Within the contemporary academy, the topic du jour is globalization and its twin, trans-nationalism. Whatever the subject -- film, music, politics -- you can hardly have a conversation without dutifully acknowledging its presence.
Consider, for instance, the humble chickpea, a global food if ever there were one -- the stuff of stews, snacks and street food like falafel, deep-fried little balls of chickpeas. In German, the chickpea is known as kichererbse; in Spanish, it’s called garbanzo, and in the Arab world, it’s known as hummus, where it also does double-duty as the name of the popular spread.
In Yiddish, the chickpea goes by two appellations, depending on the geographical origins of the Yiddish speaker. Those whose Yiddish was shaped by its contiguity to Russia and Ukraine call it nahit; those whose Yiddish grows from Polish soil call it arbes. By whatever name, the Ashkenazic Jewish preparation for chickpeas serves them whole and heavily peppered rather than mashed and spiced with cumin.
An inexpensive, tasty and filling snack, chickpeas were once sold on the yidishe gas, the Jewish street, by itinerant vendors who piled them high in a paper cone. Later still, arbes/nahit became one of the staples commonly found at the kiddish, the post Sabbath service repast, where they would be arrayed in all their glory in a glass bowl. Hungry worshipers would grab a handful and pop them into their mouth: the Jewish equivalent of popcorn.
Recently, the kiddush was the subject of an incisive and affectionately rendered article by Leah Koenig. Though she trained her sights on herring, egg kichel and schnapps rather than on arbes, Koenig’s account sheds light on how and why we come by our culinary predilections, highlighting the ways in which food orients us as we make our way in this increasingly globalized world of ours.
