Shorabet Adas (Lentil Soup) Recipe

Some years, I tried to recreate the fullness of the season. I invited friends for iftar—the meal at sundown that breaks the fast during Ramadan—and cooked grand dishes like maqlubeh with lamb shanks—the dramatic, upside-down rice dish layered with meat and vegetables. I made mansaf, Jordan’s national dish of lamb simmered in fermented yogurt and served over rice, and musakhan, flatbread topped with sumac-stained onions and roasted chicken.

But most of my evenings in New York during Ramadan were uneventful. When I was cooking in restaurant kitchens, breaking my fast often meant stepping away for five minutes during a shift to eat whatever leftover family meal I had set aside. Other nights, it meant cooking something unceremonious that came together in 20 or 30 minutes. Occasionally, it meant going out to a restaurant with a friend and carefully timing the reservation so sunset arrived just as the food hit the table.

With time, the traditions that once defined the month have grown less present in my life. I slipped into a different rhythm, far from the crowded dinner table I grew up with. Lately, I’ve been wanting to rebuild those traditions in small ways. This year, I’m doing just that with a simple puréed red lentil soup that appeared on my family’s Ramadan table night after night.

The Lentil Soup That Marks the Month

Across the Arab world, the fast is traditionally broken with dates and a glass of water. Dates are naturally sweet and energy-dense, offering a quick source of fuel after a long day without food. After the dates, soup usually follows, gently rehydrating the body and easing it back into eating. The most traditional soup across the Levant is a simple purée of lentils and aromatics. It’s eaten year-round, but during Ramadan it appears on the table almost every evening.

The soup starts with a generous amount of onion, cooked in olive oil until lightly golden. The goal isn’t deep caramelization, but just enough color to introduce sweetness and build a concentrated flavor base. From there, cumin and black pepper are bloomed in the oil until fragrant. Use enough cumin to season the soup, but not so much that it overpowers the lentils. The black pepper should be noticeable as well, adding a gentle sharpness that keeps the finished soup from tasting flat. When balanced properly, the spices don’t compete with the lentils. Though lentils may be mild, they are by no means flavorless. Their earthy character is distinctive, and this soup proves it.

Carrots and potatoes aren’t always included, though both are common additions in many households. Carrots lend a gentle sweetness that rounds out the lentils, while potatoes add body and creaminess. I tested the soup side by side with and without potatoes to see whether they were worth including, and the difference was clear: The version with potatoes was noticeably creamier once puréed. (The small amount of potato adds such creaminess that when I made the soup in our test kitchen, some of my Serious Eats colleagues thought the soup contained dairy.) The key is proportion. You want just enough potato to add body, but not so much that the soup turns gummy or overly potato-forward.

Red lentils are traditional here; they cook quickly and collapse easily as they simmer. While I prefer the savory depth of chicken broth, vegetable stock works well too, and even water will produce a satisfying result. Once the vegetables and lentils are tender, the soup is blended until completely smooth.

The soup is meant to be bright and is almost always served with lemon wedges. Rather than stirring it directly into the pot, the lemon is left for each person to add to taste, but it’s understood that the finished bowl should be beaming with citrus. With the exception of my mother—who preferred not to distract from the lentils—we squeezed in plenty. Lemons weren’t cut into neat little wedges—we used too much juice for that. They were halved instead, each person taking half a lemon.

The Pita Croutons

While pita chips are optional, they are often served on top of the soup, adding a satisfying crunch. Outside of Ramadan, my mom would shoo us away as we sneakily hovered over the paper towel–lined plate, snacking on the freshly fried pita before the soup was even ready.

The process is simple: Cut the pita into small squares and fry them in a shallow layer of good, fruity olive oil until golden, stirring often to keep the pieces from darkening too much. I’ve heard of modern versions that call for baking the pita with a little olive oil or even air-frying it, but it’s simply not the same. Frying them takes about three minutes per batch and does not require an obscene amount of olive oil. The oil seeps into the cut pita, producing a chips that are deeply crunchy and flavorful, infused with the bold character of good olive oil.

More Than a Simple Soup

The finished soup is creamy, earthy, and bright with lemon. It’s satisfying enough to stand on its own as a meal, especially with crisp pita scattered over the top.

It risks sounding saccharine to say so, but food shapes our sense of identity and the memories we build with our families in ways that are impossible to ignore. As time goes by, dishes like this tether me to home. It’s a heavy task for something as simple as a bowl of lentil soup—but for me, this soup goes a long way toward bridging that distance.