Residency 2.0 Three Shores

Tonight’s menu is more than a collection of flavors—it is a story of migration, of forced departures and hopeful arrivals, of loss and reinvention. It is the story of my ancestors, carried not in heirlooms or monuments, but in the dishes passed down through generations.

Ajo blanco. We begin in Al-Andalus, where my paternal Jewish ancestors once lived, where laughter and debate filled the courtyards, where ajo blanco—a delicate almond gazpacho—offered cool relief in the southern heat. When the Reconquista came, they were forced to leave, carrying little with them but memory.

Mushroom bstilla. In Fez, Morocco, they rebuilt their lives in a city that welcomed poets and scholars, where culture flourished despite the weight of displacement. Here, the crispy layers of bstilla, dusted with cinnamon and sugar, became a symbol of survival—the sweetness of beginning again after everything is lost.

Mechboos. On my mother’s side, the journey takes us to Kuwait, where mechboos, fragrant with spices, is the heart of every gathering. Traditionally eaten by hand, from a shared platter, tonight I serve it differently—individual portions, cutlery at the side— a quiet reflection of my European upbringing, of the ways I have had a foot in two worlds, never fully belonging to either.

Gers ogaily. And finally, we end with gers ogaily, a golden cake infused with saffron, rosewater, and cardamom, its flavors tracing back to Iran, where my mother’s ancestors once walked. Cakes hold meaning beyond taste—they are symbols of celebration, of unity, but also of absence. The empty space left behind. The longing for a home that no longer exists.