This Spicy Tomato-Braised Fish Is a Symbol of Jewish-Libyan Heritage

Chraime (the Arabic word for “hot,” pronounced hraiy-may), originated in Libya on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea where Jewish settlers lived for more than 3,000 years until just after World War II when they were forced into exile (see “Why Libyan Jews Enjoy Chraime from Afar” to learn more). At that time, Libyan Jews left for Israel and Italy, bringing the treasured dish with them, where it continues to be a meaningful part of their cuisine. 

Growing up in Or-Yehuda, Israel, Lavi, whose father is from Libya, learned to make chraime from the matriarchs of his family. They gently braise whole white fish (fillets are common too) in tomato paste thinned with fish stock or water along with onions and whole fresh chiles. But the most important component—the source of chraime’s foundational flavors—is filfel chuma, a wildly delicious paste of garlic, spices, and dried chiles, that is a pillar of the Libyan‑Jewish kitchen. 

With guidance from Lavi, I set out to create my own recipe for chraime. Since it originated on the seacoast, a variety of saltwater fish can feature in the dish, including halibut, cod, grouper, snapper, and sea bream. I opted for halibut fillets. Fillets are easy on the cook, and their moist, dense flesh and clean sweetness would be an ideal canvas for the lively sauce. I left the skin on and seared it to render its valuable fat, which would suffuse its oceanic flavor into the braising liquid. Then, once the skin was golden, I removed the fillets from the pan and softened a chopped onion and a pair of whole longhorn chiles—my sub for the pilpel charif used in Israel—in the oil.

When the onions were tender, I spooned in an entire can of tomato paste; as its color deepened, so did its caramelized, fruity profile. Next, big personality came in the form of filfel chuma. My version consists of sweet and smoked paprikas; fragrant caraway seeds and cumin; rich, smoky rehydrated guajillo chiles (any moderately spiced dried chile can be used to personalize the paste); an arresting amount of fresh garlic; peppery extra-virgin olive oil; and salt. Finally, as a flavorful alternative to fish stock, I deglazed the pan with water, fresh lemon juice and zest, and the brick-red guajillo soaking liquid.

I nestled the fish into the vermillion sauce, brought it to a simmer with the lid on, and then extinguished the flame. Using residual heat is a failproof way to poach fin fish: After about 10 minutes, the halibut registered 130 degrees, the temperature at which its flesh turns opaque and tastes tender and succulent.  

I was about to pronounce the recipe complete when I remembered Lavi revealed that his grandmother always added fresh tomato to her chraime just before serving. In most chraime recipes, thick, concentrated paste is the sole tomato element, but after stirring two finely chopped tomatoes into the sauce, I too loved the light tang of the fresh fruit.

For my final batch, I made a small adjustment to control the consistency of the sauce: Before cooking the fish, I salted the tomatoes and set them aside in a strainer perched atop a measuring cup. Once the sauce was underway, a good amount of subtly sweet tomato water had collected, so I stirred it into the skillet along with the lemon juice, chile soaking liquid, and water, saving the strained tomato pieces to add at the end.

In many homes, including Lavi’s when he was growing up, chraime is a year-round first course for Friday night Shabbat; others reserve it for holidays. Whenever you choose to make it, be sure to have plenty of challah on hand to soak up every last bit of the rich, spicy sauce; Lavi also suggests serving mseyer (a quick-pickled vegetable relish) alongside.