Feasts From the Middle East. Tony Kitous

I like food – in fact, I love food. I love absolutely everything about food: the smells, the tastes, the colours, the way it makes people happy. A simple smell can take me back to the markets I used to go to with my dad and grandad to buy ingredients for my mum. Or it can transport me back to walking home from school, smelling the food in the air when I was close to home. I remember men walking the streets with their carts of sardines shouting, ‘Yalla sardine!’ and everybody going out to buy them. Every family cooked and flavoured them differently. We’d eat at home and then take the leftovers outside to swap with our friends. I can recall the aroma of fruit ripening on the trees, too. To this day, no matter where I am, a new-season fig will make me close my eyes to savour that first bite, longing to be six years old again, back in Tizi Ouzou, Algeria.

Since I was little it has always been the same. I ate so much so that my mum used to hide food because otherwise it would be gone! Always, always eating. I learned about the joys of food from my mum, Zohra. She is my inspiration, my motivation in everything I do and my biggest influence. She taught me the joy of eating, of feeding people and of learning about new foods. My mother was the heart of the home, cooking for hours every day. She was very creative when meat or fish were scarce or there were lots of people to feed (I’m the oldest of seven). I also came to realise that no matter how simple, food can always be delicious when it’s made with love and with fresh, seasonal ingredients.

As food was such a big part of everyday life when I was growing up, it wasn’t long before I started to think, dream and talk about food. I was brought up in both a Berber and Arab culture and have embraced both my whole life. The Middle East and North Africa are lands of generous hospitality, and people often don’t see the inclusive nature of Arab culture, with eating at the heart of it. Food is an integral part of my roots; food is everything because you give it and share it and you make it with love. Eating it offers a chance to be with friends and family, to talk and laugh and celebrate and share the latest news. Food brings us together.

As a child I was spoilt by my grandma, who would cook all the things I liked. My grandparents kept chickens, and sometimes I’d go there in my lunch break and run down the garden to see if there were any eggs. I would collect the eggs and take them to the kitchen where grandma would cook them simply by frying them in some extra-virgin olive oil, with a little garlic and some coriander – there might be some aubergines or potatoes, too. I’d pick plums, pomegranates and figs straight from the tree, plump and juicy and ripened by the hot sun.

I started earning my own money at a young age. We lived across the street from the big football ground. I would get up early to buy tickets for a match and sell them later to visitors from out of town – at a slightly inflated price! My mum would help me make lemonade or merguez sandwiches, which I’d sell on the street. My father never knew as he wouldn’t have approved of his son selling things on the street. This was my street life and a big part of my education. Working on the streets of Tizi Ouzou taught me that you could make opportunities for yourself.

By the time I was nine I was hitch-hiking up to the coast, about half an hour away, during the summer holidays, where I helped the fishermen with their catches – emptying the nets, cleaning the fish – not for money, but because I liked to do it. My parents thought I was staying with friends, but really I was exploring and looking for the next adventure.

As I grew older, my desire to see and experience more took me further afield. At 15 I used my savings to visit Tunisia, at 16 I ventured to Spain and at 17, it was France. Every year I worked a little harder, saved a little more and travelled a little further. I had just turned 18 when my friend Nasser and I decided that we would travel to London. I arrived with £70 in my pocket (£50 of which was borrowed from my uncle). We spent our first night in Victoria Station, unsure where to go and needing to make our little money last. I fell in love with the city over that summer and ended up living in a squat in Manor House, working wherever I could.

I returned home the day before I was due to start university. I made it through half an hour of my first engineering lecture before I walked out, knowing it wasn’t for me. I’d had a taste of something else and I wanted more. My parents didn’t want me to go – it was unusual for the first-born son to leave the family like this. They roped in uncles, cousins and family friends to talk me out of it, although this just made me more determined to go. But I couldn’t leave without a letter from my father stamped by the police, as I was only 18. And, most importantly, I wanted to go with their blessings.

In the end, he gave me that letter, despite the reservations he must still have had about his eldest son leaving to live in London, with no job or home and only basic English. This was an incredibly difficult decision for him and I thank him for it every day, even though he is no longer with us.

I left as soon as I could. But I hadn’t expected the huge weight of responsibility that I felt the minute I passed through the doors of Heathrow. I realised that I had to make this choice count. I had to make my family proud and make something of myself if I wasn’t going to university. Within four years I needed to have a restaurant. I had to start working hard – and quickly!

For the next few years I worked two full-time jobs every day in pubs, bars and restaurants from 6 a.m. until late. I returned to the squat to live initially but then I was offered a live-in job at a small hotel. Hot running water, my own bed and breakfast every day! I stayed focused on my goal of having my own restaurant for the next four years.

I was working in a restaurant on Wigmore Street when one day I turned up to find it closed. The rent hadn’t been paid and the landlord had taken back the property. This was my chance. I had enough money in the bank for a deposit and a few months’ rent. I set up a meeting and bought myself a suit and tie, ready to impress.

It went well, and it was agreed that I could take on the restaurant,

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