Sumac, the Sour Red Spice on the Shelf

A market stall in ancient Egypt, loud with voices, thick with smells. Somewhere in the crowd a sharp, sour scent cuts through the rest. Follow it, and you find a heap of deep red powder in a basket. That, traveler, is sumac, the Mediterranean’s gift to the kitchen.

Sumac tastes of lemon without a lemon anywhere near it. It belongs to the same family as the cashew and the mango, and it has been at the human table for a very long time. A pinch of it carries more years than most of the jars on your shelf.

Think of a small tree or shrub, five to ten feet tall, its thin branches moving in the wind. Its green leaves turn red and purple in autumn, as if the tree were catching fire slowly. The real prize is the berries: small and round, ripening to a hard bright red. They are the spice. Picked with care, dried in the sun and ground to a powder, they keep the color of a late sunset and a sour, earthy bite.

The story of sumac begins in the time of the pharaohs. The ancient Egyptians valued it in the kitchen and in medicine alike. Later the Greeks and Romans took it up, and it became a fixture at their feasts. By the Middle Ages, Europe had fallen for its sourness too, using it to brighten stews and to hide the taste of food that had turned.

Today sumac is at home on tables around the world. It seasons the kebabs of the Middle East, the slow stews of the Mediterranean, the cool salads of Greece and Turkey. Its gifts go past the tongue. It is rich in antioxidants and is thought to calm inflammation, and in traditional medicine it has long been used for troubled stomachs and sore skin.

Beyond the kitchen and the medicine chest, the red berries have also colored cloth, giving their deep dye to the old crafts of the loom. The same red that sours a salad has warmed a weaver’s thread. A spice that can do both has earned its place on the shelf.