Words & Pictures: John Lee

When I went to Armenia for the first time to teach a photography workshop, one of my students, Inessa Karapetyan, took me and a few students to watch her maret tatik—grandmother on her mother's side—make lavash in the village of Zovk. Although less than an hour away from Yerevan, Zovk felt like a different world, one where cottages and farmhouses took the place of apartment buildings and golden grassy hills stretched into the distance. A small orchard of apricot and cherry trees grew on the hillside behind the family’s farmhouse while chickens pecked at the grass alongside a couple of old cows. But our attention was directed toward a small shed adjacent to the garage—our destination, as it turned out.

Years of smoke and flour had coated the shed’s interior walls, fading them into a sooty charcoal gray thanks to the tonir, the clay oven in the floor where Inessa’s grandmother, Aida, had already started a fire. Sipping apricot kompot made from the backyard harvest, we watched as the grandmother pounded her fists into a large metal bowl, forming balls of dough and setting them aside on platters. She disappeared into the house, re-emerging with an oversized faded green work shirt and an apron dusted with flour, and sat on the ground, dropped her legs into a hole dug in front of the tonir. Soon she was spinning a ball of dough as if she were making pizza. Once paper thin, she spread the dough onto the batat, a firm pillow-like contraption, lowered it into the tonir, and pounded the dough into the oven's wall.

While she worked, Inessa’s aunt brought out cilantro, green onions, dill, and pungent, salty cheese. Nearly a minute later, the dough transformed from a thin membrane into a hot flaky sheet covered in charred blisters. It was chewy but with a crisp exterior that immediately brought to mind Neapolitan pizza crust, but thinner. We tore chunks of the hot lavash, topped it with the greens and the funky cheese and then rolled it up and ate it like burritos.

There was an elegance to the simplicity of this meal: dough baked in a subterranean oven eaten with fresh local greens and homemade cheese. No culinary acrobatics were involved here, no formal French techniques or exotic ingredients. Just centuries-old simple foods combined together to make an honest and delicious snack.

Back in Yerevan, I shopped for lavash in supermarkets, each sheet running about two feet long and folded in half. I made it a habit of buying a bag of lavash with a jar of spicy roasted tomato and red pepper spread, and cheese. When I told my translator, Nare, about my little sandwiches, she made a face and say the lavash in the supermarkets were inferior because they’re machine-made, without the beautiful irregular blisters found in the ones made by Inessa’s grandmother. Yeah, it may have not been nearly as earth-shattering, but it satisfied my need for a quick fix to replicate the experience I had on the farm.

When I came back to the U.S., I couldn't get lavash out of my head. But when I picked up a package at local grocery stores, I was offended that the imposters could be called lavash at all. Where were the blisters, where was the chewy-but-crisp texture? I needed to go back to the source—or at least find a way to make it myself.

And this little adventure is this inspiration that led us to create Lavash, the book.