Dried Limes, a Middle Eastern Secret for Flavoring Soups and Stews

FOR years I had been walking past dried limes in Middle Eastern markets. Dusky brown things slightly larger than Ping-Pong balls, ringed with faint, ghostly stripes, they always seemed vaguely sinister. Even one of their common names — black limes — conveyed an air of culinary menace.

A couple of years ago, though, curiosity overcame caution. Strolling through a small Middle Eastern store in a Boston suburb, I picked up a bag and walked to the cash register.

“What do you do with these?” I asked the woman behind the counter.

“Limu Omani?” she asked, arching her eyebrow as if I were a fool not to know. “You give your cooking new life.”

Good enough for me. I tucked them into my bag and headed home.

First developed in Oman (thus limu Omani), dried limes are essential ingredients in the cooking of Iran, Iraq and the Gulf States. They also appear occasionally in northern Indian dishes. But unlike other once-exotic ingredients (preserved lemons and coconut milk come to mind), dried limes have remained well outside the mainstream pantry, even for more-adventurous American cooks.

This is a shame. While that lime-enamored clerk may have exaggerated somewhat, dried limes turn out to be another one of those power ingredients that can transform a whole range of dishes with virtually no effort on your part.

The way they are produced could not be more straightforward: Small limes are boiled briefly in salt brine, and then they are laid out in the sun to dry over the course of several weeks.

But the simplicity of the process belies the alchemy that takes place under that desert sun. Over the weeks, the limes turn black or dusky brown on the outside and lose so much weight that they feel hollow; inside, the juicy green flesh turns a glossy, maroon-tinged black.

And the flavor — complex enough even when the limes are fresh — becomes spectacular. The pleasantly sour, aromatic tang of citrus is still there. But thrumming underneath it is a deep layer of culinary funk reminiscent of fermentation. Holding one to your nose is a bit like sniffing freshly grated lime rind while standing in the center of a brewery.

In the Middle East, these limes are most often added whole to soups and stews. You simply wash them well, pierce them a couple of times with a sharp knife or a fork, and drop three of four of them into the pot. As the cooking liquid sluices through the limes, they add an evocative tang and a subtle complexity to the entire dish.

Not surprisingly, given their place of origin, dried limes match well with lamb. But I find their musky brightness is also a lovely combination with fish and chicken. In a light spring stew of chicken and herbs, for example, their flavor is at once grounding and brightening.

These citrus flavor bombs have a particular affinity for lentil and bean dishes. Earthy enough to cohabitate easily with the legumes, dried limes also give them a nice sour edge that erases the dullness they can sometimes have.

You can find whole dried limes in Middle Eastern markets, or online at sites including Kalustyans.com or efooddepot.com.

Dried limes are also used in a powdered form. The powder is not as easy to locate, but that’s actually somewhat of a blessing. Since the limes begin to lose their volatile oils the moment they are pulverized, it’s much better to grind your own. Just cut them in half (a serrated knife is helpful), remove any seeds, and then grind them in a clean coffee grinder (best) or blender (acceptable) until very fine.

Like the whole version, powdered dried lime is traditionally used in soups and stews. But it’s also great when sparingly rubbed on a well-marbled steak or a fatty pork chop before the meat goes onto the grill. And it’s delicious when added to the cooking liquid for basmati rice, as is sometimes done in Northern India; to my taste, one-half teaspoon or so per cup of dry rice is about right.

My favorite use of the powder, though, is in a simple spice mix, particularly for seafood. Its slight astringency calls out for a little fat, so I prefer to add some oil to make a paste rather than to use it in a dry spice rub.

Either way, it definitely brings new life to whatever seafood you rub it on. So, I guess maybe that woman behind the counter was right, after all.