Dried mint, the unsung hero of herbs

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“Because sometimes dried is better than fresh,” says the website for the Peckham food shop Persepolis, next to a listing for dried mint. In Iranian cuisine, as in so much of the Middle East and Mediterranean, dried mint is an essential ingredient, especially in the colder months. As Margaret Shaida wrote in The Legendary Cuisine of Persia (1992), “Dried mint and hot oil are poured over a number of winter soups to give a musky hint of summer fragrance.”

To make dried mint oil, fry half a tablespoon of dried mint in half a tablespoon of olive oil for a minute, maybe less, until the fragrance blooms. This is used in Persian cooking as a last-minute brightener for aubergine or yoghurt dips, as well as soups. It brings something nutty and deeply herbal that is quite unlike the perky mojito scent of fresh mint.

For years, I did not understand dried mint and never had it in my kitchen. I regarded it as an unconvincing, dull imitation of the fresh herb. My mother only used dried mint to make a vinegary mint sauce for roast lamb, which gave it no chance to shine.

It was only when I started to taste more of the food of Greece, Turkey and Lebanon that I kept noticing an ethereal minty note that I could not quite place. It was not the spearmint of chewing gum or the garden mint of a pea and mint soup, but something subtler and earthier. This curious minty aroma wafted through all kinds of dishes: it was there in spinach pies and stuffed vegetables; in moussakas and stewed aubergines; in yoghurt dishes and pilafs. One day, I realised that the mysterious flavour was dried mint and that I loved it — not as a substitute for fresh mint, but as its own thing and a very pleasing one too.

In spring 2020, my last trip out of the UK before the pandemic took hold was to Istanbul. Because of the lockdown that followed, everything I ate there became heightened in my memory. I found myself fixating on a simple yoghurt and chickpea soup at the restaurant Çiya Sofrası. How could something so plain be so moreish? Maybe it was the yoghurt. (Turkish yoghurt is amazing.) But what lifted the whole thing was a liberal sprinkling of dried mint, which added a layer of flavour that no other herb could have provided.

Dried mint is a warning not to judge a book by its cover (or a herb by its looks). This drab khaki powder may not be as pretty as a verdant sprig of fresh mint, but what it lacks in colour it more than makes up for in depth of flavour. Consider halloumi cheese, with its little sprinkling of dried mint around the edges, which for many of us is the first gateway into its charms. It’s far cheaper and easier to use a sprinkle of dried mint from a jar than to wash and strip fresh leaves, particularly at this time of year when garden herbs are sparse. Which is not to say that dried mint is a compromise. Mediterranean cooks regularly use it in preference to fresh, especially in conjunction with dairy, for which it has an affinity.

In Greece and Cyprus, dried mint is often combined with a little cinnamon, particularly when used to season meatballs or aubergines or stuffed vine leaves. The green woodiness of the mint does something magic to the cinnamon, transforming it from a sweet spice to a savoury one. Cinnamon plus dried mint instantly signals that you are in the eastern Mediterranean, at least in culinary terms.

In Taverna, a book of recipes from Cyprus by the British-Cypriot food writer Georgina Hayden, dried mint plays a starring role. Hayden’s mother’s recipe for tzatziki is made with salted grated cucumber, thick yoghurt, grated garlic and dried mint, with more dried mint added at the end along with some oil. It’s the easiest and best tzatziki I’ve ever tried. Inspired by Hayden, I’ve now taken to adding dried mint, garlic and yoghurt to simple chopped salads of celery and radish or cucumber and tomato.

Dried mint is not hard to come by in the shops but it can be satisfying to dry your own. For gardeners, this is a chance to experiment with various types of mint. The traditional way is to tie a sprig of mint with string and hang it upside down in a well-ventilated space for up to a week or until the leaves feel brittle. A much quicker method, which I learnt from the excellent book Herbs and Spices by Jill Norman, is in the microwave. Put a handful or two of washed mint leaves on a double layer of kitchen paper and microwave on high for two and a half minutes. This is a good way to preserve fresh mint if you’ve bought too much. Or you might want to dry some mint for its own sake, just to taste for yourself how surprisingly different it is from fresh.

Bee Wilson is the author of “The Way We Eat Now”

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