Souvla
ΣούβλαFist-sized pieces of pork shoulder or lamb turned slowly over coals for an hour and a half. Salt and oregano, and the patience of everyone waiting.
The souvla storyCypriot cooking is Mediterranean cooking with an island accent — and a table built for sharing.
It shares most of its vocabulary with Greek food — olive oil, lemon, oregano, charcoal, filo and syrup — and much of its grammar with the wider Eastern Mediterranean. On top of that sit the Venetian, Ottoman and British centuries, and the produce of a small island that grows almost everything it eats.
The mountain villages have their own repertoire — slow pork and clay ovens, foraged greens, soup made from wheat soured in milk, and a whole family of fried dishes that depend on the village, the household and the occasion. Coastal towns lean harder on what the sea gives them: grilled fish, octopus, salads sharpened with lemon. What both share is the charcoal. Grilled meat, souvlaki and souvla are eaten everywhere on the island, inland and on the coast alike, and everywhere the food is communal. Very little of it is designed to be eaten alone.
Large pieces of pork shoulder or lamb go onto a long skewer and turn slowly over charcoal in a foukou for an hour and a half or more. Nobody hurries it. Someone tends the fire, someone else brings out halloumi and loukanika to grill in the meantime, and the beer is opened long before the meat is ready.
Traditionally the seasoning is simple — salt and oregano are a must — so that the meat and the charcoal do the talking. The rest of the work is done by time and smoke. It is the food of Easter Sunday, of name days, of any weekend when enough people are coming, and it arrives at the table with roast potatoes, village salad and a great deal of bread.
Local tip. Souvla and souvlaki are the same word at different sizes. If you want the pitta wrap on a street corner, ask for souvlaki. If you want the spit and the afternoon, ask for souvla.
You sit down, say meze, and the kitchen takes over. A traditional Cypriot meze can include around twenty to twenty-five small dishes over two or three hours, although the exact selection varies with the taverna, the kind of meze and the occasion.
It moves through dips and salads, vegetable dishes, something from the pot, other traditional small plates, then grilled meats and halloumi — but no two kitchens send them out in quite the same order. There is no menu to consult, and no point trying to keep pace with the early plates.
Two rules make it work. Eat slowly, because the good things come late. And go with company — meze for one is not really a thing, and most tavernas will only serve it for two or more.
Twenty-six things worth knowing the name of before you sit down. Where we have cooked one ourselves, the card takes you to the recipe.
The foukou — a long charcoal trough with a turning spit — is the centre of Cypriot cooking. Sunday, Easter, a name day, a Tuesday: if there is a reason, someone is lighting it.
Fist-sized pieces of pork shoulder or lamb turned slowly over coals for an hour and a half. Salt and oregano, and the patience of everyone waiting.
The souvla storyThe smaller cousin, grilled fast and folded into warm pitta with salad and tahini. The food on every corner.
Our recipeMinced pork with onion and parsley wrapped in caul fat, which melts on the grill and bastes the meat as it cooks.
Explore SheftaliaThe cheese that refuses to melt, folded with mint before brining. Grilled until it squeaks, or eaten cold with watermelon in August.
The halloumi storyVillage sausages cured with wine, coriander seed and pepper, then smoked — read the full story.
The loukanika storyThe slow half of the cuisine — dishes that go in before church and come out when everyone has arrived, built on pork, wine, cinnamon, tomato and whatever the garden gave up that week.
Lamb sealed in a clay oven for hours with lemon, bay and garlic, until it leaves the bone without being asked. Named for the thieves who cooked it hidden underground.
Read the storyPork marinated overnight in red wine and crushed coriander seed, then cooked slow until it falls apart.
Our recipeVine leaves rolled around pork, rice and herbs, packed tight into the pot with lemon and tomato juice poured over.
Our recipePasta, halloumi, spiced pork and béchamel in four layers under a golden crust. The Sunday dish, and the one children ask for.
Our recipeTaro root, grown in Cyprus since antiquity, braised with pork or chicken in tomato and celery. A winter dish you will not meet anywhere else in Europe.
Tomatoes, peppers and courgettes hollowed out, stuffed with pork mince, rice and mint, and baked an hour and a half.
Our recipeCracked wheat soured in sheep’s milk, dried in the sun on the roof, and kept all year. Boiled into a thick winter soup with halloumi dropped in at the end.
Meze is not a starter — it is the whole meal, and a traditional one can bring around twenty to twenty-five small dishes to the table, though the selection varies. You do not order it by dish. You sit down, say meze, and let the kitchen decide.
Sesame paste loosened with lemon, garlic and water. The dip that goes with everything grilled.
Our recipeThe Cypriot tzatziki — strained yoghurt, cucumber, garlic and dried mint rather than dill.
Our recipeBulgur shells filled with spiced pork mince and fried golden. Breakfast, snack, or part of the table.
Our recipeGreen olives cracked with a stone and marinated forty days with garlic, lemon and coriander seed.
Our recipeThe village salad: no leaves, big chunks, feta, oregano. It arrives first, always.
Our recipeThe coastal version — octopus in wine, grilled calamari, red mullet, sea bream, and the same endless procession of plates.
Dessert in Cyprus is rarely rushed and rarely large. Syrup, filo, semolina, rose water and a small cup of coffee, taken at the table long after the plates have gone.
Fried dough soaked in cool syrup, eaten hot at a village festival with a paper napkin and no dignity.
Our recipeFour ingredients, set overnight, served ice-cold under a pour of rose syrup. The summer answer.
Our recipeOrange-scented semolina custard between crisp filo, drowned in cold syrup the moment it leaves the oven.
Our recipeSpoon sweets — walnut, bergamot, even baby aubergine, preserved whole in syrup and offered to guests on a small spoon with a glass of cold water.
Ground fine, boiled in a briki, served in a small cup with the grounds settling and a glass of cold water beside it.
On Cyprus coffeeThe village spirit distilled from grape pomace — clear, strong, and poured in small glasses beside wine sausage on a cold night.
Our recipes are home recipes — written the way we actually make them, with the quantities and the shortcuts. 26 of them so far.