Learning to make great hummus requires tasting along the way and trusting what you taste. My grandmother knew just what she was looking for when she made hummus, but she still called me over to ask my opinion, feeding me the answers she wanted: “Do you think it needs a little more lemon?” We’d squeeze another half of a lemon into the mix. “Do you think it has enough salt?” She’d pour a half-teaspoon into my palm to tip into the food processor . . . and we’d taste it again. Round and round we’d go, adding and tasting, thinning it with broth from the beans as needed, until every- one agreed it was perfect.

For my grandmother, recipe portions were a starting point, but her real secret to perfect hummus came from pouring in dabs of lemon and tahini. She’d adjust the amounts, depending on how flavorful and ripe her lemons were. And she never skimped on the tahini.
In my grandmother’s time, to get the smoothest- textured hummus, cooks used to rub the boiled beans together to remove the skins. Today, with powerful food processors, few people take this step. In my restaurant, I boil the beans, rub them together with my hands, and pour off the skins that float to the top several times. This process, for me, is meditative and produces a creamier result. My grandmother’s method, layering in the ingredients, is the one I still use. The hummus continues to form its taste and texture long after it’s left the blender. The lemon’s acid binds with the tahini to thicken the spread, and any hummus that goes into the fridge emerges thicker and filled with a garlic- infused bloom. If you need to, thin it with ice water and restore the texture to your liking with a whisk or a spoon.

This hummus recipe can be used as the base for Hummus bil Awarma; as a nice vegan platform for Tatbeeleh, a lemon-chile relish; or for the classic dish Qudsiyah by spooning Ful Madammas, stewed fava beans, on top. This recipe is perfect for a two-person household but easily doubles or triples for a family or a party.