By STEVEN LEE MYERS


BAGHDAD - Our dinner - a threeplus- kilogram common carp - came out of a murky pool and landed with a wet slap on a bare concrete floor.

The sous chef, if you will, lifted a wooden club and delivered a crushing blow to the head that did not kill the creature, since it continued to writhe as the knife was plunged through its gills and then along its spine.

Iraqis are particular about selecting their fish - preferring males over females, for example - and then seeing it to its mortal end for a simple reason: it should be as fresh as possible and, even while still twitching, roasted over an open fire in the style called masquf, which has been associated with Baghdad for centuries at least.

“They want it exactly in the traditional way,” said Munir Khadim, the owner of Al-Baghdadi, a restaurant on a stretch of the Tigris River in Baghdad where fish have probably been roasted in more or less the same way since the earliest days of civilization. “It’s part of Iraqi folklore.”

Now, like Iraq itself, masquf has re-emerged from the darkest days of violence, reasserting its place in local cuisine and culture.

In the last year and a half, a dozen of the old masquf restaurants have reopened in the riverside park along Abu Nuwas, a tree-lined boulevard that was for years after the American invasion in 2003 a desolate wasteland, a launching pad for attacks on the Green Zone and ultimately a military encampment.

“You will never get the same flavor from any other type of fish in Iraq or outside Iraq,” a defense ministry official who identified himself as Abu Abdulla said, eating and drinking beer recently at a restaurant called Al-Balaam.

Mr. Khadim’s restaurant closed for four years while he fled to Romania in search of work.

A mechanical engineer, he opened a shop in exile, until improved security persuaded him to return in 2008 to what he called his passion.

Masquf is a simple method of roasting fish, though several of the men I met who have made it their profession insist that theirs is the best.

Once gutted, the fish is flattened into an oval and impaled on two wooden sticks that are then driven into the dirt at the edge of a round fire pit so that its flesh faces a roaring fire fueled by the wood of fruit trees: apple, orange or pomegranate, depending, it seems, on availability and taste.

The word itself is Iraqi slang, derived from the Arabic word for roof - that is, the flayed fish forming a cover over the flames.

I’ve read that Iraqis flavor the fish with spices, but the only ingredient I’ve ever seen used is salt. The skill is entirely in the roasting.

The fish is suspended in a broad circle far enough from the fire to avoid scorching and roasted very, very slowly until the flesh is crispy brown on the outside and still white and juicy inside. It is then lifted off the stakes and laid directly on coals to char the skin. The fish is typically served covered by flatbread and accompanied by salads, yogurt with cucumber, and pickled fruits and vegetables in a mustard sauce. It is never served with utensils.

The taste is redolent of Mesopotamia, the land between two rivers, but Iraqis romanticize masquf in ways that might mystify foreigners.

It is considered lucky to eat it on Wednesdays. It is said to have medicinal qualities, and even aphrodisiacal powers, especially the guts, which can be roasted in a cast-iron pan upon request. It is food for guests and special occasions like weddings and births.

Nostalgia is almost certainly a factor in its appeal, since masquf evokes a simpler era in a Baghdad that exists only in memory.

Faisal Habib, a government worker dining at Al-Balaam, remembered eating on Abu Nuwas for the first time in 1980. “It was different back then,” he said, adding that the best masquf chefs had fled abroad during the war. “The flavor was much better.”


Customers choose carp at an auction in Baghdad, right. The fish will be roasted by an open fire, then served with bread, vegetables and yogurt.







Amir A. al-Obeidi contributed reporting.