Since New Zealand is in the southern hemisphere, their harvest occurs six months earlier than it happens in vineyards in, say, California. So if you’re shopping in September, you may notice that they’re already selling this year’s wines!

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It is very common to find wines from New Zealand sold with screwcaps, also known as Stelvin closures. In fact, about 95% of all New Zealand wine is sealed this way. Why would a producer shy away from cork? The answer is 2,4,6-trichloroanisole, or TCA for short. Often transferred to wine through cork closures, this compound imparts aromas and flavors of wet cardboard and musty basement. Not too appetizing, right? The screw cap closure ensures that winemakers aren’t literally pouring their hard work down the drain. New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc has the classic herbaceousness of the grape—you might taste a little bell pepper and jalapeño—combined with ripe fruit: think passion fruit and pink grapefruit. These wines are also often compared to gooseberries—small, green fruits that have a burst of tartness just like the wine.

I also picked up a container of the blueberry, which, compared to the strawberry-rhubarb, is more about the fruit. I appreciated the visible bits of blueberry in the topping and its authentic berry flavor. Still, given how much I like the yogurt on its own, I found myself wishing that I hadn’t already swirled it all in. Going forward, I’ll seek out the Honey flavor, which I assume is their equivalent of plain.

In short, I found that I do indeed have room in my heart for more yogurt. Especially when that yogurt is totally awesome and blows so many of the new, misguided “Greek yogurts” away. Open your oven door as little as possible. Temperature changes causes the meringue to crack, and letting cold air from outside the oven will do just that. If cracks happen, the meringue will still be tasty, but less pretty.
If the pavlova is starting to brown at all, reduce your oven temperature by 25 degrees. The ideal pavlova is totally pale, which usually means a gooey marshmallow interior.

Whole-poached chicken brings layers of flavor to this fragrant, spiced lentil stew. Topped with fried onions and tomatoes, it’s a filling and deeply flavorful meal.
Poaching a chicken delivers not only meat, but a flavorful broth for cooking the lentils in.
Toasting the spices in oil deepens and releases their flavor more effectively.
The optional step of finely mincing the poached chicken skin and cooking it into the lentils makes a more delicious, satisfying final stew.
Very loosely inspired by a Middle Eastern dish called haleem that comes in many forms but sometimes features meat stewed with spiced lentils and topped with fried onions, this recipe features stewed lentils with a fragrant mix of spices, including coriander seed, cumin, and turmeric. Garlic and ginger provide an aromatic base of flavor.

We start by poaching a whole chicken: the skin is (optionally) minced very finely and added to the lentils as they stew, melding into the mix while adding richness to the dish; the poaching broth is used to cook the lentils themselves, and the meat is shredded and folded into the lentils before serving.

A very hot oven rapidly creates the steam that puffs up the pita.
Avoiding tears on the surface of each dough disk prevents the pitas from bursting and venting the steam in the oven.
Flipping the pita over when placing it on the stone yields an even thickness of the pita walls.
Charring the pitas in a skillet after baking replicates the intense heat of a traditional oven.

Ingredients

1 cup water (8 ounces; 240ml), 105–110°F (41–43°C)
1 tablespoon (15ml) extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for oiling the bowl
1 tablespoon granulated sugar
2 1/4 teaspoons instant yeast
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 cup whole wheat flour (2 1/2 ounces; 70g)
2 cups all-purpose flour (10 ounces; 280g), plus more for dusting

Place baked pitas onto towel-lined plate and wrap with the overhanging towel. Repeat with any remaining pitas.

For an extra-charred finish, heat a cast iron skillet on the stovetop over high heat until smoking. Working with one pita at a time, briefly heat each side until charred in a few spots, about 30 seconds. Return pita to towel and cover. Repeat with remaining pitas and serve immediately.

Meanwhile, place a baking steel or 12-inch cast iron skillet on the top oven rack and preheat oven to 500°F (260°C). Line a plate with a large, clean kitchen towel and set aside.

Punch down the dough, transfer to a lightly floured work surface, and cut into 6 even pieces. Form each dough piece into an even ball. Cover with a damp towel and let rest for 10 minutes.

Roll each piece of dough into about a 7-inch circle, no more than 1/4 inch thick, taking care not to tear dough and keeping the thickness even all around. Place dough disks on a lightly floured surface, cover with a damp towel, and let proof until slightly puffy, about 30 minutes.

Working with as many pitas as will fit on the steel at once, pick up each pita and place on the steel top side down. (If using a cast iron skillet, bake one pita at a time.) Immediately close the oven door and bake until pitas have puffed and are slightly golden around the edges, about 3 minutes. Be careful not to over-bake.

When kneading the dough, it should be slightly tacky, not dry. This recipe may be doubled. Pitas can be baked ahead of time and frozen, with parchment layered between them, then wrapped in foil and plastic wrap. Defrost, then toast in skillet as per recipe.

Ingredients
One 3 1/2-pound (1.6kg) chicken
1 tablespoon (10g) kosher salt, plus more for seasoning
1 cup (240ml) extra-virgin olive oil, divided, plus more for drizzling
4 medium cloves garlic, minced
One 1-inch knob fresh ginger, peeled and minced
1 tablespoon ground coriander
2 teaspoons ground cumin
1 teaspoon ground turmeric
1 teaspoon paprika
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
Large pinch red pepper flakes
1 1/2 pounds (680g) green, French green (Le Puy), or yellow lentils
1 bay leaf
2 large (10-ounce; 280g) yellow onions, sliced 1/2-inch-thick
1 pound (450g) plum tomatoes, cut into 1-inch pieces
2 tablespoons minced fresh dill or cilantro

When lentils are tender and beginning to break down, add shredded chicken and continue to cook, stirring often to prevent sticking and adding poaching liquid or water little by little as needed to keep lentils from becoming overly thick and sludgy, until some of the lentils have begun to break down and thicken the stew, about 15 minutes longer. Discard bay leaf. Season with salt and keep warm.

Meanwhile, in a large 12-inch stainless steel or cast iron skillet, heat remaining 1/2 cup (120ml) oil over high heat until very lightly smoking. Add onions, season with salt, and cook, stirring often, until deeply browned in spots and beginning to soften, about 15 minutes; lower heat as needed to prevent burning. Add tomatoes and cook, stirring frequently, until tomatoes begin to break down, about 7 minutes; reduce heat even more as needed to prevent burning. Remove from heat, stir in dill or cilantro, and season with salt to taste.

Ladle lentils into individual serving bowls and top with onion-tomato mixture. Drizzle lightly with olive oil, and serve.

While our preferred method for poaching chicken normally calls for an even lower 155°F water temperature for the juiciest and most tender meat, we speed things up here a bit more by cooking it at a sub-simmer (closer to 180°F). The higher heat poaching is fine in this case since the chicken is folded into the stewy lentils which keeps the meat from drying out.

You can also make this recipe vegetarian by cooking the lentils with water and omitting the chicken.

As the lentils finish cooking, we fry sliced onions in plenty of olive oil over high heat—the goal is to get a fried-onion flavor combined with a melting texture—and then cook them down with plum tomatoes for a bright topping that is finished with a handful of fresh herbs—dill or cilantro both work well.

Directions
In a large pot or Dutch oven, combine chicken with enough water to cover. Add 1 tablespoon (10g) salt and bring to just under a simmer (roughly 180°F/80°C on an instant-read thermometer). Cook, maintaining a sub-simmer as best you can, until chicken registers 160°F (70°C) deep in the thigh, about 45 minutes.

Carefully lift chicken from poaching liquid, allowing it to drain back into pat, then transfer to a work surface and allow to cool. Reserve poaching liquid. Clean the pot or Dutch oven.

In the same pot or Dutch oven, combine 1/2 cup (120ml) oil with garlic and ginger and set over medium heat. Cook, stirring often, until garlic and ginger begin to gently sizzle and are just beginning to turn lightly golden, about 2 minutes. Reduce heat to medium-low and add coriander, cumin, turmeric, paprika, black pepper, and pepper flakes and continue to cook, stirring frequently, until spices are lightly toasted and fragrant, 2 to 3 minutes longer.

Paterson is full of markets to stock up on Middle Eastern provisions, but AK Market’s selection is especially impressive. There’s a full compliment of yogurts and cheeses, including hard-to-find nabulsi, a salty semi-soft cheese flavored with nigella seeds, and Istanbuli, a cream-cheese like spread flavored with grassy green chili. Among the dry goods you’ll find excellent hazelnuts, especially fresh and aromatic, alongside all manner of other nuts, legumes, grains, and spices available in bulk at low prices.

AK also has a butcher counter where you’ll find homemade sujuk, a pepperoni-like beef or lamb sausage perked up with chili and garlic. While imported sujuk is relatively common in Middle Eastern markets, AK’s is better—less fatty and harsh-tasting with a snappy casing and fresh meaty flavor. Slice it up and fry it to serve with eggs, or better yet, use it in place of pepperoni on your next pizza. You’ll get great grease cups. While lentils are cooking, remove skin from the poached chicken; if desired, finely mince the chicken skin and add it to the lentils (it will meld into the lentils during cooking and enrich the stew, but you can omit if desired). Pull meat from chicken bones and shred; discard bones.

As a die-hard New Yorker I hate to admit it, but sometimes you gotta go to Jersey.

What does the Garden State have that the Big Apple lacks? For starters, a wealth of space and comparatively affordable housing, two attributes that have helped cities like Edison, Fort Lee, and Newark become home to some of the tri-state area’s largest ethnic communities. And where large populations of immigrants go, good food follows—in some cases better than its equivalent offerings in New York.

Take Paterson, a silk factory city that fell into post-industrial decline but is now enjoying a second life thanks to its new middle class. The new blood is eclectic—Paterson is home to Hispanic, Arab, Filipino, Asian, and Turkish populations—and as a result, its food scene is impressively diverse. From Manhattan, getting there takes all of half an hour by car, or an hour on NJ Transit.

Stir in lentils, then add enough of the reserved poaching broth to just cover lentils. Add bay leaf. Increase heat to medium-high and bring to a simmer, then adjust heat to maintain simmer. Cook, stirring occasionally and adding more poaching liquid to keep lentils just covered throughout, until lentils are very tender and just beginning to break down, about 1 hour; use additional water as needed if you run out of poaching liquid before the lentils have finished cooking.

In a medium mixing bowl, combine water, oil, sugar, yeast, salt, and whole wheat flour with a wooden spoon until combined and smooth. Stir in all-purpose flour until the mixture comes together into a shaggy mass.

Using clean hands, knead the dough in the bowl for 10 minutes or until it becomes smooth and very elastic, adding only very small amounts of extra flour if dough is extremely sticky (see note). Alternatively, knead dough at low speed in a stand mixer fitted with the dough hook attachment until dough is very elastic and smooth, about 8 minutes.

Meanwhile, place a baking steel or 12-inch cast iron skillet on the top oven rack and preheat oven to 500°F (260°C). Line a plate with a large, clean kitchen towel and set aside.

Turn dough out onto a lightly floured work surface and form into a smooth ball. Lightly oil a clean mixing bowl and place dough inside, then rub oiled hands over the top of the dough. Cover bowl with a damp cloth and let rise in a warm place for 1 hour.

The best time to hit Toros is at lunch, when they offer a three-course lunch special of a soup or salad, your choice of mezze, and a grilled main. Coordinate with your table and you can hack together a shareable feast, all for just $12 a person. Toros does a mean lentil soup, excellent eggplant dishes, and well-seasoned lamb kebabs.

My favorite meat is lamb. My favorite vegetable is eggplant; favorite fruit, pomegranate. Form of carbohydrate? Fresh flatbreads. My favorite food group is dairy; favorite form of dairy: yogurts and fresh cheeses.

Favorite way to eat seafood, as simply prepared as possible. And favorite mode of eating? Lots and lots of little bites of things.

All this, to say: I was destined to love eating in Turkey, where I got my fill of all of the above, and often in small, snackable portions. Here are my 16 favorite foods in Istanbul. Whole wheat flour adds a nutty flavor to the pita bread. Rolling the pitas thin aids in the formation of a pocket.

Begin at Taskin Bakery, which supplies bread both to local restaurants and many of New York’s Middle Eastern markets. Turkish cuisine has a bread culture just as rich as the French, and Taskin’s wide selection does it proud. On the shelves you’ll find flaky croissant-like pastries, syrupy phyllo sweets, briny olive breads, and best of all, simit, crackly-chewy doughnut-shaped breads blitzed with sesame seeds. Fresh from the oven, Taskin’s simit are just as good as what you’ll find in Istanbul, where they’re relished for breakfast much like bagels are in New York. Taskin also has a flattop devoted to gozleme, a tissue-thin flatbread stuffed with fillings like cheese, greens, or meat, then folded over on itself to form a neat, floppy pocket. Go for one filled with spinach and cheese and you’ll be rewarded with greaseless, feather-light bread, barely wilted fresh greens, and lightly salty cheese. You’ll wonder why it’s not on every New York street corner.

It was the promise of great Turkish cooking that that sent SE designer Tracie and me on a field trip to Paterson. While New York has some great Turkish food if you know where to look, most of it leaves some room for improvement. Could Jersey do us one better?

South Paterson’s Turkish sector is far more condensed than New York’s, with a tight cluster of restaurants, kebab houses, bakeries, and groceries. Short diversions will take you to late-night diners, WPA-era outdoor markets, and Hispanic stores selling treasures like dirt-cheap key limes and Peruvian pepper paste.

In short: come for an afternoon and you’ll find more food than you can handle. Looking for an introduction to the city’s Turkish scene? Here’s an afternoon itinerary to get you started.

Just down the street from Taskin you’ll find Toros, a mini-chain of three north Jersey Turkish restaurants. This location, which identifies as the Clifton branch (not to be confused with the Paterson branch nearby) is a dark, velvet-drawn room that recalls some Russian oligarch’s country home. Befitting of the grand setting is a menu that covers the full range of salads, mezze, and grilled Turkish meat.

You have 20 people coming over for food and drink tonight and you’ve forgotten about dessert.

You want to bake, you over-achiever you, and none of this cookie or brownie business. That’s for bake sales and office parties. You want a showstopper.

Can I suggest pavlova? I have a few reasons why:

Plenty of people have no idea what it is. You’ll look like a pastry badass.
It scales easily, and is economical enough to make for a crowd.
It’s endlessly customizable.
It’s ridiculously easy to make, and doesn’t require much active attention.
Seriously, if you can turn on an electric mixer and have access to decent fruit, you can make a great pavlova. But in case condition one above applies to you, here’s the story: Pavlova is a cream-topped meringue dessert of Aussie or New Zealand extraction, allegedly named for the Russian ballerina Anna Pavlova whose grace and beauty were apparently best captured in a pillow of egg white and cream. In the dessert’s motherland(s), strawberry-kiwi and/or passionfruit are the most common fruity additions; in the West, berries tend to take center stage.

Traditionally, pavlova is made with a French meringue (that is, one with sugar beaten into raw egg whites, then baked) that’s cooked in the oven for a long time, about an hour, at a very low temperature to dry it out. The exterior should be crisp and totally pale and the interior should have a fluffy, marshmallowy texture. The cooled meringue is then topped with whipped cream and fruit right before being served to your adoring fans. It’s light and sweet, and since it’s fruity, it feels a lot “healthier” than it really is.

Pavlovas can be portioned into single servings but can also be fashioned into meringue mountains. My six egg white pavlova, which is a scaled-up version of this recipe with some minor modifications,* serves 15 to 20. I love that I can make it for about a dollar a head and that I’m not locked into any one flavor profile—each pavlova component can be played with at will. And since I always seem to have egg whites lying around, pavlova is a handy way to use them up in bulk.

I’ve found regular sugar, as opposed to superfine sugar, works well on its own, and for a six egg white pavlova, two cups of heavy cream for whipping plenty.

Ready to pavlova? First read this excellent tutorial on beating egg whites, then see below for tips on making the most of your pavlova layers.

While Sauvignon Blanc grapes can be found on both of New Zealand’s main islands, they’re the leader in Marlborough on the South Island. The region gets a lot of sunshine, but also has a heavy ocean influence and very cool nights. This helps the wines offer that ripe tropical fruit balanced by lots of refreshing acidity. Looking for some good ones to taste? Seek out bottles from Dog Point Vineyard and Mohua.
While you’re mostly likely to find New Zealand wines offering the tangy, aromatic style of Sauvignon Blanc, some producers are branching off. A few winemakers are following in the footsteps of those producers in Bordeaux and the Loire (such as Didier Dagueneau), fermenting or aging the wines in oak barrels. Want to try? Look to Cloudy Bay’s Te Koko bottling. The wine is fermented in oak barrels and then the bottles are kept in the cellar for three years before being released. While Te Koko has all the fresh acidity of Sauvignon Blanc, it’s a complex and amazingly textured wine. Rather than the typical passion fruit and grapefruit scent, you’ll get a little gentle apricot, lemon pith, and ginger. Wines like this show that New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc still has some tricks up its sleeve.

Chardonnay
While Sauvignon Blanc dominates the NZ white wine scene, Chardonnay is the pretty younger sibling who’s just waiting to getting noticed. Many Chardonnays from New Zealand exhibit a depth and brightness akin to White Burgundy. Despite being a new world wine region, the Chardonnays of New Zealand don’t have too much in common with, say, riper examples from California. Most Chardonnays come from Marlborough, Hawke’s Bay, or Gisborne. The ocean’s cooling effect in these areas doesn’t allow the fruit flavors in New Zealand’s Chardonnays to get too tropical. Even in fuller-bodied styles with marked oak influence, the mouth-watering acidity will keep you reaching for your glass. White peach, lemon zest, and aged cheese flavors make it a perfect food wine. Wondering where to get started? Look for the Chardonnays from Kumeu River Wines in Auckland.

If you’ve had just one wine from New Zealand, it probably was a Sauvignon Blanc. The grape makes up a mind-boggling 72% of wine production in New Zealand.

Pinot Noir
If you enjoy Pinot Noirs from the Willamette Valley in Oregon or California’s Sonoma County, you should seek out Pinot Noir from New Zealand. In fact, there is a huge cultural exchange within these regions. Because of the alternating seasons, it is very common to hear of winery interns traveling across the Pacific to work two harvests a year. This extends to some of the best in the business—Ted Lemon of Sonoma’s famed Littorai also makes wine at Burn Cottage in Central Otago, for example.

Styles vary across the country, so it’s a bit hard to make generalizations, but most NZ producers try to embrace the balance that their climate affords them. New Zealand pinots don’t have the weight of warmer climates, but they don’t quite have the earthy mushroom notes of Burgundy either. Most NZ Pinots have a splash of black cherry or strawberry flavor, complemented with violet and cloves.

Most Sauvignon Blanc is like a friendly puppy—bursting from the glass and ready to play. This is not a wine that makes you hunt for flavors and aromas—they are right up in front, ready to get noticed. New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc has the classic herbaceousness of the grape—you might taste a little bell pepper and jalapeño—combined with ripe fruit: think passion fruit and pink grapefruit. These wines are also often compared to gooseberries—small, green fruits that have a burst of tartness just like the wine.

You’ll mainly find Pinot Noir from Marlborough, Central Otago, and Martinborough, which is on the southern tip of the North Island. While Pinot Noir may be in Sauvignon Blanc’s shadow in Marlborough, producers such as Greywacke and Wither Hills still make examples worth seeking out.

Central Otago is an outlier in regards to climate. The sea’s influence is less strong in this region, since grapes are planted further inland and at higher altitude. These wines maintain NZ’s characteristic freshness, but often with more alcohol and body than other styles from further north. Central Otago Pinot Noirs tend to be wonderfully concentrated and plush. They don’t come cheap though—a bottle of Central Otago Pinot is likely going to set you back at least $30. Rippon, Felton Road, Mt. Difficulty are a few Central Otago producers at the top of their game.

Red Bordeaux Blends
Blends made from Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot from the North Island around Hawke’s Bay really shine. My favorites come from Gimblett Gravels, a district planted on fine sand and stony gravel along the Ngaruroro River. This place is especially suited for these grapes because the soils and higher temperature allow for the grapes to get perfectly ripe. Look for Craggy Range’s Te Kahu or Trinity Hill’s The Gimblett: these blends are like gymnasts that move effortlessly along the uneven bars with fantastic displays of strength. They are elegant and fresh with rich, textured tannins. If you love Cabernet-Merlot blends from Washington State or South America, you will be doubly won over by the aromas of black cherry, cedar, and clove.

Syrah
Syrah is just edging into the New Zealand wine game but it is definitely a grape to watch. Like Merlot and Cabernet, it mostly sticks to the warmer climates of the North Island where it can ripen best. Syrahs from New Zealand offer savory black pepper flavors complementing juicy plum and violet. While they don’t have the wild, gamey side of Northern Rhone Syrah, these structured wines don’t quite fit with the sun-kissed style of Australian Shiraz either. Try them out for yourself, starting with wines from Mission Estate Winery—a producer whose history dates back to 1851.

Note: All wines provided as tasting samples for review consideration, with the exception of the Greywacke, Rippon, Felton Road, Mt. Difficulty, and Burn Cottage.

A mixture of tangy cheeses and aromatic herbs create a vibrant filling.
Squeezing the spinach dry prevents the filling and the pie from being soggy.
Using clarified butter yields crispier boreks.
Delicate, gossamer-thin phyllo is a forgiving material to work with, once you know how to handle it.
Along with cured olives, string cheese, dried apricots, walnut halves, and cured meats like basturma (the Armenian equivalent of bresaola) and sujuk (spiced Armenian sausage), boreks are required for any Armenian mezze spread. Using clarified butter yields crispier boreks. I don’t know if that’s 100% true for every Armenian household, but I’ve yet to attend a single gathering of more than a couple of Armenians where boreks weren’t served. (My mother keeps containers of unbaked boreks in her freezer at all times, just in case.) Aromatic herbs and alliums like parsley, dill, and scallion are common additions to either style, and eggs are usually added as a binder.

Assembling boreks is easy if you abide by some guidelines for working with phyllo dough, which is somewhat delicate. Since the phyllo turns brittle if left at refrigerator temperatures for more than a day or two, keep it frozen for as long as possible. When you want to use it, plan ahead, as you’ll want to transfer it to the fridge overnight or leave it at room temperature for at least four hours. To prevent it from drying out and causing breakage, be sure to let the dough sit in its sealed packaging at room temperature for at least 30 minutes. Since most phyllo is sold in one-pound packages, you can take what you need (plus a few extra sheets in case one or two tear beyond repair), gently reroll the remainder, wrap the roll in plastic, place it in a zipper-lock bag, and refreeze for up to two weeks.

When working with phyllo, keep the stack of sheets covered with a piece of parchment or wax paper weighed down by a dry kitchen towel (do not use a damp towel, despite what some recipes recommend). Finally, keep in mind that minor tears or cracks won’t be noticeable once the borek is folded and assembled, especially if they end up on the inside, so don’t worry too much as you work with it.

Andrew Janjigian
For this recipe, which gives you the option of both types of fillings, I hewed closely to the spirit of my mother’s, while making a few refinements and flourishes of my own. For the cheese filling, I kept the Muenster and feta cheeses, and added goat cheese, which upped both the mixture’s creaminess and its subtle funk (using a sheep’s milk feta here, rather than more demure cow’s milk feta, is best for achieving that notable funkiness). The spinach filling also uses both feta and goat cheese for similar reasons, and gives you the option of using greens other than frozen spinach, such as fresh spinach, watercress, arugula, Swiss chard, or beet greens (see notes section below). In both versions, I increased the quantities of herbs significantly. I also found that clarifying the butter used to assemble the boreks helps keep them crisp. And, for a final bit of flair, I like to garnish mine with a mixture of sesame and nigella seeds.

Boreks—or borags, beregs, boregs, boeregs, depending upon who’s doing the spelling (they’re all pronounced the same)—are buttery, crisp, multilayered phyllo hand pies, filled with cheese, greens, vegetables, meat, or some combination thereof. They’re usually triangle-shaped, although tray-style boreks, baked in a pan and then cut into squares, are also common. They’re beloved by Armenians, but are equally prized throughout the countries that were once a part of the Ottoman Empire, such as Albania, Bulgaria, Turkey, Greece, and Serbia.

While boreks can be made with puff pastry or yufka, a more rustic pastry dough that sits midway between a pasta and phyllo in thickness and heft, the vast majority of Armenian boreks are made using phyllo dough. The most common filling for Armenian boreks is either a mixture of cheeses—typically melty ones like Muenster or Monterey Jack, tangy feta, and something creamy, like cottage or cream cheese—or a combination of cheese and cooked, well-drained spinach.