Q&A: James Walters

“ACROSS THE EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN THERE ARE ALL THESE HUGE CONNECTIONS BUT ALSO INCREDIBLE LOCAL NUANCES”

Interview: Mark Riddaway / Images: Joe Woodhouse

Arabica has been synonymous with Borough Market since 1999, the first full year that a dying wholesale fruit and veg market burst back into life as a magnet for food lovers. Populated by a small community of specialist retail traders, it was, in the words of James Walters, “something we’d not seen before on these shores, something truly magical”.

Among those pioneering early traders was Jad, a warm, charismatic Jordanian man, who came here every Saturday to sell homemade meze and spice blends. James, a young chef, joined him shortly afterwards in an entertainingly offbeat sequence of events that bore zero resemblance to a career plan – and it was James, a roaring turbine of energy and ambition, who become the business’s driving force.

His first restaurant, Café Arabica, sprang up in west London in 2002 to glowing reviews, but closed after a couple of years, its owners too young, skint and overstretched to navigate the sector’s unforgiving economics. In June 2014, Arabica Bar & Kitchen opened at Borough, and this time James was fully prepared. It’s been here ever since, acclaimed for its vibrant eastern Mediterranean cuisine, complemented by a street food stand and a thriving online business.

Arabica’s colourful 26-year tale is told in James’s debut cookbook, Arabica: Small Plates, Big Connections, the story playing out through his recipes and reminiscences. These are brought to life by stunning images of people, places and food, captured over the years by Joe Woodhouse, one of many regular collaborators who have shaped Arabica’s identity. “A hell of a lot of people have contributed to this journey,” says James. “I’ve learnt so much from them. I’ve done my best to channel it all into the book.”

Has food always been important to you?

Yes, since I was a kid. My first memory of cooking is when I was seven or eight and made my parents an anniversary meal: steak with tinned petit pois. My grandfather had Wimpy bars in the late 60s and early 70s and my grandparents on my mother’s side both loved to cook. I cooked with them as a child – lots of fingers in bowls. Later, in my teens, I remember asking my mum what was for dinner, and then asking if I could have all the ingredients so I could cook my own version. I used every pot and pan in the process – really enthusiastic about the cooking, not so much the washing up. She tolerated me tearing the kitchen to pieces every night though, because she knew I loved it.

So, how did you come to be involved with a Levantine food business in Borough Market?

It started in Borneo, of all places, halfway up Mount Kinabalu. The night before scaling the summit, I met an English couple in the refuge, both teachers from Brockley. I was travelling alone, and it was the first proper conversation I’d had for a few days. We got talking about food. They said: “Have you heard about this food market that’s started in Borough? It’s amazing.” We agreed that we’d meet at the market when we got back to London. I remember it was a spring morning, and I got there early and sat on the pavement with a coffee, just watching everything. I watched the banter, watched the stalls unpack, watched the traders getting set up. There’s something beautiful about that.

Beautiful in what way?

Every new city I go to, I get up early in the morning and go to the food market. I’ve done it all over the world. You breathe it all in, the noise and the smells. You get a sense of where you are, what people are eating, how they’re behaving. You just suck it all up and it’s a magical thing. That morning at Borough, I was like: “This place is amazing.” Quality food, provenance led, shoppers who wanted something more than a supermarket. I’d found my place. One of the stalls we stopped at was Jad’s. He was there behind a little fold-up table, with three or four meze, bread, olive oil and some za’atar. I tasted it: I dipped the bread into the oil, then into the za’atar, and it was like “bang”. Explosion. Then we started talking. Jad was such a good conversationalist, and I had so many questions. I was kind of mesmerised by him – big aura, lots of love, a real giver, very generous with his time and ideas. Anyway, we took each other’s numbers.

What were you doing at the time?

I was working as a chef, but with no formal training. As a kid, I was expelled from school. Looking back, it was likely a mix of old-school teaching methods and undiagnosed ADHD tendencies, but at the time, I was simply labelled the ‘naughty kid’ – always in trouble, always restless. I dropped out and got a job at Bluebird Café, but that only lasted six months. I didn’t like the hierarchy, hated the way the sous-chefs talked to me. After a couple other short-lived roles, I was working in a pub in Camberwell. I was having this real struggle, because I was so passionate about cooking, but knew that if I stayed working in these environments it was going to end up killing that love. I found myself going to the Market every Saturday. One day I got the courage up to call Jad and say: “What time do you finish up? Could I come and help you pack down?” We went to the pub that evening with all the other traders, had a beautiful time, met all these characters. I knew I’d found my tribe. The next week asked Jad if I could come down every Saturday and help out for free.

How did you go from unpaid helper to a partner in the business?

Not long after I got here, Borough started allowing hot food one day a week. At first, Jad started selling tagines, but after a few months he pulled me aside and said: “Listen, I’ve got an idea. I’ll teach you how to make falafel. Keep whatever you make, and when the falafel makes as much money as the meze, we’re partners.” That was the deal. I bought a hand mincer with a tiny little hopper, frustratingly tiny. I had a small saucepan, a slotted spoon and a kilo of chickpeas. At the end of the first day I had £100. Week two I bought three kilos of chickpeas and a bigger fryer and still sold out in an hour. After a couple of months I was able to buy a mincer. Every week we sold more and more. It was on the Queen’s Jubilee that I absolutely smashed it out the park. There was a celebration weekend at Smithfield and a selection of traders were invited from Borough Market. We made so much money, Jad was like: “Well, I guess we’re partners!”

When did you first visit the eastern Mediterranean?

It was the summer of 2005. Until that point, everything I knew had been passed down to me by Jad. After Café Arabica closed, the two of us took a trip to Jordan for a few weeks of repairing and healing. We went out to the desert. We collected milk to make labneh. We picked beautiful Persian cucumbers off the tree to be eaten 10 minutes later. We picked vine leaves off the vines. We cooked these amazing meals with Jad’s sister – experiencing that food culture first-hand in someone’s home is such a privilege. We played backgammon and drank mint tea. One day we took day trip to Syria, to Damascus, a city bursting with history. I’ll never forget wandering through its breathtaking souks – a sensory overload of colours, spices and energy.

What is it that appeals to you so much about the region’s food?

I’ve always had a natural appreciation of Mediterranean food. I love simplicity on a plate. In that part of the world, there can be a lot of ingredients in some recipes, but there aren’t these complex cooking techniques. It’s much more about quality: take a really good tomato, put some good olive oil on it and some nice salt and let that tomato shout. The Mediterranean is so interesting because they share a lot of the same approaches. Depending on where you are – village to village, family to family and across the region – there are all these huge connections but also these incredible local nuances. At Arabica, we call what we do ‘eastern Mediterranean’ because it doesn’t confine us in the same way that homing in on a particular country would. It allows you to be creative and blur boundaries.

Does that stop people arguing with you about authenticity?  

No. We do this chicken and pistachio shish, one of the most popular dishes on our menu. We’ll get people who come in and go: “This isn’t shish.” What does ‘shish’ mean? It means skewer. Does it have a skewer in it? Yes. Could you get all the ingredients at a local market in Jordan, Lebanon or Turkey? Yes. So, it’s a shish. But it’s not the way their grandmother did it, so it’s not right. Everyone’s so passionate: “My mum’s kleftiko is better than yours” or “Uncle so-and-so is the best on the barbecue”. I love that passion, though. You have to agree to disagree and be open to exchanging ideas. That’s what makes food so exciting.

One thing that every part of the region shares is an emphasis on hospitality. That must make your travels all the more enjoyable.

I’ll tell you the funniest thing about one of my first meals in Jordan. We’re all sitting on the floor together, with a bowl of fresh labneh, homemade pickles, a fattoush salad and this massive plate of beautiful stuffed vine leaves. When I finish my first plate, they top me up with a second. Then a third. I don’t want to be rude, so even though I’m full, I’m slowly getting through it. It gets to the point where I’m rolling onto the floor, moaning, about to explode, and they’re all laughing their heads off. Jad’s sister Rada, with this little glint in her eye, leans over and pops one last stuffed vine leaf into my mouth. Finally, Jad says: “By the way James, you have to leave a little bit of food on your plate to symbolise that you’ve been well looked after. If you finish it, they think they haven’t done a good job.” I had no idea!

Arabica: Small Plates, Big Connections by James Walters (Carnival) is available now at The Borough Market Store