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When I walk into Tida with my mum and cousins, it’s like being plunged into a sweet saffron sea that makes me want to cry (in a good way, I promise). As a second-generation Iranian-Australian, I grew up going to Iranian restaurants run by friends of my grandparents on Sydney’s north shore. These restaurants were old-school formal palaces, made for the older generation who’d recently arrived in Australia. But when I walk into Tida, it’s a fresher, younger Iranian world that I recognise, and it makes me feel emotional.
Tida (whose name translates to “daughter of the sun” in old Persian) is a new-ish introduction to North Willoughby’s high street – an intimate space with a handful of communal tables and warm, hand-painted golden-yellow walls. Its young owners wanted their restaurant to look and feel like a dining room in an Iranian home, because, as they tell me, “we can’t go back to ours”.
Every part of Tida has been lovingly created by a friend, from the thoughtful scattered artworks to the homey display cabinets. There’s a real sense of love and care here, and it extends to the patrons who sit comfortably in long, languorous conversations around the small white tables, sipping black tea and forgetting they’re in a restaurant on the side of a major road. It’s like you’re in someone’s aunt’s kitchen, where time is of little consequence.
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It’s a fact universally acknowledged by Iranians everywhere that the best Iranian food lives in people’s houses – particularly in the houses of grandmothers and lively uncles who know how to make chelo kabab over a fire in the front garden (often while freaking out neighbours in the process). Following this cardinal rule, it can be tricky going to Iranian restaurants, because we always know there’s better stuff to be had at home. I’m here to report this truth did not ring solidly true at Tida.
Tida bills itself as “Persian food, with a twist”, and trust me, for once, marketing is telling you the truth.
Iran’s ancient culture offers a unique set of national dishes steeped in history, spices and a liberal soaking of saffron. The classic suite of dishes includes: tahdig (the crisp rice at the bottom of the pot that everyone fights over), polo (buttery saffron basmati rice), kabab (spiced and lemon-saffron-marinated meats cooked over an open flame) and khoresht (slow-cooked herby stew-curry hybrids). All of these old faithfuls are on the menu at Tida, but done with their own spin.
We start off with fluffy barberi bread that arrives on the table steaming like a Studio Ghibli cartoon. We dip chunks of it into a minty-garlic yoghurt garnished with bright pink rose buds.
The yoghurt’s creamy tartness is perfectly balanced with the chewy delicateness of the bread, and my mum and I agree it’s mind-blowingly good
The main courses arrive for our group all at once, and the vibe is “Veritable Feast”. There’s about seven of us, so we each ordered something different. The one thing that unites every dish we order is the thing that sets Tida apart from every other Iranian restaurant I’ve been to: every main comes in a tahdig sandwich.
Tahdig is the best bit of Iranian food in my (and millions of other people’s opinion). Usually, a piece of wafer-thin bread is fried at the bottom of a giant pot of rice as it steams, soaking up the buttery, saffrony juices that drain to the bottom. The end result is a delicious, crisp, golden wedge of delight. Normally, there’s only enough tahdig on the table for you to fight with your family about before dinner – but at Tida, everybody gets two giant pieces each.
The table gets a mix of khoresht and kababs. My fesenjoon – a pomegranate, walnut and chicken stew that used to be eaten by kings – surprises me with its authenticity. Like most Iranian food, it’s all about a perfect balance of tartness, which Tida nails. This, combined with the buttery rice, makes for a true flavour symphony.
The ghormeh sabzi – a classic slow-cooked herb, lamb and kidney bean stew – also hits hard. In my experience, restaurant-style ghormeh sabzis tend to be bland and watery, but Tida’s (also served in a tahdig sandwich format) is fresh, zingy and bursting with psychedelic visions of bright green herb gardens and Persian pride.
It’s kind of perfect (although, not as good as my grandma’s. Sorry)
The classic spiced, minced lamb kabab, chelo kabab, is Iran’s national dish, and is the food you’re most likely to get at an Iranian restaurant out in the world. Compared to other places I’ve been, Tida’s kabab wasn’t on the same succulent level, but the chenjeh kabab, a lime-saffron-marinated flame-cooked chicken, is a bright, punchy hit of pure, juicy delight. As is tradition, these meats are served with roasted tomatoes, plump, charred-green chillies and saffron rice. All in all, we’re happy.
For dessert, we’re served a first for all of us – a saffron and rose-water panna cotta. This square of creamy, custard-like panna cotta is taken to a fairytale dimension with its subtle undertones of rose, saffron and pistachio. Not too sweet, and sprinkled with deep-green salted pistachio nuts and dried flowers, it’s so good we order two more.
Our dinner at Tida ends the way all Iranian dinners tend to do – with multiple cups of bergamot tea in small, crystal glasses. Our lovely host gives us a special saffron tea she orders from Iran, and it’s incredibly fragrant and bright gold. We stir traditional Iranian sugar-candy sticks into our tea and crunch into them. Everything feels right.
Tida gradually empties out, but for my mum, cousins and I gossiping over tea, we momentarily forget that we’re in an actual restaurant. Nobody kicks us out, even though they probably should. When we finally shrug on our coats and head out, it feels like we’re leaving a relative’s house, secure in the knowledge that one day, we can happily return.