Harissa makes everything better
Food diary from the ancient Medina of Tunis
Harissa makes everything better:
Feeling down? Have some harissa.
Broken hearted? Eat some harissa.
A bit stressed? Take some harissa.
Never been more bored? How about some harissa.
Mad at the hubby? Give him some extra harissa …
I first encountered Harissa in the silent medina of Tunis in May 2026. How I had managed to spend 3 and 40 years on this planet without indulging in this most beautiful of condiments, I do not know.
The silent medina of Tunis
We landed in Tunis on the second day of Eid al-Adha, one of the most sacred holidays in the Islamic calendar. Admittedly, we were entirely unaware of this. I had simply chosen the cheapest flights available, and with hindsight can understand why this particular day was particularly cheap.
It was my first time in Tunisia and I arrived there wanting the full Arabian Nights experience: I could see myself living in the midst of a bustling ancient medina–its souks lined with crowded coffee houses, bazaars displaying intricately woven carpets and dusty old oil lamps, and the air thick with the smells of exotic perfumes, spices and delectable street food.
Alas, it was not to be. We arrived to find a deserted medina …
Everything was shut.
Everyone was gone.
There was little left to see in the narrow, empty, winding corridors of the world heritage site apart from stray cats and strewn rubbish, both of which were in plentiful supply. Even the town surrounding the medina, including the major supermarket, was closed.
Having commuted from Egypt on an early morning flight, we had not eaten anything of substance the whole day; things did not look good.
'Let's try the street food district,' I suggested to Darren. 'Surely, something must be open there.'
But there too, the stalls stood empty, silent and abandoned.
We stared blankly at the desolate sight, trying to will a plan out of the ether when our noses perked up–our olfactory systems were registering a fairly strong smell. I can't say that it was a pleasant smell but it felt like a familiar smell.
'I think someone's grilling meat–or maybe burning it,' was my educated guess.
Darren likes his meat, as his aunt puts it, cooked to buggery. He welcomed the possibility of finding overcooked meat. We set off in search of the source.
The portal of smells
Our noses brought us to a street bordering the ancient medina and the new town that has sprung up around it. A group of young men were gathered around what looked like a makeshift grill on the footpath. On top lay the heads of several freshly slaughtered goats–we had been smelling the pungent aroma of goat hair getting singed!
By all objective measures, the smell of goat's hair, and in fact any hair, getting singed is an awful smell–not that it matters. A smell, any smell works like a magic spell; it can, in an instant, open portals through time and space, transporting the perceiver back to the very moment when they first encountered that smell.
I too was instantly transported across the ocean to Fiji, where I had the good fortune of being born and raised until the age of 18. It was Christmas day and the extended family had gathered at our home in the small town of Lami to celebrate it together. As was tradition in our family at the time, a goat was slaughtered to mark the occasion and feed the flock.
We were never allowed to witness the slaughter of the animal but once the deed had been done by a hired professional, out of a potent mix of curiosity and intrigue, I would hang around and observe the process of skinning and gutting the animal. By now the carcass would be hanging upside-down from a roof beam, with all its blood draining out of its neck onto a salted basin–there was no hiding what had transpired.
The whole enterprise (of skinning and gutting) was performed rather quickly and skilfully. Nothing went to waste–everything from the blood to the stomach, intestines, internal organs and the brains were cleaned, cooked and consumed in one fashion or another. Even the skin would be saved for the village artisan to cure and use in making the traditional Indian drum called dholak.
It was a communal affair, filled with laughter, gaiety and high spirits. Everyone in the family would pitch in to help. Each even had a speciality:
My dad's sisters always took charge of cleaning and cooking up the tripe, a much loved dish amongst the grownups that all the children universally find to be revolting. I remember my aunts donning on thick rubber gloves before attempting this smelliest of affairs!
Dad's brothers would prepare and fry up the congealed blood, fat, liver, heart and other offal with copious amount of onions, ginger, garlic, chillies and masala (mixed spices). This dish would serve as their 'chaisa' with the whiskey and beers. Even the testicles would get lightly fried and shared amongst the male folk.
Mum and Dad would take charge of cooking the main course; either a goat curry or a goat pulao or both!
The older girls would get together and make the rotis, rice and salads, while the younger ones would be in charge of doing all the dishes.
I can't recall what the boys were tasked with; perhaps they too stood around grilling the goat head …
As soon as the food was ready, the men would retire to the front veranda with their drinks and 'chaisa'. The women and children would sit down for a late lunch together–and the feasting would begin!
These were good times–full of family, feasting and play. I had not consciously thought about this part of my life for many, many years. Recalling it here and now, while travelling on our own through foreign lands, filled me with a deep sense of nostalgia and even a tinge of homesickness.
It was stranger still to realise that my neurons (or whatever else stores memories) associates, what has to be one of the warmest memories of my life with one of the most awful smells in the world!
A different reality
Whilst I had been basking in nostalgia in my inner world, Darren was battling the onset of nausea in his outer world: The sight and smell of the goat head singeing away on the coals had an entirely different effect on him.
Darren had grown up in the industrial heart of Cardiff in Wales, with little connection to land, sea and its creatures. Egg and chips were a staple and any meat he ate arrived packaged, and served well-done.
To this day he prefers his meat and seafood well done–there should be no essence of the animal left. Heaven forbid he sees a face staring back at him …
'You may as well stick to eating lentils,' I have often told him
'Happy to,' is the curt reply.
Dahl is one of his favourite meals.
Darren hastened us away from the scene–there were a bit too many faces staring back from the grill!
Festival of sacrifice
As we tracked our way back to the Airbnb we were staying in at the medina, a traditional house owned by a family who had lived there for generations, we noticed that there were drops of blood everywhere on the polished stone floors. Most of the houses also had plastic bags outside their door. We could see goat skin spilling out of one, which the cats seem to have gotten into.
'They all probably slaughtered a goat this morning.' I said to a queasy Darren.
Eid al-Adha translates to the festival of sacrifice. It honours the willingness of the Prophet Ibrahim (Abraham) to sacrifice his son in obedience to God's command. As the story goes, God had intervened in the final seconds to save his son's life and provided a ram to sacrifice instead. To this day it is tradition to sacrifice a livestock animal such as a sheep, goat, cow or camel, to mark Eid al-Adha. Goats being the cheapest and most accessible are the most common.
The realisation made me feel a sense of kinship with all these families living behind the whitewashed walls and bright yellow doors of the medina. Who would have thought that people of a completely different faith and tradition, living on a distant land at the tip of Africa, celebrated their festival in the same way we used to–oceans away in the small island nation of Fiji.
Our Christmas tradition slowly but surely died off. As everyone's kids grew up, and a lot of our families (including us) migrated overseas, gathering as an extended family over Christmas grew harder.
With age, our parents' conscience also caught up with them –my mum and dad are now pure vegetarians! There is no question of any goats getting slaughtered in our household any time soon …
Sustenance at last
We carried on along the deserted streets of the medina, feeling increasingly desperate. Five minutes from our AirBnB we happened upon a boutique hotel: Dar El Médina
A young waiter with a ready smile was waiting at the door next to what was a welcome sight to our eyes–a restaurant menu. He greeted us, in perfect English.
We had been practicing our French in the lead up to the trip but young Tunisians prefer to have English as their second language (first is Arabic). This is the trend we've seen everywhere in the world we've travelled to this time around. Young people, enamored by global pop and gaming culture, naturally gravitate toward English, finding it a more useful language to learn than French, Spanish or Portuguese. English has become the world's first mega language.
The waiter did not have to work too hard to convince us to dine there. The restaurant was open–that is all we cared for at that point.
The perfect dish to sample harissa
We walked into the elegant dining room and were seated in a cosy little corner, tucked away at the back of the restaurant. It was painted in an earthy ochre hue and had oversized wooden windows overlooking the inner courtyard. Like most Tunisian courtyards, bougainvillea vines grew up and around the white washed walls, its young green leaves creating a stunning contrast. A few other patrons were quietly enjoying a late afternoon tea at the other end of the restaurant. It was all rather nice. Our fortunes had taken quite the turn.
As is my habit, I asked the waiter what their favourite item on the menu. This question usually yields the best recommendation. When addressed to young male waiters in particular, you can rest assured that they will nominate a dish that also comes in a generous portion!
Our young waiter hesitated to nominate a favourite; he loved them all. So I inquired about a dish that had caught my attention when I was researching Tunisian cuisine: Ojja Merguez.
He explained that ojja is a Tunisian favourite. It is a rich tomato based stew, made with harissa. It is served with freshly poached eggs that are cooked directly in the sauce. It is traditionally cooked with Merguez, a spicy and fatty lamb sausage, although this is usually substituted with more common proteins like beef or seafood.
The description was enticing but it was the novelty that made it most enticing: I had never encountered ojja in any other restaurant anywhere in the world before. I have never even seen it appear on my food-dominated social media feed!
It was also a nice change to see lamb on the menu. Lamb has become incredibly difficult to come by these days, even in regions like North Africa, Mediterranean and the Middle East where lamb had customarily been the main protein. From what I understand, there just aren't enough farmers producing lamb in these regions anymore so the prices have shot up. Most traditional dishes these days substitute lamb for beef, which is more abundantly produced and hence cheaper. This is particularly unfortunate for me as I don't eat beef–the childhood conditioning to revere cows as one's own divine mother is too strong in me …
Ojja Merguez it was!
Would you like it spicy? The charming waiter asked
'Yes,' I confidently replied. 'Tunisian spicy.'
'Tunisian spicy? Are you sure?' the young man pressed, surprised.
"Never been more certain,' I replied with the sort of confidence that only an Indian can muster when ordering spicy food.
Mr Egg and Chips looked alarmed–not sure if his rather delicate constitution was up for the challenge … Truth be told, the white boy handles his spice better than this brown girl: When Darren wasn't spending his formative years eating egg and chips, it was takeaway Vindaloo!
'Just the one dish?' the young man asked.
'How big is the serving size?' I wisely inquired.
'It's big enough for one person.'
'You all say that and then bring out enough food to serve an entire village,' I joked.
That had been our experience in Egypt where the portion sizes tends to be huge. Most days, Darren and I could comfortably share one serving of the main course as the main meal.
'No, no it's not that big,' he insisted
'Ok, so what else do you recommend?'
'The couscous is very traditional and not like any other couscous you would have eaten. In Tunisia we flavour our couscous really well with harissa. It's spicy.'
The young man had clearly figured out his customer and knew all the salient selling points that would resonate with her.
'Ok we'll have the couscous,' I added. 'With the fish and vegetables.'
'Good choice. Any starters?' he persisted. 'Our Kefta is very traditional–
Before he could upsell me on the excellent Tunisian Kefta, I cut in–
'Let's start with this and see how we go.'
'Drinks?'
A condiment birthed through history
It was good that I stopped ordering when I did because when the food came out it was indeed, enough to feed a village. We ended up taking most of the couscous as takeaway. The restaurant also had complimentary starters: A trio of house-made harissa with a basket of fresh baguette. It was my first taste of harissa and I started at the peak.
Harissa is a hot chili paste made from roasted or dried red peppers, garlic, olive oil, and warm spices like cumin, coriander, caraway, and mint. It is native to Tunisia but is widely used as the foundational cooking ingredient or condiment across parts of North Africa and the Middle East.
The history of harissa is deeply entwined with the history of the region – from Maghreb in North Africa (modern day Tunisia, Libya, Algeria and Morocco) to Iberia (modern day Spain and Portugal). Indeed, had history not transpired in the exact way it did over the last 800 years in this part of the world, we may not have the pleasure of enjoying harissa today …
The story begins with the main ingredient–chili peppers. It's fascinating to note that chillies are not native to Africa, Asia nor India!
Chilli peppers originate from Americas and were only introduced to the old world following Christopher Columbus's voyage of 1492. This is also true of many other produce that are now staples across Europe, Asia and India including potatoes, tomatoes, peanut, corn, pineapple and squash.
Columbus returned to Spain in 1493 carrying samples of these and other specimens gathered in the Caribbean and presented it directly to Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand. Initially Royal herbalists and monastic gardens cultivated American seeds (like tomatoes and chilies) as ornamental oddities or medicinal plants before they entered local markets. Poor farming communities embraced crops that outperformed native European plants, and they spread from there. Spanish merchants and Ottoman Turk trading vessels that followed Columbus helped to spread chillies across the Mediterranean and beyond.
Around the same time, christian kingdoms were concluding the Reconquista, an 800 year campaign in which they reclaimed territory from Muslim rule. This led to the expulsion of Moorish (Muslim) and Sephardic (Jewish) population from Iberia who refused to convert to Christianity. The exodus continued into the 1600s: Under the 1609 decree, even the Muslims who had converted (Moriscos) were expelled. Over 300,000 highly skilled agriculturalists and merchants were systematically boarded on galleons and deported! The vast majority sought refuge in the Regency of Tunis, Algeria, and Morocco.
These exiles brought with them intricate knowledge of irrigation, horticulture, and the preservation of summer produce–and chillies. Having already cultivated the newly arrived American capsicums (chilli peppers) in the gardens of Andalusia (Southern Spain), they introduced these vibrant red peppers to the fertile plains of Cap Bon in Tunisia, where they flourished.
To preserve their harvest, the Andalusians took sun-dried red chilies and pounded them manually in stone mortars with sea salt and fine olive oil—this allowed the paste to keep indefinitely in earthenware jars. Over time the exiles combined these crushed chilies with indigenous Berber and Arab aromatics—most notably caraway, coriander, cumin and garlic—softening the harsh burn of chillies into the complex, fragrant heat that is harissa!
Harissa perfectly complemented grain dishes like couscous, hearty stews and seafood, the region was known for. Today, this fiery condiment remains the foundation of Tunisian cookery.
The trio of harissa served at Dar El Médina offered a wonderful spectrum of flavor while showcasing the regional variance:
The first of was the traditional red harissa. This had the most heat and is mostly widely used.
The second was a green harissa made from green chillies. This had a milder heat profile and more complex flavour profile that green chillies are loved for.
The third was a surprise. It was an orange coloured harissa made from carrots with a sweet profile.
The accompanying baguette was also an artefact of history–a lasting influence of the French colonial era that ended in the mid 20th century. It proved to be the perfect complement for sampling the fiery condiments.
It was then time for the main act.
The heartiest stew of them all
Like harissa, ojja's origins is deeply intertwined with the history of the region.
The word ojja loosely translates to omelette or scramble in Arabic. Long before tomatoes arrived in North Africa, early versions of the dish were made across the Maghreb by Indigenous Berbers and Arabs. They scrambled or poached eggs with wild greens, herbs, and oils.
As tomatoes and chilli peppers found their way into Tunisia in the 16th century, Tunisians adapted these new ingredients, trading the green base for a fiery red sauce deepened by garlic and harissa. Thus, ojja was born.
The pairing of ojja with merguez is yet another example of how intersection of human cultures has shaped world cuisines.
Historians trace records of mirkas, the medieval precursor to merguez sausage, back to 13th-century Berber-Muslim and Andalusian (Southern Spain) cooking. Combining the spiced, fat-heavy lamb sausage with the rapid-cooking tomato-and-egg scramble became a staple in Tunisian family kitchens, offering a protein-rich, hearty meal for workers.
Ojja remains a highly popular dish in Tunisia, the sort that would be cooked in every household at least a few times a week. The ojja from no two households will ever taste the same. Every home cook has their own unique touch so everyone's ojja tends to be at least a little bit unique to them.
How much harissa gets used in the cooking is obviously a key factor determining the final taste of the dish. The type and freshness of harissa also matters. Some cooks use it liberally to create a positively fiery feast. Others prefer a milder take. In our two weeks in Tunisia, I felt like we sampled the full range.
Which ojja tastes the best? Tunisians would categorically claim that it's the one their mum cooks–of course!
We did not have the benefit of having ojja making mums but got extremely lucky with the first chef we encountered at Dar El Medina; she had a deft touch and made the ojja with just enough harissa to bring the sophisticated heat into the stew, without overpowering the other flavours. Everything about it was perfection.
The ojja was served in a large ceramic plate, beautifully decorated with typical Tunisian motifs. It tasted of the freshness and sweetness one would expect from vine ripened tomatoes. The chillies in the harissa added a nice heat while the spices added a hearty depth. The merguez had been chopped into small bite-sized pieces and cooked with the stew. The fats had seeped into the stew, adding another layer of depth. The final layer of flavour and richness came from the freshly poached eggs; breaking the yolk in the stew completes it.
We were instantly seduced by the sight and smell of the dish–and reminded that we had not eaten much whole day. Scarcely any words exchanged as we mopped up the delicious sauce with our bread; the plate was returned to the kitchen clean!
My only regret when we got to the end was that we had not paused to take the photo of that excellent dish and its exquisite presentation before diving in!
Harissa makes everything better
Ojja became our standard order at every main meal in Tunisia over the ensuing two week. We went through all the different variations; lamb merguez remains a firm favourite followed by 'fruits de mer', which translates to fruits of the sea or in less poetic terms, mixed seafood!
Admittedly not every restaurant made the ojja as beautifully as the restaurant/chef we first encountered but the wonderful thing about dining in Tunisia is that one can order a side of harissa anywhere. If the said meal, whether it be a delectable brik, chapati mahdia or indeed a pizza or burger seemed flat on any level, all we had to do was add some harissa – the transformation would be instant, uplifting not only the food but also our mood.
I even bought a jar to take with me to Europe. It was our saviour, working equally well to uplift an otherwise ordinary dish of pasta, roast chicken, sandwich or stir-fry. By the end of our two month stay, the jar had been well and truly used up!
Harissa really does make everything better.
Live Broadcast Coming Soon.
Subscribe to be notified of the date and time.
There will be a Q&A session afterwards.
Written by Reeta Dhar. Cover Art by Darren Pryce.
Based on travel to Medina of Tunis in May-June 2026.
Written and illustrated at Coogee Beach in Sydney, Australia
First published by Vitalis in September 2026
Comments