Vladimir Grigoryan
Following the ethnic cleansing of Armenians in Nagorno-Karabakh in 2023, Vladimir Grigoryan and his family were among the tens of thousands forced to flee their homes and start anew in Armenia. Although they had a place to stay in Yerevan’s Nor Nork district, the sense of loss was overwhelming—they felt no emotional connection to either the city or their apartment. Grieving but determined to move forward, they had to find a way to rebuild their lives. It was then that Vladimir’s elder daughter, Laura, suggested opening a bistro as a family business. Nօw, however, neither Laura nor other members of the Grigoryan family wish to revisit that painful period of their lives; even the mention of it brings back memories they would rather leave untouched. Only Vladimir was willing to speak about what that time truly meant to them.
“It was our salvation,” Vladimir says and remembers how they painted the walls themselves and prepared the food as a family. He hesitates to call it merely a business.
With a small grant, they rented a modest space near their new home and named it Saroyan Bistro, after their street in Stepanakert. To recreate the warmth of what they had lost, they placed a piano against the wall and hung cherished pictures they brought from their old home. While these details helped shape the cozy, familiar atmosphere they longed for, some reminders proved too painful. A large print of Kataro Monastery which Vladimir had intentionally enlarged, hung on the way for only a few weeks. The sight of it proved too difficult. One day, he quietly took it down and never considered putting it back.
Food became their bridge between past and present, a way to hold onto their old life while forging a new one. The menu reflected both their heritage and the taste of local residents, but the heart of the bistro was zhingyalov hats—the traditional Nagorno-Karabakh flatbread filled with a variety of greens. The bistro’s journey began with Vladimir’s wife Gayane experimenting with baked goods. “It’s a creative process, it’s interesting, right?” Vladimir recalls. “So, in the beginning, I thought, ‘Do whatever you want to do,’” hoping it would help her navigate the weight of their grief.
Yet, few of these experiments succeeded. Most of the pies ended up on their own dining table or were given to relatives. Vladimir notes that Armenians are very conservative when it comes to food, a barrier they struggled to overcome.
Eventually, they settled on a simpler menu, with just five main dishes—zhingyalov hats, chebureki, potato pies, lahmajo, and small pizzas—dishes that were both easy to prepare and popular. Over time, each family member mastered a specific recipe.
“My mother-in-law made the zhingyalov hats and chebureki, my wife made the potato pies and pizza, and I was in charge of the lahmajo,” Vladimir explains.
On most days, their main customers were schoolchildren who would stop by after school. The bistro often stayed open late, Vladimir and his family didn’t mind people staying past midnight. “There wasn’t much of a desire to go home,” he says.
The bistro, with its four tables accommodating up to 16 people, became a gathering place for old friends and relatives who were also forcibly displaced from Nagorno-Karabakh. Over big tables and familiar food, they found common understanding and much-needed empathy. “We would call them, and try to keep in touch,” Vladimir explains. “We knew everyone was at home, unemployed and stressed… Many of them would come, sit there, grow emotional…”
Later, Vladimir discovered that nearly 30 zhingyalov hats establishments had opened in Nor Nork alone, most disappearing as quickly as they had appeared. These small bistros and bakeries seemed to mirror the broader upheavals Armenians were facing: the trauma of displacement, the struggle to create a new home away from home, and the search for familiarity in an unfamiliar place.
The severe scarcity of resources made zhingyalov hats an ideal way to connect cultural identity with economic survival․ Following the 2020 Nagorno-Karabakh War and the ethnic cleansing of 2023, these modest eateries became defining features of Yerevan’s evolving food scene. Though rarely profitable, they served a deeper purpose: keeping a beloved tradition alive. Zhingyalov hats remains one of Nagorno-Karabakh’s traditional dishes making it both a symbol of resilience and a means of sustenance in uncertain times.
Saroyan Bistro closed after seven months, along with many other bakeries that had briefly flourished. Now, the Grigoryans are considering reopening in Yerevan’s city center, where it would be more accessible and offer an expanded menu. While preserving its rustic charm and focus on Nagorno-Karabakh cuisine, the new location would have a stronger emphasis on sustainability and profitability.
Despite occasional doubts about the viability of their plan, the Grigoryan family agrees on one thing: the bistro was their salvation. The relentless pace of work left little room for sorrow, offering them a sense of purpose amid uncertainty.
Susanna Karakhanyan
“The day begins with zhingyalov hats and it ends with one,” says Susanna Karakhanyan as she expertly rolls out dough for her famous herb-filled flatbread.
Working the dough with practiced ease, she explains that talking about her job comes naturally. Having run a popular bistro in Nagorno-Karabakh, Susanna was used to the attention and conversations her food inspired. She lived in the village of Vank, near the Gandzasar Monastery—formerly one of the region’s most visited sites. The road to the monastery passed by her family’s bistro, where each day began with fresh tonir-baked bread—the food she misses most.
While talking about her old bistro, Susanna pulls out old photos. The space was much bigger than her current setup in Yerevan’s Ajapnyak district, with an outdoor seating area. Everything was homemade: the cheese, a variety of yogurts, and of course, bread. Centered on fresh, family-made food, the bistro was a gathering place that welcomed guests from around the world. While some visitors came with the tourist seasons, others were regulars from nearby homes and became part of their daily routine, sharing stories over meals.
The bistro was built by family members, relatives, and good friends. The walls were painted by a neighbor, who later lost his life in the war, and outside stood a wooden statue of a donkey, carved by her husband to honor the real donkey that hauled wood from the forest during construction. “It all started with that donkey,” Susanna smiles, remembering their bistro’s humble beginnings.
Zhingyalov hats, which remains central to the current bistro, is a dish Susanna learned from the elder women of her family. Growing up in Stepanakert, she only saw its preparation during visits to her grandmother’s village. She first learned from her grandmother and later from her mother-in-law. While Susanna remembers this dish as traditionally women’s work, the rules changed after their move to Armenia. As families needed to make a living, men became more involved. Today, many family-owned bistros include men not just in the physical labor but also in cooking.
Now, in a much smaller space and with limited ingredients, Susanna serves as the bistro’s main cook, alongside her husband and sister-in-law. She shows me the refrigerator filled with large bags of pre-washed greens, prepared at home due to the bistro’s small space. Her husband handles the grocery shopping and cleans the greens, while her sister-in-law works at a small table mashing potatoes. They’ve developed an efficient system of shared responsibilities that helps them adapt to the compact space.
The menu, too, had to be adapted. Susanna’s original recipe for zhingyalov hats called for 17 types of herbs, but not all were available in Armenia. Now using just nine varieties, she assures me that the flavor remains largely the same.
As the zhingyalov hats cools, Susanna tells me about terteruk, the traditional dessert that often accompanies it.
“When we used up all the greens for zhingyalov hats and had leftover dough, our grandmothers would make the khoriz (filling) with pork fat, flour, and sugar. These days, since no one really uses pork fat anymore, we make it with either oil or butter.”
She explains that pork fat was once a staple substitute for butter and margarine in other desserts too, such as gata and pakhlava. Even now, terteruk made with pork fat brings back memories of her childhood and of Artsakh. She shares an old tradition: after a wedding, the groom’s parents would present terteruk to the bride’s mother—a symbolic gesture to assure her that her daughter’s new life would be filled with sweetness.
Wanting me to experience the taste firsthand, Susanna prepares terteruk and serves it with tea on a crisp October evening. Before I leave, I ask her: after a full day of cooking for others, how often does her own family eat zhingyalov hats? She smiles. Her sons love it so much, she says, that no matter where they are, whether in their old home in Nagorno-Karabakh or now in Armenia, there is always a place for it at their table.
