Dining in Israel is mistakenly confined to the culinary staples of hummus, shawarma and falafel. Even though great expressions of these foods can be found, solely seeking them is the sure fire way to miss what resident Israeli’s are eating. I spent a recent outing in Tel Aviv with Janna Gur, author of The New Israeli Food and editor Al Hashulchan, the main Israeli food magazine. Finding the best hummus was easy, for I had an expert guide and resident Tel Avivian. However, we spent the day traversing the cities ports, flea markets, slums and chic neighborhoods for various culinary delights.
She says in the beginning of her cookbook, “Nobody comes to Israel for the food.” This is the friction that author Janna Gur presents to her readership as the first line of her cookbook. It undoubtedly makes them realize—“she’s right, but why?” Perhaps the tension in the modern state and relics of the ancient past consume a traveler’s stimulus and make food an afterthought. This sounds convincing enough, but after my many trips to Israel, I leave well fed and inspired by what I ate.
The culinary trinity—hummus, falafel and schwarma—are tasty treats, but act blinders to other local culinary delights. Doner kabobs in Paris and hotdog stands in New York City are cheap eats, but who would give up the affordable quality of steak frits in Parisian bistros or emerging gastro pubs in the Big Apple? Is it really sacrilegious to eat these gastronomic staples in the Holy Land? Of course not, but its diner beware. Solely seeking these treats is a sure fire way to miss out on what resident Tel Avivians are eating and glimpse into the hearts of Israeli foodies.
I met with Janna on a balmy Tel Avivian morning outside of the sporting complex where she practices yoga. With the temperature close 90 degrees Fahrenheit, we were ready to start our gastronomic tour of the White City. “Let’s start at the newly renovated Old Port,” Janna insisted, with a strong yet sincere Israeli manner. Only in Israel are the words old and new used in constant tandem—clarification is constantly necessary. Does old mean ancient? New—relatively speaking? In this case, the port was the first of its kind in the first Hebrew speaking city, Tel Aviv, and was constructed in 1935. Of course, this is before the country of Israel was demarcated in 1948. Today, the port is inactive for boating activities but stays afloat as a meeting place of commerce and culture.
The streets are filled with daring motorcyclists, buses that maneuver like sports cars, and driving is sure to awaken one senses. The conversation inside of cars usually sways towards sensory experiences too, as Israeli’s spare no moment to talk about their country. “You can not appreciate the city if you not seen it 10 or 15 years ago,” remarks Janna, as we weave through the white Bauhaus buildings. Tel Aviv boasts the heaviest concentration of this German style in the world, and their minimalist aesthetic anchors this bustling Middle Eastern Metropolis. Many of the remarkable white buildings are darkened by car emissions and require refurbishing. None-the-less, they are beautiful.
Enthralled with Janna’s monologue, I look-up barely in time to see a car heading directly for our front bumper. Realizing that she chose the wrong direction down a one way street, Janna comments with the care free nature of a young girl by saying, “We are note easily impressed with this stuff (rules), here in Tel Aviv.”
She proceeds to bully the car into letting us pass. Next, we park—illegally—and walk from the dilapidated parking lot to the seaside promenade. Here, a 14,000 square meter deck is filled with restaurants, coffee shops, and swanky night clubs. Its curvy shape was built to resemble the sand dunes that dominated the early landscape of Eretz Israel, and could just as easily mimic the crashing waves of the Mediterranean Sea.
Nearly avoiding a one women information center on a Segway, we arrive to a peaceful enclave under colorfully painted awnings—Tel Aviv’s Farmers Market. I spent the day prior in the chaos of the Carmel Market, and am shocked to witness the democracy of this gathering. The serenity is quickly shattered by an aerial surprise, as a low flying plane passes overhead and slightly startles me. “There is a small airport for military and private planes,” Janna explains.
Regaining composure, I glance at the sunlight bending through the seams of the overhangs, which showcases the fresh fruits and vegetables. Had I been transported to California? More like Slowfood found its way here through the efforts of Shir Halpern and Michal Ansky in May 2008. For over a year, organic produce, artisan cheeses, Dancing Camel microbrewer beer and tahini consume some of the 50 stands as their proud producers look on.
Janna runs into a local photographer who is teaching a class on food photography. The students have some venders arranging produce for the perfect shot, and Janna jokes, “That is rather annoying.” I agree with her stark comment and wander around to sample stranded halvah (sweet and dried sesame paste), and a pieces of juicy yellow watermelon. Shortly thereafter, we make our exit and return to the drag-racing-streets while heading towards the southern town of Jaffa. This port town is largely considered as the oldest in the world, and is not as refined as its northern neighbor.
On Jerusalem Boulevard, we pass through a place that Janna can only describe as a “slum.” However, pealing back the grime reveals a surprisingly rich gastronomic area. “There are many Greek delicatessens here. Jaffa, you know, has lots of Hungarian Jews.” Actually, she just taught me that morsel of culinary knowledge. “Further,” Janna persists, “there is a harmonious cuisine that developed between Arabic people and Hungarian, which are both based off of Turkish foods.”
Like an encyclopedia, Janna marks the passing buildings with little secrets. She temps me by highlighting hand stretched phyllo at Leon Bakery and perfect marzipans sold at a Turkish newspaper stand. I trust our passing of these sweet-shops is in good faith and something delicious is on the horizon.
In this spirit of this neighborhoods culinary anonymity, what could be more idiosyncratic than a stand which bears no name? The malabi stall on Dr. Erlich Street is called by any variety of those names and Janna swears it offers the best product in town. “There are many places to eat malabi,” she says while confidently shaking her head, “but there is something special—unique—about this one.”
Malabi is a simple Turkish custard based on milk with corn starch, and can be topped with thick fruit syrups and various crunchy sweets. Behind the counter is Sholomi, the baby faced vender whose grandfather was the ambassador of this recipe to Israel. He is embarrassed to know that I’ve seen his picture in Janna’s book. “It is always funny, to me, when people have seen my picture,” he says shyly. None-the-less, Sholmi happily obliges to pose next to a portrait of the mastermind himself.
Janna insists that we keep our malabis simple: custard with rosewater-kissed-raspberry-syrup floating on top. The base has a light jelly texture and is unsweetened. Thus, it fully relies on the fruit syrup to offer its flavorful qualities. It is mild, refreshing, and awakens my taste buds like a mild aperitif.
Our next stop at the Jaffa flea market has me thinking that we on course for yet another stop devoid of some serious eats. This market is a combination of street-side venders and permanent stalls where old and new weave the fabric of this gathering. There are beautiful middle eastern rugs, elaborate tea and coffee sets made out of gold plated metal, and ornate chandeliers carved out of black rod iron. The antiques are interspersed with disassembled computers, radios, Krups coffee makers and televisions. Men are dressed in white Arabic robes and smoke the ubiquitous hookah, or sheesha, which keeps the setting largely traditional. However, like most situations in Israel, a radically new setting can appear with a blink.
Janna insists we take a right off the main street to a wider and more serene avenue. Yochanan Street may be for cars but it looks more like a pedestrian walk way—it is wide, airy and offers a radically calmer vibe. First we pass Charcuterie (3 Rabbi Chanina St), a familiar word that sounds unrecognizable when Janna pronounces it. It is a long and narrow place with a sleek bar and a second floor with tables. True to its name, it serves cured meats and other small plates. This is clearly a trendy hang out for young Tel Avivians on dates or for drinks with friends.
Near by is a restaurant that instantly steals my heart—Puah (3 Rabbi Yohanan). It is down another quite boulevard in the flea market and the outside patio is outlined with green astro turf. The restaurant utilizes various odds and ends from the shuk and uses them to create the internal décor. The tables don’t match each other, chairs are never the same, and patrons will never eat off of the same plates—heck cups might not even match saucers. The aspect of the restaurant that speaks to its location is that everything is for sale. If you happen to find something without a price tag, inquire and bargain—this is Israel after all.
I feel this places bohemian vibe matches the pace of our day, and Janna and I choose a seat at the bar towards the back. The barn style doors to the kitchen never stop moving as hipster equivalent and young hippies make up Puah’s service team. Everything is laid back and Puah is an idea brunch spot with plenty of egg dishes, hardy Israeli salads and bourekas with a variety of fillings.
Coffee is our first choice and Janna passes on any food. I see a word that catches my eye, malawach, and decide that will be my culinary indulgence. Every culture has their staple bread, and this Yemenite flat bread is flaky from the folded layers of dough and butter, and then it’s fried.
“This is a typical breakfast for Yemenite Jews,” Janna tells me, which fits into the Israeli culture of hearty meals first thing in the morning. Accompanying the bread is a brown egg, fire-roasted-shredded-tomatoes, and zhug, a spicy condiment of chili peppers and cilantro. Each bite is crafted to my preference of the moment, and I create perfect malawach quarters until the fried disc is no longer. The eclectic nature of Puach paints an accurate picture of the young Israeli Jewish generation.
On our way out, one of the employees from Puah delivers two bags full of recycleable bottles to a beggar on the street. Given their familiar greeting, this seems like a ritual that they perform everyday. This beautiful exchange juxtaposes the stigma of total chaos in Israel and refines a sense of solace under the mid day sun.
Janna insists that we walk back to the car—which is parked in a run down area—through one street that is unmistakably cleaned up. “Here,” she declares, “is the next trendy spot of Tel Aviv.” Janna is certain and who am I to argue with the refurbished Bauhaus buildings flecked with a pinkish hue? She continues to tell me about the rebuilding efforts already taking place in Jaffa, and this tiny slice of the port is a picture of what’s to come.
Making its way over the Mediterranean, the sun reflects onto the city creating an ascending peacefulness. At this hour, Tel Aviv starts a unique transformation. It is Friday after all, and the city is getting ready for the Sabbath. We return to the car and embark on the final leg of our culinary tour.
I know Janna’s feelings about people that come to Israel and want to only eat falafel, schwarma, and humus. As someone who knows the ins and outs of Israel’s culinary scene, she maintains a firm stance on this issue. However, just as a New Yorker should know the best pizza in town, an Israeli better have a noteworthy place for these foods at their disposal.
After a day of peering past the typical culinary fare, it is time to refocus on the chickpea and Janna forges ahead towards the “local myth” of hummus. Abu Hassan is located in Old Jaffa and for the last 30 years, is known as making the best chickpea spreads. Not only do they make flavor hummus plates, but they also make its lesser known cousin, massabaha, which is served warm and is ever bit as flavorful.
The tiny restaurant is full which to Janna, comes as no surprise. Luckily, the line is a stump of what is usually is. “This is short,” Janna announces, “so we are very lucky.” I let my guide order at the street side walk-through-window, and she picks one plate of each dip. Also, Janna suggest we drink Maltstar, a non-alcoholic malted beverage. This, to some Israelis, is the ‘Coke’ drink of their childhood.
The normal protocol at Abu Hassan allows their customers to scour the neighborhood to devour their food—they don’t let the buildings size limit their sales. The agreement—unwritten but devotedly adhered to—is that all plates are to be returned to the restaurant. This is a fare trade to say the least. Thus, the surrounding streets are dotted with families, single diners, and even people in their cars eating Abu Hassan.
Janna and I collect our two plates, a plastic bag of warm pitas, container of spicy pickles and our beverages as we hunt the local area for a spot to dine. We happen upon a shaded staircase which is carved out of stone and cheated towards the glistening water. We quickly set up our urban picnic and without wasting time, take our first bites. I started with the familiar hummus and quickly realized how Abu Hassan rose to fame. The texture is perfect with the chickpea and olive oil’s flavor shining through. The pita is warm and is just as delicious.
Just when I think I have reached a high in dining pleasure, I sample the warm massabaha and realize what I have been missing. The elevated temperature and mash of chickpeas—as opposed to the cold and smooth puree of humus—creates a more robust burst of flavor and brings out the greedy diner in me. I simply want to take the plate, a fork, and eat it as quickly as possible. In between my pita dunks, I wash down the bites with the chilled malted drink. With simple food prepared this well, I am back to pondering the “why not” sentiment of visitors to Israel with regards to the “typical” dishes.
Our final stop is important and could properly be labeled as the cynics end. Here Janna and I are eating, and enjoying, mere pedestrian food to the chagrin of Israeli foodies. These people (Janna included) want to showcase the diverse culinary landscape of their country and break free from certain gastronomic handcuffs. Israel is in a constant state of renaissance as seen in the quantum leaps of technology and culture inn a mere 60 years of existence as a modern state. As a place that Janna properly describes as a “laboratory of freedom,” innovation and patriotic self expression are the way of life in Israel. Some view hummus, falafel, and schwarma as static reminders of the past—out of line with Israel’s progression. Make no mistake, these comestibles are here to stay, but it is important to look at other terrific eats while in Israel.
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