Olivieh: The Creamy Persian Potato Salad That Tastes Like Friendship

It’s almost like I can step right into that memory ...

The afternoon sun rests gently on the courtyard, spilling through the branches of the mulberry tree like honey, catching the soft curls and cotton dresses of a group of little girls gathered on the rug, the kind of rug that had seen a thousand stories before this one. Their laughter rises in waves, easy and unselfconscious, as if the air itself remembers how to hold joy.

There’s a sense of timelessness here, of something whole and untouched. The scent of geraniums and damp earth mingling with the sharp sweetness of watermelon and the creamy, pickly smell of Salad Olivieh, always made in a bowl too big for the fridge, always scooped onto tiny plates with a little too much love.

Some girls are giggling, mouths half full, eyes bright. One takes a dramatic bite of melon like it’s the best thing she’s ever tasted. And there’s one girl, sitting just a little apart, holding her plate close. Her gaze is steady, thoughtful. She isn’t missing the moment, she’s watching it unfold, knowing somehow that this, right here, is what will stay with her.

And it does.

The cool shade, the sticky hands, the chorus of cousins and neighbors and childhood friends. The taste of something simple and familiar. The feeling of being held by the day itself.

This was summer. This was home.

Every summer gathering had its rhythm, the smoky scent of charcoal in the air, aunties fanning themselves mid-story, watermelon juice trickling down our arms like syrup.

And always, without fail, there was Olivieh.

It didn’t need announcing. You’d find it quietly waiting, cool, pale, and proud, tucked between the grilled kabobs and the mountain of herbs, holding its shape just enough under the heat. Sometimes shaped into domes, sometimes spread flat in glass dishes with a fork marked surface only a loving hand would bother with.

We’d scoop it onto lavash, fold it like a secret, or spoon it into soft baguette halves for the perfect bite. No matter how it was served, it was never left behind. It was the taste of birthdays, park picnics, and long, drowsy afternoons, familiar, comforting, and always just right.

Now that I’m older, I understand why it was always there ... Because this dish doesn’t just fill your belly, it fills the space between people. It holds the silences, cushions the teasing, fuels the catching-up, and anchors the cross-legged circles of cousins and childhood friends.

It sits quietly in the middle of everything while stories are told, inside jokes are reborn, and someone inevitably shouts, “Who brought the Olivieh?!”

Every time I make it now, I’m taken right back to those golden afternoons. Barefoot on warm tiles, the scent of jasmine drifting through the courtyard, and sunlight filtering through mulberry leaves above our heads.

We sat cross-legged on patterned rugs, our dresses crinkled and our laughter echoing between the old brick walls.

The bowl of Olivieh in the center was always surrounded by sticky fingers and half-eaten watermelon slices, the air filled with the sound of someone humming, the occasional splash from the howz behind us.

Those were the days when time slowed down, when joy came easy, and the sweetest part of it all was knowing, without even realizing it, that everyone was home.

So today, I want to share my version of Salad Olivieh. It’s creamy, lemony, and packed with flavor. It’s the version I’ve refined over time, easier to make, endlessly nostalgic, and always a crowd-pleaser.

And maybe, just maybe, it’ll be the one you bring to the next birthday.
The one people scoop hesitantly, thinking they’ll try “just a bite” before moving on.
The one they’ll search for seconds of, only to find an empty bowl, scraped clean and surrounded by baguette crumbs.
The one that doesn’t just taste like summer…
…it tastes like someone pressed pause on time and poured it into a picnic.

What is Salad Olivieh?

Salad Olivieh is Iran’s take on a dish that began far from its borders. It was born in 19th century Russia as Olivier salad, once filled with luxury ingredients like caviar and game hen. Over time, it was softened and simplified by migration, memory, and the rhythms of home kitchens. When it arrived in Iran, it became something new. Something intimate, portable, and entirely beloved.

At its heart, it is a creamy chicken and potato salad, but calling it that barely scratches the surface. It is a mixture of shredded chicken, tender potatoes, chopped pickles, hard-boiled eggs, and mayonnaise, sometimes with peas or carrots, depending on the cook and the mood.

Served cold, often molded into a mound and decorated with olives, herbs, tomatoes, or curls of radish, it is both humble and celebratory.

Olivieh is made to be shared, passed around in Tupperware at picnics, scooped onto plates at birthdays, remembered in childhood kitchens.

In every bite, there is a trace of somewhere else, and yet it is entirely, unmistakably, home.

Recipe

(Serves 6–8, or 4 hungry people with big summer appetites)

Ingredients:

    •    4 medium russet potatoes (about 2 lbs), peeled and quartered

    •    2 to 2½ cups cooked, shredded chicken (from whole roasted chicken or rotisserie)

    •    4 large eggs, hard-boiled and chopped

    •    1 cup diced dill pickles (about 4–5 small ones)

    •    ¾ to 1 cup mayonnaise (adjust to your liking)

    •    1 tablespoon olive oil

    •    2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

    •    Salt and black pepper, to taste

Optional Add-ins:

    •    1 cup frozen green peas, thawed

    •    ½ cup grated or finely chopped carrot

    •    1½ cups cooked deli chicken or turkey, chopped into ½-inch cubes

Directions:

Step 1: Prepare the Chicken

Option 1: Whole Roasted Chicken (inspired by Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat by Samin Nosrat)

    •    1 whole chicken (3.5 to 4 lbs)

    •    2 tablespoons kosher salt

    •    1 lemon, halved

    •    1 onion, quartered

    •    3 garlic cloves

    •    A handful of herbs (parsley, thyme, or dill)

    •    1 tablespoon olive oil

Instructions:

    •    Dry-brine the chicken overnight: rub with salt and refrigerate uncovered.

    •    Roast at 425°F for 45–55 minutes, depending on your oven.

    •    Let rest, then shred into bite-sized pieces.

Option 2: Instant Pot Shortcut

    •    Place chicken on the trivet with 1 cup of water, garlic, and onion.

    •    Cook on high pressure for 25 minutes, natural release for 15. Shred.

Option 3: Rotisserie Chicken

    •    Use 2½ cups of rotisserie chicken, shredded and cooled.

Step 2: Boil the Potatoes

    •    Cook in salted water until fork-tender. Depending on your stove, this can take 25 to 55 minutes.

    •    Or pressure cook: 10 minutes on high, natural release.

    •    Mash gently, just enough to break them up. Don’t over-mash or it’ll turn gluey instead of fluffy.

Step 3: Hard-Boil the Eggs

    •    Boil for 10–12 minutes. Cool and chop.

Step 4: Combine and Dress

    •    In a large bowl, gently mix mashed potatoes, shredded chicken, chopped eggs, and pickles.

    •    Add peas, carrots, or deli meat if you’re including them.

    •    In a smaller bowl, whisk together mayonnaise, olive oil, and lemon juice.

    •    Pour over the mixture and fold gently. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Step 5: Chill and Serve

    •    Cover and chill for at least 1 hour to let the flavors marry.

    •    Serve shaped into a mound, topped with olives, herbs, or boiled egg slices.

    •    Pair with lavash, pita, or baguette for scooping, spreading, or sandwiching.

A Dish That Brings People Together

Olivieh is comfort, laughter, belonging… folded into every bite.

The zing of lemon meeting salt, the gentle give of potato melting on your tongue, each bite hums with something you didn’t know you missed. It lands on the palate but settles in the heart, like a story you’ve heard a thousand times and still lean in to hear again. A quiet moment, bound together by mayonnaise and memory.

Make it for your next gathering. For your friend who needs cheering up. For the backyard party that could use a little Persian joy.

Share the bowl. Pass the bread. Watch it disappear.

And when you do, may it carry with it the echoes of barefoot giggles, of stories retold under the mulberry tree, and all the light and laughter it once brought to me.