Black garlic, umeboshi and unusual ingredients meet Leonidio’s flavours, where food, memory and tradition converge.
In the village of Leonidio, my grandmother had her own way of understanding food. Wearing her apron in the kitchen, with her crochet always close at hand, she could spend hours cooking, making her famous wild-green pies or preparing the simple dishes whose aromas would slowly fill the house.
Her pies are among the flavours I remember most vividly, baked in that large, black baking tray. The greens never simply arrived in the kitchen ready to use. She would take a bag and head out to gather them herself, selecting them one by one. When we were with her, she would share her little secrets, showing us how to recognise good wild greens and how to handle them without putting them through unnecessary strain.
For her, ingredients deserved respect. She expressed it in her own simple way and put it into practice every time she cooked. She knew that a good ingredient needed care from the moment it was gathered until the moment it reached the plate.
So what would she say if, one day, I placed a black garlic bulb on the table, with a small jar of umeboshi beside it? What if I then introduced her to a few more ingredients whose names seemed to have travelled from kitchens far beyond Leonidio?
“What is that?”
And so, a small culinary journey begins.
Black Garlic: Garlic with a different story
Black garlic begins with a familiar ingredient and acquires an entirely different character over time. Whole bulbs are kept for several weeks under controlled temperature and humidity until the cloves turn dark, soften and develop an almost velvety texture.
Its flavour is sweeter and deeper than fresh garlic, with notes reminiscent of dried fruit, caramel and balsamic vinegar. In the kitchen, it can be blended into a sauce, added to a purée or spread over toasted bread with a little olive oil.
Grandma would look at it for a moment.
“You made the garlic black?”
Umeboshi: A plum or something else?
Umeboshi is one of the most distinctive ingredients in Japanese cuisine. Ume is a small fruit related to the apricot and is often described as a Japanese plum. It is preserved with salt, developing an intensely sour and salty flavour while becoming soft and wrinkled in texture.
In Japan, it is used with rice, onigiri, noodles and sauces, as well as in many everyday preparations. Its strong flavour works in small amounts, adding acidity and saltiness to a dish.
Salt, time and the need to preserve food belong to no single culinary tradition. In Greece, we know them through pickles, olives and cured foods, through the old practices that helped food last a little longer.
Grandma would pick up the umeboshi and ask:
“Is that a plum?”
Miso: What can one spoonful do?
Miso is a thick paste made from fermented soybeans and is a staple of Japanese cuisine. There are different varieties, with colour and flavour changing according to how they are made and how long they are aged.
It is used in soups, sauces and marinades, served with vegetables and noodles, and can add depth to even the simplest dish. A small amount is enough to bring intensity and saltiness.
The idea of creating great flavour from a small amount is familiar in Greek cooking too. Grandma knew that good olive oil, the right wild greens, a little salt and enough time could turn a simple dish into something memorable.
Grandma would study it for a moment.
“Miso? You mean half?”
Gochujang: How hot is it?
Gochujang is a thick red paste from Korean cuisine, made with chilli peppers and fermented ingredients. Its flavour brings together heat, sweetness and saltiness and it is used with meat, rice, noodles, soups and sauces.
Its intensity varies according to the product and the amount used. Its sweet, full-bodied flavour makes it an interesting base for a sauce, even when the dish itself remains simple.
“Is it very hot?”
Grandma would want to find out for herself.
Yuzu: Is that lemon?
Yuzu is a Japanese citrus fruit with an intense aroma and a flavour that recalls lemon, mandarin and grapefruit. Its fragrant peel is widely used in sweets, sauces and drinks, while its juice brings freshness to many dishes.
In Japan, yuzu also has a place beyond the kitchen. Around the winter solstice, yuzuyu, a traditional bath in which whole yuzu are placed in warm water, marks the season. The citrus aroma fills the bath and the custom is associated with wellbeing and protection during winter.
Grandma would bring it close to her nose.
“It smells like lemon!”
Sichuan Pepper: Where does that tingling come from?
Sichuan pepper has a distinctive place in Chinese cuisine thanks to the unusual sensation it creates in the mouth. Alongside its aroma, it produces a gentle tingling and numbing sensation on the tongue, quite different from the heat of a chilli pepper.
It is used with meat, vegetables, noodles and sauces and pairs well with bold flavours. It is a fascinating example of how a spice can add not only aroma and flavour to a dish, but also a different sensation.
Grandma would taste it and wait for a moment.
“Mmm… I like this! What did you call it?”
Tamarind: A sweet-and-sour flavour
Tamarind grows in pods and is used across the cuisines of Asia, Africa and Latin America. Its pulp has an intense sweet-and-sour flavour and finds its way into sauces, drinks, sweets and savoury dishes.
Its acidity brings brightness to food and can balance sweet, salty and spicy flavours. That love of acidity has its own place in Greek cooking too, from lemon and vinegar to the more sour traditional preparations.
With so many unfamiliar names gathered around the table, Grandma would look at us a little strangely.
“All these things have got me confused!”
And Greece has its own
After travelling through Japan, Korea, China and other Asian cuisines, returning to Greece brings an interesting thought. We have ingredients of our own that a visitor from the other side of the world might encounter for the first time and wonder what exactly they are and how they are used.
Rock samphire, with its fleshy leaves growing close to the sea, has long been associated with pickles, salads and dishes featuring fish and seafood.
Stamnagathi, with its distinctive bitterness, belongs to the world of wild greens that earlier generations knew intimately and used in ways we are rediscovering today.
Xinochondros and trahana carry a whole tradition of preserving food, making use of simple ingredients and preparing for the months ahead.
And then there is the Tsakonian eggplant of Leonidio.
The Tsakonian eggplant needed no explanation for Grandma. It was part of her place, her kitchen and the dishes she prepared in that large black baking tray. She knew it just as she knew the wild greens she gathered, the olive oil she used and the time each ingredient needed to give what it had to offer.
That knowledge had no name. It was not a technique learned at culinary school or something she needed to explain. It was simply the way she had learned to cook and to look at an ingredient.
From a kitchen in Japan to a village in Arcadia, good cooking begins in the same place. With the ingredient in front of you and the way you choose to treat it.
Every ingredient has its own story. The Hospitality Ambassadeurs team creates culinary ideas with character and identity for hospitality spaces.
