Instructions
For the better part of four hundred years from 1453 Greece was ruled by the Turks (although some of my Greek mates will disagree that this was the better part). Yet not every Greek man wanted to work for a Turkish landowner, so thousands fled to the mountains, living in bandit enclaves. These were the klephts, or thieves.
They fought a kind of guerrilla war against their imposed masters with a spectacular lack of success until the War of Independence in 1821 when their no-holds-barred approach finally paid dividends.
Living rough meant the klephts could not raise flocks or crops that would indicate where they camped. And so, according to legend, they would descend upon unattended sheep and pilfer one for dinner. To make sure their cooking wouldn’t give them away, the lamb was baked underground in a coal pit, covered over with mud to prevent any steam or smoke escaping. This method was slow (taking many hours to cook) but yielded a delicate and flavoursome roast while providing effective disguise.
Variations of this idea exist throughout the world (the Maori hangi, the Fijian lo’ovo, the English crock) yet kleftiko is somehow different, somehow tastier.
Always use lamb on the bone in large pieces as this ensures the moistest outcome (actually that rule applies for most meats and poultry). And choose a cut with a reasonable fat content, even if it is a secondary piece with lots of connective tissue. You see, the slow cooking technique renders these fibres into soft, gelatinous and delicious morsels. They can, in fact, be the best part of the meal.
Perfecting kleftiko requires culinary confidence. You have to believe that you can’t overcook it. Provided your oven is not too hot for the long part of the roast you’ll have no troubles at all. And after several hours it emerges: soft, succulent and irresistible.
And to finish? Why Turkish delight, of course!
Kleftiko