How a Young, Gay, Zionist, Iraqi-Türkish Jewish Seattle Chef Seeks Change Through 'Food Diplomacy'
Charlie-Moshé Elias invokes his family history to inspire understanding.
Charlie-Moshé Elias may be one of the most interesting people in Seattle.
The Iraqi, Türkish, gay, Jewish, Zionist aspiring chef is trying to position his family’s culinary legacy into what he calls “culinary diplomacy” — bringing disparate groups of people together over food.
A few months ago, Charlie-Moshé invited me over to watch him cook and to talk about his life and his food. He prepared from scratch a red lentil cumin soup, homemade labaneh, and shakshuka, all while talking to me about his unique journey and vision.
Just recently, Charlie-Moshé’s young business, Mesopotamian Aroma, became a member of the Greater Seattle Business Association and a Certified LGBT Business Enterprise with the National LGBT Chamber of Commerce. Next Friday, he is hosting a Shabbat and Pride event at which “we will honor ancient Mesopotamian & diasporic Jewish cuisines from modern-day Türkiye & Iraq” in partnership with Temple De Hirsch Sinai and Moishe House Without Walls.
This interview has been edited for length. Note the spelling of “Turkey” has been updated to the new official spelling, per the interviewee’s request.
The Cholent: Where are you from originally?
Charlie-Moshé Elias: I'm an Iraqi-Türkish citizen of the U.S. I was born in Baghdad, and I grew up in Istanbul before migrating to the U.S. with my parents as a middle school student.
Can you start by talking about your childhood in Istanbul?
Istanbul is my favorite city in the world because it gave me safety. I was born in Iraq early enough to witness the 2003 war, and my family suffered a lot during that time. Moving to Istanbul gave me a better picture of what life could be like. It wasn’t a reassurance; it was an assurance that life can be better, that it's never too late to have a new beginning.
In Istanbul, I could go to synagogues freely without feeling intimidated, which wouldn’t have been the case back in Iraq after the war. Sectarian and religious tensions became very visible after 2003. That was never really an issue before then. My family moved from Baghdad, a metropolitan city, to an even larger city, Istanbul, and I felt honored as a kid to be able to grow and pursue life there.
There, I grew up, recovering from past trauma while getting lost in the beauty of Istanbul: its continental linkage between Europe and Asia, the various seas that resemble a tale of a great city, and, of course, its diverse cuisine. My mom and I harvested ingredients from our garden, Mediterranean farms, aromatic spice boutiques, and the weekly neighborhood farmers' market (bazaar). We left all of that behind for the "American dream." The clock was ticking, time to claim the U.S.-granted asylum we left Iraq for in the first place.
It’s a place I would love to return to and contribute to someday. But even more than that, I’d love to go back to Baghdad if there’s a purposeful reason. I wouldn’t want to go just to relive memories, whether happy or painful. But if I could return to open a synagogue or start a Jewish museum, that would be a meaningful reason to go back.
So your family stayed in Baghdad? Why did they stay? How did they manage? (Note: most Jews left or were forced out of Iraq in the 1950s.)
Most of my grandmother’s family made aliyah, but she did not. She loved the country and the people. She married a Jewish man and they worked for the British railway stations in Baghdad, which were connected all the way to Haifa, Israel, until around 1947 or 1948. They had strong ties with the British royals and were well-off. They stayed in the country where they grew up and had good relationships with their neighbors. They were lucky to have beautiful friendships that lasted for decades.
Let's talk about what you’re making.
I’m preparing a very integrated Middle Eastern and Southeastern European breakfast table. We're having an Israeli-style shakshuka served in a beautiful copper-plated pan from Istanbul, Ottoman style. That kind of pan is usually used for menemen, the Türkish tomato omelet. I call it Türkish shakshuka, but it’s a different method of cooking.
I wanted to integrate an Israeli dish using a Türkish cooking piece. We're also making mercimek çorbası—Türkish lentil soup. And we’re serving za’atar and olive oil from Lebanon and Syria, plus a parsley omelet called ejjeh, which is Lebanese and Syrian.
So today, we’re integrating flavors from Iraq, Syria, Türkiye, and Israel.
That sounds amazing. How did you start cooking?
Cooking takes me back to the villa I was born in, in Baghdad. Most of the recipes were passed down for generations. The European part of Türkiye lies in southeastern Europe, in the storied lands of Thrace. It’s from this crossroads of cultures and histories that my family comes — a place where every dish carries a thousand years of flavor.
Even though we had cooks at home, my dad and other relatives especially loved the specialties my mom made. She could really improvise. I loved the distinct dishes she came up with. Our cooks would often learn her versions and recreate them. It was humbling to watch. And it was beautiful to see people of different sects and religions learning and continuing these traditions.
Then, before we moved to the U.S., my mom threw a farewell feast during my last year of middle school in Türkiye. We didn’t even have U.S. tickets yet, but we had a sense it was our last year there. She made Iraqi-style biryani with meatballs, herbed chicken, and a very rich rice cooked in the water from boiling the chicken with all the spices. It wasn’t just chicken water; it was flavorful and full of tradition.
That meal really impressed people. A Türkish newspaper and national TV channel took interest. They saw how she introduced a different take on familiar dishes. A week later, we were featured in a national newspaper. Then we were invited to a show called something like, “Come Have Dinner at Our House.” And my mom won. She was voted the best cook by the other participants.
That’s when I realized food could take us places. It started as something tied to holidays and family gatherings, a way of showing generosity and class. But then it became something more meaningful and unifying.
That moment inspired me. I knew I needed to learn. So I started helping my mom, experimenting, and building on her legacy.
When you came to the U.S., did cooking help your family integrate?
Definitely. After we moved, my mom used cooking to integrate into society. She joined a project called Project Feast, which empowers refugee women through food and culinary training.
Even before that, refugee organizations invited us to events, and my mom would cook just like she did at my school in Türkiye — lots of dishes, lots of variety to meet different dietary restrictions. It was more challenging here because of allergies, but she learned.
It was also healing. When she missed my older siblings, who stayed behind because they were over 18 and married, she’d cook their favorite dishes. And she’d cook for other young men who had immigrated alone, trying to give them a sense of home and care.
And how did you personally connect with cooking?
After college, I moved to Paris and realized, “Hey, I’m going to be away from my mom. I want to carry on what she taught me.”
That’s when I started learning from my mom, especially because it was during COVID. Cooking became a way for me not just to remember the good moments, but also to feel connected across continents, like when I was in Europe, and my family and friends were in Seattle.
I missed being part of the Jewish community. It's a communal religion that I want to observe in different ways, including having festive dinners after a service, whether it's Shabbat dinner or chag, a Jewish religious holiday.
On the topic of your community. You mentioned before the interview that there’s kind of a community of gay Zionist Jews in Seattle. What’s that like?
We’re individuals who met at different events, and we created a WhatsApp group that’s very exclusive. We chat there, sometimes we post, and we host events. It’s a safe space to talk about being Zionist and Jewish, especially because we’re excluded from a lot of mainstream gay and other progressive communities for holding Zionist views.
Why do you think so much of the gay community seems to have positioned itself as anti-Israel?
I think it’s misinformation. They don’t know how severe it is to be gay in those regions. They talk about pinkwashing, but I don’t think they understand what it’s actually like — especially if they haven’t experienced what it means to be gay in such places. They don’t understand the mentality of the people they’re advocating for.
People don’t understand how identity politics work in those regions. In the U.S., there's this rigid, monolithic understanding of minority groups. But in those places, every minority has its own dynamics, and there are layers within the layers. Minorities within minorities. And the U.S. discourse flattens that complexity.
I came here with trauma from war as a child. I imagined my life in the U.S. would be amazing, that I’d be able to be openly myself. But it was hard. I tried expressing myself through my style, and I got bullied for it.
So our gay Zionist group — it might sound exclusive — but it’s really a safe space. Of course allies are welcome. But we also need a space to reflect and connect, especially when the outside world feels hostile.
Having to fit in as gay, then as Jewish, then as Zionist, and on top of that, as an immigrant — there’s a lot of complexity to our identities.
Are there other misunderstandings you run into, given that your identity is so diverse?
I get annoyed when people assume my cooking must be spicy when it’s not. Like, if I can’t handle spice at someone’s house, they’ll say, “But you’re Iraqi!” And I’m like, what do you actually know about Iraq, besides your assumptions?
In Türkiye, we have spicy food as an option you add. It’s not the base. You can grill peppers and add them to kebabs, but it's not infused in every dish.
I’d love to teach people my culture and history through food, but it’s hard always being the “ambassador.”
What is your vision for a culinary future? A restaurant? A catering business?
I would like to open a restaurant in the future. I want to start by introducing food that tells my story and shows what’s special about this cuisine.
After living in Israel, I got to experience Iraqi Jewish food in a wonderful way. But I also saw how it was just a selection from a much larger and more diverse menu, one that deserves to be celebrated more. I want to introduce more dishes I was lucky to learn about, and bring a different perspective to the cuisine I remember.
My family stayed in Iraq long enough to preserve many traditions and recipes that have been passed down over generations. I want to share that with people — not just to introduce a type of cuisine, but also to offer a better understanding of the region and create beautiful relationships through it.
When I host dinners, I usually bring together Jewish and non-Jewish friends. I try to integrate people in a peaceful manner, with no expectations beyond mutual respect and appreciation. That’s why I consider what I do “food diplomacy” — bringing dishes from regions that might be hostile toward each other, and creating understanding through that.
Mesopotamian Aroma’s vision is bigger than just catering; it’s about healing, empowerment through an ancient revival, and a celebration of cultures and diversity.
Inspired by my mother, who found her voice through cooking after arriving as a homesick refugee, I plan to launch a cooking school employing refugee women from across Mesopotamia’s diverse religious and ethnic communities. Through food, we can preserve endangered culinary histories and create new pathways for belonging, solidarity, and resilience.
Follow Charlie-Moshé Elias on Instagram.
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Beautiful, thank you!