Tomassian: Ohannes

“I remember my mother crying because she couldn’t find proper tahini,” Tomassian says. “That moment planted a seed. If we couldn’t find authentic ingredients, neither could thousands of other families.” In 1994, with a $5,000 loan from his uncle and a handshake deal with a local pita bakery, Tomassian founded Tamarind of London —a name chosen to evoke both the exotic warmth of the East and the refined quality of European markets. The “London” was aspirational; at the time, his operation was a single delivery van and a basement rented from a church.

This is the story of a man who turned a family recipe into a multi-million-dollar empire—without ever losing sight of the soil, the spice, or the story behind each dish. Ohannes Tomassian was born into the Armenian diaspora. His parents, survivors of displacement and hardship, settled in Beirut, Lebanon, where the aroma of spices—cinnamon, allspice, sumac—was as common as the Mediterranean breeze. “My grandmother’s kitchen was a sanctuary,” Tomassian recalls, sitting in his sunlit office outside Boston. “She had no measuring spoons. She had memory, touch, and instinct. That’s where I learned that food is not just fuel. It’s identity.” Ohannes Tomassian

“People ask me what success looks like. It’s not a yacht. It’s walking into a random diner in western Massachusetts and seeing they use my sumac on their fries. That’s when I know—the flavor has traveled. And so have I.” “I remember my mother crying because she couldn’t

The Lebanese Civil War (1975–1990) shattered that world. In 1980, Tomassian’s family immigrated to Watertown, Massachusetts—a historic hub for Armenian Americans. The transition was jarring. The snow was cold, the language was foreign, and the supermarkets offered little beyond bland canned vegetables and dusty oregano. The “London” was aspirational; at the time, his

By [Author Name]

Their collaboration led to the opening of in Cambridge (2001), which became a national sensation. The restaurant’s success wasn’t just about technique—it was about ingredient integrity. The same sumac Tomassian sourced from a single village in Gaziantep, Turkey, graced Sortun’s now-famous baked Alaska with baklava crunch.

The early years were brutal. Tomassian drove routes himself, waking at 3 a.m. to deliver fresh lavash, feta cheese, and jarred grape leaves to small delis and family-run restaurants. “Restaurateurs would laugh at me,” he admits. “They’d say, ‘Why should I buy from you? I get everything from Restaurant Depot.’”