?
What are some things you’ve seen that were real crimes against Iranian food culture?
I feel like that most Iranian restaurants tend to be either owned by Persians or by Arabic people, and it hasn’t been commercialised to that extent. There’s the restaurant Berenjak - I still need to go there. I can never get a table. I would say they are as authentic as can be. So I haven’t seen a non-Iranian trying to open an Iranian restaurant.
But there was a ‘flavours of the Middle East’ pop up four or five years ago - that’s where I see Iran getting intertwined into [the label of Middle Eastern]. There was a dish called ghormeh sabzi, a green herb lamb stew, which uses either black eyed peas or red kidney peas, depending what region of Iran you’re from. And the herbs are typically cooked for days. And someone said this was ghormeh sabzi. Not ghormeh sabzi-inspired. It wasn’t me being fussy, but it genuinely didn’t taste anything like it, more like they got the recipe completely wrong.
I actually see it more with Greek food, because that has more of a commercial spotlight on it, especially with Mediterranean-style restaurants. There’s Greek-Cypriot, and there’s Greek. My family come from both Greece and Cyprus, and Cypriot food has more Arabic food, whereas Greek food’s foundations come from French cooking. But you won’t always find halloumi in Greece. It comes from Cyprus. If I see grilled halloumi at a Greek restaurant, I know it’s not usually owned by Greeks. It’s very hard to go to a Greek island and ask for halloumi. They’ll look at you being like, we’re not from Cyprus…
You said something interesting about how warfare has shaped Iranian food culture and obviously there’s a huge diaspora. How do you see that in the way Iranian food has evolved?
I think the evolution looks like… me! I wasn’t brought up learning how to cook Iranian food, more eating it rather than seeing it being made. So I’ve been really strict on trying to cook it the traditional way. That's how I first learned to do it and get the recipe right, then I’ve gone backwards, and that’s part of how I revolutionised it. When I became plantbased, it was like, how do I now replicate this without using beef stock? Sometimes that can be risky because you don’t know who’s going to come and eat your food at supper clubs, and whether it’ll be accepted. Then you’re like, oh my God, that person’s Iranian, and I’m selling mirza ghasemi, a smoked aubergine dip, but I tend to adjust my recipes to seasonal veg so if it’s winter, I’ll smoke a winter squash but make sure to get the same taste. But I’m like, what if I’ve just got it that bit wrong…
But I think that fire and the confidence about doing it comes from the fact that women in Iran have been suppressed. My aunties, who went through the Revolution, have been really harmed by it. They’re incredible people, who have their own successful businesses, but when they’re outside of that I can see how it’s impacted their personalities and how they must have PTSD from it. Right now Iran is having the biggest female-led revolution of our time that we’ll ever see, which started from children and females and revolutionised throughout the entire country. I need to bring that voice through my food, by changing it a little bit. I didn’t suffer the Revolution, but I still feel the trauma. Even though I don’t directly know those protesting, that’s where I’m from, and I could have been born there - that would have been me. Put me in a room full of bigots and I’m happy to be the loudest voice! I know that I would definitely be burning my hijab and I would put my life on the line. I wish I could do it now. Although I never wanted tattoos, my hair was already short when the revolution came [so I couldn’t shave it off], so I got WOMEN, LIFE, FREEDOM tattooed in Farsi on me. Zan. Zendegi. Azadi.
When I first reached out to you we were talking about ‘solidarity’ and what it means, because I feel like that word can be bandied about a lot. What does it look like for you?
For me, solidarity is action. It’s great having social media and amplifying all the things that are happening in certain parts of the world. But it means nothing if there’s no action. It doesn’t necessarily have to be about going to protest, but it’s actively seeking events, activities or even buying a book that can educate you or raise money towards a cause. There have been so many small events for Kurdistan, Syria, the Turkey earthquake - it’s not hard to find them. It’s about showing a little more interest and care, because when you go to these events you see people and understand what their families in those countries are going through.
A lot of my friends are white and privileged, and when I share things about Iran, they send me messages like, oh my God, it’s so sad. I’m like, no, it’s not sad. This is incredible. What is sad is that that’s all you can say about it. Children are literally going to protest knowing they’re at risk of dying, to make a change for the future. That’s empowering.
How does cabbage feature in Iranian or Greek cuisine? What’s your relationship to it?
In Iranian cuisine cabbage is not so integrated. There are different types, sometimes steamed and added into dishes but there isn’t a significant dish. In my Greek heritage, cabbage is used especially in salads. And in all the foods I cook, I incorporate cabbage, but never know what to call it. Because if I call it a cabbage salad, people are like, oh, is that a slaw? I’m like, no, because my idea of a slaw is that disgusting thing you’d find in the supermarket.
I tend to salt the cabbage for days then drench it in lemon. If I tell someone to put eight lemons in a salad, they’re like, are you sure that’s enough? It’s a running joke. So it’s mainly parsley, salted onion, salted cabbage, lemon and a really good olive oil, maybe some fresh coriander, too. You’d usually have that at a barbecue. Now I’ve evolved that - I’ll braise the cabbage in a homemade rose water, then do a saffron oil marinade and put pomegranate and rose in it or a kohlrabi. I love cabbage. I roast it, I do everything to it. But I never know what to call it because the saffron and rose are Iranian, but you wouldn’t have an Iranian rose saffron slaw or whatever people want to call it.
So I just call it braised cabbage salad - cabbage is where I morph Greek and Persian flavours together.
Jojo Sureh’s Rose Cabbage Salad
Click to enlarge Jojo’s recipe
How will you serve your braised cabbage salad?
Iranian breads, a choice of dips, kuku sabzi - a herb frittata with walnuts and barberries, but I make a chickpea batter to replace the egg - roast potatoes with crushed coriander and lemon, which is a traditional Greek recipe, but I roast them in saffron oil. If I braise the cabbage, there’ll always be a raw salad and a cooked salad. For me it’s all about texture - there has to be softness like puree in your mouth, something crunchy, something smooth.
Who would you invite to eat your meal?
Frida Kahlo and Julian Assange. Julian Assange because - at least in terms of Wikileaks, - in 100 years he is going to be looked upon as heroic. Frida Kahlo for the boundaries she pushed with gender, race and class, and being unapologetically loud about those things. Having her and Assange together would be so poignant and prevalent while we still fight against those same oppressions today.
In the canon of Iranian dishes, do they have specific names? Like Chinese food names, which can be very poetic and symbolic.
Iranian food is quite literal. But we have sayings about how you eat the food. One of my favourite ones is ‘ajîl-e Moshkel-goshâ’ (‘problem solving nuts’). I always integrate this into our supper clubs. You have nuts, dates, apricots, dried melon seeds. The more you eat them, the more you talk. But the more you talk, the more you eat. And the saying is that whilst we eat them, we solve our problems and put the world to rights.
It’s so funny because me and my dad are limited in terms of being open with each other. But whenever we’re on a long car journey, as soon as he hands me some melon seeds we start talking to each other. And in one hour he’ll say the saying, and we’ll laugh at ourselves because we know that we're not that open with each other. So at the supper clubs, the starter is always a sharing table with the nuts so that everyone - whether they know each other or not - eat together, solving problems if they want to.
Is it a sharing food culture? Do you have any particular etiquettes, like with the Chinese custom of serving elders first?
Yes, everything is served in the middle. But if it’s Nowruz or Ramadan, usually you focus on the children first because they represent the new light. But with Cook To Care, I’ve taken that sentiment away, because we’re giving people food for free where we have not compromised on ingredients. I want to say that no one is more important than anyone else. They’re eating restaurant quality food that they would never have tried before. And with all our supper clubs, for every two tickets sold, we invite a member of the community to come for free, although no one knows they’ve come for free - they don’t have a wristband or anything. The whole point is that: you are welcome in this environment as much as everyone else. In fact, you’re probably more honoured because the reason everyone is here is because of you. I find it unfathomable that in a First World city in a First World country, there are people that are still hungry.
How have you grown with your food journey?
Whenever I’m cooking a dish, I’m always creating something with someone in mind. This is how Cook To Care was born. Am I spotlighting someone through this recipe? Could this dish help someone from a physical, mental or nutritional point of view? Is it from someone that I’ve learned from? Or someone that’s exposed me to a certain culture? My dad’s wife is Japanese - she’s been in my life since I was five years old. I remember in school when I was ten years old, we were doing a word trivia thing, and I thought, what does sushi really mean? Because it does not mean raw fish, right? So me being smartypants was like - actually it refers to the rice. And I remember getting a mark wrong for doing that.
In whatever I do, I’m always thinking about someone. It could be the person who inspired me, the one who taught me that dish, or who this dish is going to help.
Intentionality.
Yeah. Our last supper club was at a coffee roastery, and we got some surplus calico. We collected the coffee grind that they would usually dispose of and dyed the fabric with it. Everything we do is sustainable where possible and considered. That’s the same with the food I cook.