Imagine a world where sushi can only be sold by Japanese, frozen tortillas can be obtained exclusively from producers based in Mexico, and, to put goulash on the menu, a chef must prove that at least one of his parents is Hungarian.

This was my first reaction to the claim earlier this month by Fadi Abboud, the president of the Lebanese Industrialist's Association, that Israel has been stealing their country's national dishes, like hummus, falafel, tabbouleh and baba ghanouj. Nor was I impressed by his claim that the 2002 ruling granting Greece the right to have only cheese produced on its soil called feta is a legal precedent. Feta is not hummus; it belongs to the paradigm of Roquefort cheese or Parma ham — regional products that should be protected against imitations and preserved in their authentic form.

Hummus and falafel are dishes based on recipes that change from village to village, sometimes from household to household. The beauty of the culinary world is in the way these dishes evolve, influencing the kitchens they arrive in or being themselves transformed. But when the cuisines in question are those of Lebanon and Israel, dwelling on charms of culinary cross-fertilization seems somehow beside the point. The common rhetoric is "First they steal our land, then they steal our hummus."

Several months ago, a journalist friend had dinner in a private home in Tarshicha, a beautiful village in the Western Galilee, not far from the Lebanese border. One of the dishes was based on raw, ground, heavily spiced goat meat, a kind of Middle Eastern version of steak tartare.

"It's Lebanese kubbe naye!" offered my friend, proud of her culinary erudition.

"No it's not," responded the host rather angrily, "It's Palestinian. There is not such thing as Lebanese cuisine."

I wonder what would happen if a Syrian were present during the incident. He or she might claim that the dish is neither Lebanese nor Palestinian but Syrian, since much of the region, including present-day Lebanon, was under Syrian rule until the beginning of the 20th century.

But why stop there? Turkey, or the Ottoman Empire to be precise, dominated the region for centuries and shaped not only cultures, borders and fates of the local peoples, but also their cuisines. We can move back in time to the Roman era, and even before, and the pattern would repeat itself. The land of Israel, a tiny but lucrative patch of land perched between the Mediterranean and the Syrian-African Rift, was always a hub of culture, commerce and political ambition. In a place like this, how can one know with certainty which dish originated where?

The most massive wave of culinary styles flooded the region in the 20th century. The Zionist enterprise brought to Israel Jews from all over the world, each carrying memories of food they grew up on. At first, the ethos was rejection of everything that reeked of Diaspora and an eager, almost childish, embrace of the Levant. The infatuation with falafel and hummus, staples of Arabic cuisine, started there. Later, as Israelis felt surer of their new identity, it became legitimate, even desirable, to go back to the cooking of their respective ethnic communities.

Eastern European Ashkenazi cooking, poorly suited to the hot climate and oblivious of the cornucopia of fresh fruit and vegetables, gave way to Balkan, Yemenite and North African dishes that quickly became the mainstay of the nation's menu. Falafel, the most popular street food of the 1950s, lost its supremacy first to Sahara (hailing from Turkey) and then to Sabich. The latter may be considered the first street snack that sprang from a Jewish culinary tradition. This sandwich combo of hard-boiled eggs and fried eggplants is based on the traditional Shabbat breakfast of Iraqi Jews.

Hummus is a different story. While not a single Israeli will claim that this chickpea and tahini concoction is anything but Arabic, the status it has reached in Israel is unprecedented anywhere in the Middle East.

In Lebanon or in Jordan, hummus is a simple morning fare or a part of a meze table. In Israel it is a religion. The best hummus restaurants, invariably owned by Arabs, are considered national treasures. Guides are dedicated to the best places to "mop up" hummus, books and essays discuss comparative virtues of fluffy Jerusalem hummus as opposed to chunky Galilean versions. This love affair, that has been going on for decades, shows no signs of dying. The latest addition to the hummus scene is a wave of upscale restaurants serving hummus with fancy toppings ranging from foie gras to ragoût bolognaise.

The popularity of hummus didn't go unnoticed by the food industry, and supermarket shelves burst with a variety of hummus products, sporting catchy names (most of them Arabic). The success of certain brands of Israeli hummus abroad may have been what brought about Abboud's anger.

But why buy industrial hummus anyway? Fresh hummus spoils quickly, so to make it suitable for marketing in a supermarket, it is loaded with additives and stabilizers. My advice is to forget about industrial hummus, regardless of its provenance. Nothing beats fresh homemade hummus, and it is so easy to prepare. Besides being delicious, it is a cheap source of quality vegetable protein — not a small feat in these crazy times.



Note: Since soaking and cooking takes a lot of time, it is advisable to cook at least 2 pounds of dry chickpeas and freeze them in small batches with some of the cooking liquid. Heat in a microwave until the chickpeas are warm and then follow the recipes as written.

BASIC HUMMUS DIP
(Serves 8-10)

1 pound, 2 ounces small dry chickpeas
1 tablespoon plus 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 cup raw top quality tahini
1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice
2 cloves garlic, crushed
Salt to taste

Soak the chickpeas overnight in a large bowl of cold water with 1 tablespoon of the baking soda.

Drain and rinse the chickpeas and put them in a large pan. Add water until it reaches 1 inch above the chickpeas. Add the remaining 1/2 teaspoon of baking soda and bring to a boil. Cook, covered, over low heat until the chickpeas are very soft — 2 to 4 hours. Cool slightly, drain and save some of the cooking liquid.

Put the chickpeas in a food processor, add 2/3 cup of the tahini and process until almost smooth. If the paste is too thick, add a few tablespoons of the cooking liquid. Season with lemon, garlic and salt; taste and adjust the seasoning.

For a richer, creamier version, add the remaining tahini and process until the hummus is completely smooth and fluffy.

Variation: For Galilee-style hummus, set aside 1 cup of cooked chickpeas. Purée the rest with 1/2 cup of raw tahini and the seasonings. Add the whole chickpeas and mix, slightly mashing the chickpeas. The texture should remain somewhat chunky.


This dip with all the trimmings is the royal flush of the hummus aficionado.

COMPLETE HUMMUS
(Serves 6-8)

1 batch basic hummus dip (recipe above)
For the sauce:
1 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
2 teaspoons ground cumin
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon hot red pepper, chopped
1 tablespoon garlic, crushed
4-5 Shipka peppers (or other small, hot, green pickled peppers), seeded and chopped
To serve:
Raw tahini
Olive oil
Chopped fresh parsley
Chopped onion

Mix the ingredients for the sauce and set aside for one hour.

Spoon 2-3 heaping tablespoons of hummus dip into each serving plate and spread around the rim, leaving a crater in the center. Fill the crater with one tablespoon of raw tahini. Pour on 2-3 tablespoons of the sauce, sprinkle some olive oil and top with chopped parsley and onion.

Variation: For Complete Hummus with whole chickpeas, add 2-3 tablespoons of warm cooked chickpeas to each plate of hummus dip. Pour the sauce and the olive oil on top and serve with chopped parsley and onion.

Janna Gur is the author of The Book of New Israeli Food, published this summer by Random House (hardcover, 304 pages, $35)