This labour-intensive dish has crossed empires, borders and belief systems, becoming a shared language of generosity around the world.
When Fatima Oliyan hosts guests for a traditional Saudi holiday meal at her home in Riyadh, her menu almost always features waraq enab, or stuffed grape leaves, also known as dolma. Neatly rolled and topped with a dash of lemon juice, the leaves are filled with a spiced mixture of rice, meat and vegetables, then carefully arranged on a wide platter.
“I love making dolma at home,” says Oliyan. “We have been making these for ages in our family. I cannot even imagine a festive platter without it.” For her, dolma is not just food; it is love, togetherness and hospitality wrapped into one bite.
I’ve lived in the Middle East for more than five years, and the tangy grape-leaf dolma, often reserved for celebrations, has become one of my favourites, too. I love it especially during the holy month of Ramadan, when the city’s food scene comes alive after sunset. Although I don’t fast myself, I enjoy hopping from one restaurant to another and shuttling between friends’ homes, tasting slightly different versions of dolma every night at iftar – sometimes spicier, sometimes slightly more piquant and sometimes simply vegetarian.
However, these small differences at dinner tables in Riyadh point to a much larger story: the tale of a dish that travelled across continents and cultures to become a symbol of generosity and welcome around the world.