Yalanchi sarma, or just “yalanchi,” is the Armenian version of vegetarian stuffed grape leaves. “Sarma” means wrapped in Turkish, while ”yalanchi” means “liar,” a humorous reference to the fact that this is a meat-free version of the more common sarma, which typically contains beef or lamb. Thanks to the Armenian Christian Church, which historically forbade meat consumption for nearly half the year, Armenians have become pros at meatless cooking, and yalanchi is a prime example of this talent. The dish gets its satisfying savory flavor from tomato paste and copious amounts of chopped onions, olive oil, black pepper, and lemon juice, with toasted pine nuts (and occasionally dried currants) for extra heft. Unlike some other stuffed grape leaves, where the grains of rice remain distinct, yalanchi have a soft, cohesive filling that’s closer in texture to risotto than pilaf. 

Unlike lamb or beef and rice-filled sarma, which is a main course typically cooked in a thicker tomato-enriched broth that it’s also served with, yalanchi are cooked simply in water. Yalanchi are also usually served as a room-temperature appetizer, though they are excellent as a meatless main, either with a salad or wrapped yet again in pita as a sandwich. For many Armenian families, including mine, yalanchi are an essential element on the mezze table. Fortunately, they are easy to make—if a little time-consuming—and can be prepared ahead of time. In fact, their texture and flavor improve after a day or two in the fridge.

In my family, my aunt Esther, a wonderful cook who has perfected her recipe and technique over many years, is always in charge of the yalanchi. Though she has shared her recipe with the rest of the family and we have all diligently taken notes while watching her work in the kitchen, none of us have her magic touch, and most of us continue to rely on her for our yalanchi supply. The recipe I’m sharing below is hers, at least in spirit. To make yalanchi a little easier for beginners, I’ve modified her technique slightly and have scaled down the recipe considerably, since I imagine most readers aren’t making this for a crowd of her fans.

Making the Filling for Yalanchi

My family typically uses par-cooked rice, rather than raw, to fill our yalanchi. It takes a little extra time to prep, but it makes filling and rolling the sarma much easier, as the cooked rice mixture is more cohesive than raw grains. It also speeds up the cooking once the yalanchi are in the oven, since the rice already contains much of the moisture it needs to finish cooking through.

To make it, I begin by mincing a lot of onion: one whole pound of onions for a single cup of rice. I then cook the onions with a generous glug of olive oil. We’re talking at least 3/4 cup, and though this might seem excessive, along with all the onions, it’s an essential element that brings an unctuous texture to the yalanchi. I like to add a pinch of baking soda to help break down the onions a bit more quickly, but you should still cook them long enough so they develop deep savory notes and fully soften. The alliums should ultimately be so tender they vanish into the finished dish. 

I then stir in the tomato paste, rice, water, and lemon juice and bring it all to a simmer, allowing the rice to gently cook until most of the liquid has been absorbed and each grain has softened, but still retains some of its chew. I fold in some chopped parsley for a hint of freshness and a handful of pine nuts for satisfying crunch, then let the mixture cool to room temperature, allowing it to firm up slightly, which makes it easier to handle. (My family doesn’t add currants to their yalanchi, though I sometimes enjoy the pop of sweetness and additional depth they add, and have included instructions for using them if you like.) While the filling mixture cools, I prepare the grape leaves.

How to Prepare Grape Leaves for Yalanchi

Many years ago, my grandfather spotted a wild, sterile grape vine growing on the side of a road: It had tender, thin, and large leaves with fine ribs, just right for sarma. He took a cutting, rooted it, and planted it in his garden. Today, clones of that one plant are climbing trellises in just about every family member’s yard, and they allow us to have yalanchi made with homegrown grape leaves year-round. (We harvest the leaves in late June and early July, when they are fully-grown but still tender, then blanch and roll them into bundles that we can freeze for later.) I know not everyone may have their own prized grape vines and leaves, but jarred, brined grape leaves sold in stores will work nearly as well. 

I always purchase more leaves than I need, as some leaves will inevitably be torn, ragged, or too small for use. My recipe calls for a 24-ounce jar; if you have unused leaves, you can always return them to the brine and save them for next time. Jarred grape leaves are already blanched, so preparing them for use in yalanchi requires just rinsing and drying them. I like to use a salad spinner to dry them, which makes quick work of the task and doesn’t waste paper towels—they don’t need to be bone-dry, just rid of excess water.

You want to use grape leaves that are about five inches in diameter, though larger ones are fine if you trim them down so that you don’t end up with a disproportionate amount of leaf in the yalanchi. You can use pairs of smaller leaves, too—just layer them slightly offset to one another to make a 5-inch diameter wrapper. The leaves should be round in shape, without prominent notching around their edges, which can leave openings in the wrapper for the filling to leak out. Similarly, avoid any torn, fragile, or overly thin leaves. (Any rejects can be used to cover the sarma while they finish cooking, so don’t discard them just yet.) You’ll need about 44 perfect specimens for this recipe, and though you probably won’t use them all, it’s always a good idea to have a few extras.

Filling and Rolling the Grape Leaves

Until recently, I’d never made yalanchi myself, though I’d watched others, like my Aunt Esther, do it many times. Now that I’ve had a lot of practice, I can bang out a batch pretty quickly. It will take a first-timer about an hour to fill and roll them all; less once you get the hang of it. (And even less, if you can recruit a helper or two to join in the effort. Like manti, making yalanchi is most enjoyable when it’s a group effort.) 

To fill the yalanchi, you start by laying the grape leaves rib-side up on a cutting board. In many cases, the stiff remnant of the leaf’s woody stem will remain present, which can make rolling more difficult and potentially cause the wrapper to tear. To remove it, use a paring knife to cut the stem flush with the base of the leaf, taking care to avoid cutting into the leaf itself, which can create a gap for the filling to leak out.

Aunt Esther’s yalanchi are very small, and she uses just a few teaspoons of filling in each. This is how they should be, but smaller yalanchi means more yalanchi—and more work—so I’ve scaled them up slightly here and call for a slightly rounded tablespoon instead. You set the rice mixture just above the stem end of the leaf, then use a spoon to form it into a log before folding the sides of the leaf over the filling one at a time to fully encase it. This should result in a long strip with the rice in the center. Roll it up like a carpet until it is fully enclosed to prevent the filling from leaking out. (You can trim any overhanging bits of leaf from the edges or tip with a sharp knife.)

Cooking the Yalanchi

Most Armenians, Aunt Esther included, cook their yalanchi by lining a pot with extra grape leaves to separate the rolls from the bottom of the pot, which helps prevent scorching. They then set the rolls in layers over the leafy lining before covering the parcels with water, lemon juice, and more olive oil, before bringing it to a simmer on the stovetop. As the yalanchi gently cooks, the rice tenderizes and swells; the filling becomes soft and cohesive, and the grape leaves soften more fully. 

This is where my method substantially differs from my aunt’s. Instead of simmering the yalanchi, I bake them: I arrange them in a single layer in a 9- by 13-inch baking dish or cake pan with olive oil, lemon juice, and a cup of water, then seal the pan with foil. They take about an hour to cook in the oven, and while it does take a little longer than cooking them on the stovetop, it’s a hands-off method that works just as well. You won’t have to babysit the pot by constantly checking to make sure it’s at a gentle simmer.

(Baking them in a dish also makes it easier to transfer them to the fridge in the same container, if desired, which is nice when you are making them ahead of time. You could even bake them in a heatproof serving dish if you have one of the appropriate size.) The exposed grape leaves on the top of the rolls can oxidize and blacken if not kept moist, but, as I discovered, covering them with extra leaves during the bake prevents this entirely, and it allows the sarma to cook evenly and completely, since it traps them with steam.

Once cooked, the yalanchi will need an hour or so to cool to room temperature; then they get one last drizzle of olive oil before serving. Though it isn’t traditional in my family to do so, I like to serve my sarma yalanchi with lemon wedges on the side so people can add a burst of bright, acidic flavor. Yalanchi are excellent the day they’re made, but their flavor and texture improve with time, and they can be held for up to five days in the fridge, making them an easy make-ahead dish for entertaining or even just a snack. They’re good when eaten cold from the fridge, but they are the most delicious when enjoyed at room temperature, since the rice is softest when not chilled.

I haven’t shared my yalanchi recipe with Aunt Esther yet, since I’m not sure she’d approve of all the changes I’ve made to it, but other family members have tried it, and it received glowing reviews. It might not be their go-to version—after all, it’s hard to compete with my aunt, the queen of yalanchi—but it might just become yours.