The Cosmopolitan Pleasures of Bread and Cheese
The Cosmopolitan Pleasures of Bread and Cheese
Noon o Panir in California
I thought I knew everything there was to know about noon o panir. Translated from Persian as “bread and cheese,” no other combination defines the Iranian breakfast consciousness like this simple pairing. Growing up in the Iranian diaspora in California, the phrase was always tacked on to morning lists from my mother, father, or grandmother about what to eat. “What do you want for breakfast?” My family would call out. Then the list would come: eggs, cereal, or noon o panir?
At the meal’s simplest form, it really is that: bread and cheese. A stack of warm bread on a plate, served next to a brick of feta-like cheese submerged in water in order to preserve it longer in the fridge. There are the occasional accouterments of walnuts, fresh basil, and radishes, and although they add to the experience, the lack of them does not diminish the meal’s acceptability as a hearty breakfast. Ultimately, the raw minimalism of noon o panir always left me in awe: when there were no knives to be found on the table, I would watch my father crush the cheese into the bread with his thumb. Whereas the typical story about growing up in diaspora usually focuses on confusion and navigating complex cultural spaces, bread and cheese was my refuge into absolutes. This is what my family and I had for breakfast, food pyramids and cutlery be damned.
Only as I grew older and travelled the world did I start to realize the meal’s global disposition. In Armenia, bread and cheese occupies the same sacred space as a simple morning pleasure. As a testament to the shared cultural heritage of the region, the Armenian name is even similar in rhythm to the Persian: hadz u panir, they say. Months ago, my father visited me with tins of cheese in tow, all simply branded as “PIKNIK CHEESE.” The can’s multilingual labels in English, Russian, Turkish, Armenian, Arabic, and Persian are reminders of a cosmopolitan past being recreated by a capitalist present.
Over time, the subtle intricacies of this beloved meal have continued to reveal themselves to me. In Iran, neighborhoods are dotted with multiple bakeries, each specializing in their own bread. Each type opens up a new breakfast experience: thin yet portable lavash, thick and hearty barbari, and sesame-seed topped sangak are but a few of the staple choices.
By the close of a trip to Yerevan, I foolishly thought I had seen all of the combinations of bread and cheese on offer in the country. Instead, for one of the last breakfasts I was treated to bokon: a thick ovular loaf with the thickness of focaccia yet with subtler flavor. There is an old Armenian saying used for people who still have a lot to learn: “you have a lot of bread and cheese to eat.”
Perhaps in an appropriate twist of fate, I find that my favorite cheese all these years remains a product of California-Caspian fusion. Simply called “low-sodium cheese,” this thick, blocky, white creation seems to have been a market response to the aging Middle Eastern communities that came to the United States only to be told by their doctors to watch their diets. No matter, as the lack of salt softens the bite of the cheese and instead leaves a milkier, creamier taste in its place. And even though my family members’ health improved and salt returned to the collective diet, low-sodium cheese is still found in the fridge, sitting in water, waiting for the bread.