Iranian-Iraqi bistro Logma

cultural exchange beyond the table

interview & critical review by Aryana Arian

photography by Polina Kravchencko

Logma did not feel like a restaurant, it felt like visiting my family – not even my friends – but my family's house in Iran for a homemade, warm, inviting meal.

But then I remembered, oh yes, it's a restaurant.

There were strangers in the room but they all seemed social and happy. These days the word 'community' is thrown around a lot, but really, if it was to be used authentically, Logma embodied it. When the food arrived, it provided something else entirely:

layers of flavor, elements of surprise, warm and homemade authentic cooking

that welcomed you.

Logma was born from a shared passion of cooking and hosting, not a deliberate business plan. Ziad Halub and Farsin Rabiee are the couple behind it. Ziad is British-Iraqi and Farsin is Iranian-American. They started doing dinner parties in their home and as plus ones started bringing their own plus ones, it developed into a supper club, growing so much in popularity that people were begging to get a seat. Then an opportunity that seemed too perfect to be true opened just a few doors down from their flat in Hackney, and they thought okay, it's a sign, so they opened Logma, and didn't look back. What does Logma mean though?

Farsin: Basically it means the perfect morsel, the perfect bite of food. But it can actually mean many different things, depending on your family or the context. In Farsi, for example, a loghmeh can be a single bite you take, or when there are multiple dishes on the table, as there often are at Middle Eastern meals, the act of combining them is also a loghmeh. You might have two stews, some bread, some dips, some torshi, and a loghmeh is taking a piece of bread and layering a little of everything onto it. And if you're peckish at night and go for a midnight snack, that can also be a loghmeh. it's so simple but it could mean so much, it could be used in such different ways,

so I think that's always such a fun way to name something.

And it really was the sort of place that encompasses so much but in a fun, new and exciting way.

We didn't go for Logma's classic sandwiches, the ones that

have had people queuing down Goldsmiths Row, a sourdough pita stuffed with kofta, kashke bademjan and muhammarathat went viral before they even had enough plates to serve it on.

Instead we were there for their infamous Wednesday dinners, a fitting choice considering one half of Logma’s heritage. In Iran, Wednesday evenings are like Friday nights, making the gathering feel like the weekend, where we are treated like guests in their home and served a unique menu of various dishes from both chefs, Irani and Iraqi backgrounds merging in beautiful and intentional ways.

The first thing we were greeted with, after a long summer walk down to the spot in Hackney, was a nice refreshing cherry sherbet and sekenjabin, a traditional persian sweet and sour syrup made from vinegar, sugar, mint and diluted with water, alongside fresh lettuce and vegetables to dip, and dalaar, a northern Iranian herb paste, to spread.

Torshi, which are Persian pickled vegetables, was also placed on the side.

Now this refreshing starter, which symbolises a lot in Persian culture, was new to my surrounding neighbours with whom I was sharing a very intimate and tight spot with, to the point where I felt like I had to make actual conversation – crazy but alas I survived, and it made me happy that Logma was forcing me into conversation while breaking bread.

It was interesting seeing the foreigners not knowing what they were indulging in, but for me, it was

all too familiar.

Polina, our visual and brand lead, who was with me, was particularly taken by the ghalieh, she had never tried anything like it before. I was just thinking of my mom, getting a little teary eyed. Here, united, in an expression of love and hospitality, how could I not?

The next dish had Persian kashk and caramelized onions reminiscent of kashke bademjan mixed with labneh's earthy flavor. Crispy and soft zucchinis, perfectly textured, offering a rich, ancient flavor. The duck heart was a unique touch – earthy, barbecued, coal-like taste. The mixture of Persian and Iraqi elements were apparent but also unique.

Farsin: Some people like to call it “fusion,” which I kind of hate because it feels like a very 90s term, and I think fusion makes more sense when there's a bigger contrast. I'm not saying there aren't differences between Iranian and Iraqi food, but there are also so many similarities, and we like to embrace both. It gives us such a bigger pool of things to cook. There are things they cook in Iran that they don't cook in Iraq and vice versa, and those are things we get to discover together.

Ziad: For example, we have an ash, a traditional stew, that we cook in our family, it's our go-to. Ash-e mash, Iraqis just call it mash. It's the ash of choice in our family. I didn't even know this was also an Iranian thing until we started diving deeper and exploring recipes, similarities and differences. And then we found out ash is a whole thing. So sometimes it's nice to discover that things you thought were completely different are actually exactly the same, and vice versa, things you thought were the same sometimes end up being wildly different.

As I was sitting and taking in the surroundings, I saw one of the waiters brewing saffron using the steam wand of the espresso machine and thought wow what a smart way of doing things, and I guess that's Logma, innovation, love, soul

and people doing the most in a small space full of laughter and joy.

The next dish was a twist on the traditional and beloved baghali ghatogh, re-imagined with clams and

the most incredible buttered slice of locally sourced crispy sourdough toast, placed on top. The smell was divine,

I can vividly remember it even as I write this now.

The stew had more of a salty taste due to the seafood element compared to what I was used to, and I wasn't mad at it at all; in fact, it made you more engulfed with the flavours of the fresh herbs.

Aryana: Food and philosophy are about human culture at their core. Where do your ingredients come from, how do you balance working locally with bringing in what you need from elsewhere, and how does that translate into what lands on the plate at Logma?

Farsin: The way we understand a culture is through the way we cook. It's how people live in harmony with the land, how agriculture is established, how food sources are shaped by trade routes, by regions, seasons, scarcity and abundance. To understand a culture is to understand its food, and vice versa.

"Where cultures get a bad reputation is where people become disconnected from the land. The UK is a prime example, where the working class during the industrial era lost that connection to agriculture entirely, and that's when hyper-processed foods enter the market and the association with British food being bad begins. People are supposed to have access to land."

Ziad: Seasonality is the same in Iraq as it is in Iran. Iraq has never been an isolated culture, it has always been a crossroads of civilisations, peoples, and religions. In the south, we are heavily influenced by the Indian sub-continent. Amba, our mango pickle, came through centuries of Indian Ocean trade routes. Sambusa originated in the Middle East and travelled to India. It was never a one-sided exchange.

So we don't want to simply replicate what is done in Iraq and Iran, or only use Iranian and Iraqi produce, because that would do a disservice to the evolution of food that is still continuing to happen there. We source from local organic and regeneratively certified farms, and then translate that with Iraqi and Iranian sensibilities. For the spices, I go to Iraq when I can and bring back kilos. Always from the same kushk, the same little stand my grandmother used. They have been making my family's spices for generations.

Then arrived the Albaloo polo (sour cherry rice), topped with pistachios and almonds, a tomato salad with strawberries and black lime pork for the main.

The pork was very tender, the tomato salad very fresh and basil-y, the albaloo polo was soft and fragrant with tahdig garnished on top. Sweet and savoury, just meeting the heavens through your tongue, Iraqi and Iranian influences flying through your mouth, complementing one another.

And expect the Logma team to take care of you and feed you generously. The portions were more than sufficient in the way that only genuine hospitality can be, the kind where you feel cared for rather than just served.

Aryana: Given your backgrounds, how does it feel to do something where culture and tension co-exist, and where that tension turns into love, food, hospitality?

Ziad: This is a one-sided beef. I'm janoubi, from the south, where the lines are far more blurred. Basrawi culture and Khuzestani culture are near identical. A lot of Iranians cross the border to work in Basra, a lot of Basrawis go to Iran to shop. For me and my family it's much of a muchness. The tension never not existed, there was the Iran-Iraq War, but culturally we don't feel it. It's so intermixed, especially when it comes to people. The tension is more political than cultural.

Farsin: We've had so much support and met such incredible people since opening.

One of the reasons we opened in East London was being tired of travelling to West London for good Iranian or Iraqi food, and we didn't realise how many like-minded people already lived in our neighbourhood. Everyone has been so loving and supportive. The tension, when it exists, tends to come from online. We're just making kofta and nice food, and we're confused by it. It usually happens when a TikToker posts and their fanbase follows, and suddenly the comments get political, borderline racist even. And we're like, what are you guys arguing about?

For dessert, we met a date tart and alongside it a honey and fig leaf flavoured ice cream.

You could really taste the fig leaf, strong yet delicate, it just melts off your tongue. The tart reminded me of some elements of the Persian halva but with an Iraqi elevation that made it unique with layered textures using the date to really bring it to life.

The combination with the Persian tea and nabat, a saffron rock sugar you stir into your tea, is where the evening closes and it's time for a nap, as if my grandma put me to sleep.

Aryana: What makes Logma a communal place, somewhere that holds you together when so much of the world feels like it's pulling us apart?

Farsin: People keep asking what our key is, and we really don't know. We never followed a posting schedule or reel strategy, we just didn't do any of that, and things went viral anyway. I think the fact that we weren't trying made it more authentic.

"The word community is being overused to the point of becoming meaningless. The more natural you lean into it, the more authentic you are and people will follow that."

Ziad: Community isn't just a mailing list. Our community is customers we know by name, who we have real conversations with. When everything was happening in Iran, people were coming in and crying, and it was a space where they could do that. It's a third culture space, both Iranian and Iraqi, but neither is a monolith. Iraq is fractured, Iran is fractured. So it's about cooking food that represents regionality and making people understand the diversity of it. Resistance, for us, is showing that our food is more than just kebab.

The music throughout the evening included some of my favourites, Googoosh's 'Man Amadam' amongst a mix of Arabic and Persian sounds. The ceramic plates were decorated with flowers, a nod to the garden symbolism so embedded in Persian and Middle Eastern culture. And the surroundings themselves were a quiet reminder that not everything needs to look the way it is supposed to for a Middle Eastern restaurant.

Actually, at Logma, that would entirely miss the point.

Farsin: We didn't want Aladdin's cave. We didn't want an orientalist feel. We wanted a place that made sense in East London, in Hackney. People like to use the word minimal, which I also hate. There are two things I hate: minimalism and fusion. I actually don't think the space is minimal.

The point was always that you are going to sit at the communal table and break bread with whoever is around you, you are going to have a view into the kitchen, we are going to bring you tea, and if there is any tahdig left over, you are getting it. That is just how our dinner parties were. That is how we both grew up.

Aryana: And Middle Eastern people are very hospitable, I really felt that energy on Wednesday night. It's quite a rare feeling to evoke when you're also busy cooking, but you guys do it so well. Everyone who goes to Logma says the same. Is that hospitality embedded in what you do, given that you started with supper clubs for friends?

Farsin: We always wanted it to feel like a hospitable space, where people felt comfortable, like they were in someone's home. Not clinical or cold. But at the same time, we definitely didn't want it to look like that either.

Aryana: My last question is one I ask everyone I speak to in the food and hospitality space. The reason perediza is going into food and hospitality this year is because every year we enter a new territory with a philosophical lens. Last year it was film, the year before fashion, and we keep adding layers. And this year, what I keep coming back to is cooking as a human craft, something AI cannot replace. It is hard labour, it needs a human being to execute it, and it is one of the oldest jobs and practices in the world. I find that such a key point in human existence, because when we want to feel human again, we go to a restaurant, we grab a bite to eat, and we gain sustenance. Why did you choose a path that is so deeply human at its core?

Farsin: Well, I think if we talk about humanity, fire is what started all of it. It's that ignition that brought us into being modern human beings, into sentience, and it's all centred around fire. What fire has meant to people across civilisations, through all of time. That was the dawn of man. And cooking cannot happen without that fire. It is the first act that we did.

The closest thing we can get to our ancient selves is cooking over fire. It is a very human thing to do.

We didn't really pick it. It kind of picked us. It happened very organically and it's just amazing working with produce, with things that change every season. No two bunches that pass through our hands are the same. And the act of creating something physically with our own hands for other human beings feels very natural. Especially given that in my last jobs, with the rise of AI in journalism and writing, it was starting to spook me a little. My brain was hurting from having to learn to work with it while still being creative, still being original.

So subconsciously, maybe it was a bit of a relief. Maybe we just felt called to do something natural for other human beings. One of the oldest professions there is. And in terms of AI, I'm sure one day a robot could follow a recipe, but you can tell when something has been cooked by numbers. Produce is variable, moisture is variable, ingredients shift with the season, the quality, the sweetness. A robot will never have that sense of perception. No two chefs are the same, and that is never going to be a singular or sterile experience.

Ziad: We cook just the amount we feel we can. We are never going to make five hundred koftas a day, we don't want to be left with loads of food or freeze things. We want to keep produce fresh and keep quantities honest. That's why the daily specials change every week and the wider menu changes every month. We've even thought about taking the sandwich off the menu, which we probably won't, but we don't want to be slaves to just one thing.

No two sandwiches are going to taste the same. We change the herbs based on what we can get that week, more basil if it's freshest, tarragon if that's what's there, or all three mixed. It's the same with the kofta. It's not about optimisation or sterility, it's about using what we have around us, making something fun for us as well. That has always been the way, since we opened six months ago.

Secretly, the couple told me at the end of the interview that they might take the sandwich off the menu,

and I gasped.

They said maybe don't include that or maybe do, but Farsin said, "No, no, include it. We won't take the sandwich off, but we do think about it sometimes. It's getting a little too central to the whole point and we don't want to be making masses of sandwiches.

We're never going to do that."

There is a tendency to expect Middle Eastern food ventures to perform a certain version of themselves, orientalist aesthetics, scaled-up menus, the familiar markers of what the category is supposed to look like.

What Ziad and Farsin have always been clear about is that Logma was never built to fit a category.

It was built from something far more honest than that.

You can find Logma at 81 Goldsmiths Row, London E2 8QR. The cafe-bistro is open during the day, and Logma Lates, their Wednesday evening supper club for 18 guests, releases tickets on the last Wednesday of every month for the month ahead.