Let’s start with a few words of importance … about me! As the son of a hippy/show artist mom and veterinarian dad, sibling of a fashion designer sister and musician/producer brother, I know something about art; or if that is a stretch, let’s say “collage.” As a Jewish hunter/fisherman; classically trained chef in England, Italy and France, in kitchens the likes of La Coupole, Paris, and Moulin de Mougins, Cannes; and chef of my own restaurants – from New Hope, Pa., to Captiva Island, Fla. to the mountains of Blue Ridge, Ga., – for the past 29 years, I also know about flavors. Maybe it’s taste combinations I understand; all I know from my “melting pot” culinary experience is that I have nothing on Israel!
This tiny piece of sand, rock, grass and sun is landlocked by Lebanon, Jordan, Syria and Egypt on three sides and the Mediterranean Sea on the fourth. This country, encompassing 8100 square miles, is roughly the size of Massachusetts. It just celebrated its 60th birthday this year (the United States is almost four times that old) and yet it is totally self-sufficient. Its cuisine is as striking and bold as the Israelis themselves (we all know about the army and Mossad, obviously).
My first trip to Israel was this past spring, and surely it won’t be my last! It is like a culinary wonderland. It’s true that everything had to be planted, it is not an ancient Garden of Eden to be sure, not a lot of wild fruits growing on the roadside or the wonderful pearl-size wild strawberries you may find in Provence or Sicily, but what an agricultural monument this state is. Everything you eat comes from here: oranges, figs, pineapples, mangoes, loquats, coconuts, every nut, herb, seed pepper, if you know it, you can find it here. The Mediterranean is also awash with tasty crustaceans, bivalves and a myriad of fish, such as John Dory, dorade, sea bass and sardines. The clear, clean waters of the Sea of Galilee, actually a giant freshwater lake, are as abundant with non-salt-loving species. The Galilee is also home to some of the first and most successful commercial aquaculture ventures started in the ’40s, producing trout, salmon, tilapia, herring and others.
Now that my introduction has become my story, we might as well jump into the whole “pot.” To my surprise, not being a historian, geographer or culinary genealogist, such as Mario Batali (who by the way used to eat in my restaurants and is a human culinary Bible), I literally knew nothing of this amazing land. Like many friends who question my travel to the “homeland,” fears of bombings and terrorists in their heads, I had visualized a vast sandscape, torrid winds, scorpions, a place that begs the question: Why would anyone fight over this speck of earth? Obviously, I found different. It is true the general architecture doesn’t add much to the cityscape of Tel Aviv: crumbling not-so-old buildings, lots of barbed wire and very nondescript high-rises and beachside hotels, looking like so many concrete boxes. There is an odd smell in the air … of the sea, roasting vegetables and the tinge of fresh tar, it seems this land is constantly under construction.
But for a land so new, it is very old. Every step you take, fresh laundry blowing in the wind, cobbled streets, market stalls, street vendors and the Muslim calls for prayer remind you of your location. Everything here is a mix, a medley of foods, dress, cultures, colors of skin, a true melting pot of humanity. To my surprise, Tel Aviv, our home base for the trip, is a very homogenous society, at least on the outside. A quick jaunt around town, stroll on the beachside promenade, taxi ride or amble through the numerous day markets, selling and trading everything from new “LV” handbags to preserved lemon and fresh couscous, one would not discern the everyday strife surrounding this place. Expectations were of yarmulke and rabbis, hijabs and veiled eyes, and machine guns; what I found was shawarma and borscht; kibbeh and falafel and Monet’s palette – a speckled, sparkling array of colors, fruits and vegetables of every shape and size. Drab green and purple artichoke to emerald green lithe pea tendrils. Citrus glows of every hue from brilliant yellow to ruby orange. Dried beans, spices, herbs and rice varieties from around the world fill hand-woven cane baskets. Israel’s borders are all closed but that of the sea, where warships intermittently block the glow of the sunset on the horizon. And yet it is all here. People from every walk of life, mostly Israeli (Jews and Arabs), but don’t forget the daily immigration of Jews from France, Spain and Russia. Unlike my current home of Florida, which is an expanding culinary center due to my own and other chefs’ interests, Israel has an influence that comes from constant struggle and immigration. Those coming and those already here will not relinquish any of their heritages, which just continue to bolster the ever-growing cuisine. I did not notice a strong sense of trends here, nouvelle, gastro-pub, pan-Asian, organic, “deconstructionism” – just a strong sense of flavor and multitude of available product.
Nurtured by the mission of Ben-Gurion, the Israeli self-sufficiency manifesto developed a green, growing, sustainable country. The fruit and fields are constantly rotated to help with regrowth and lack of water; the chicken produce the most delicious, almost golden umber egg yolks; the cows, goats and sheep produce incredibly rich milk from pastured, naturally ranging and feeding animals that certainly rival that of Europe and King Island, Tasmania (we’ll get to that exploration later). Yogurts, very thick, white and rich, not that thin, blue-tinged, skimmed stuff of the States. And beef also of top quality, marbling and flavor.
I won’t dispute the fact that produce eaten at or near its place of origin doesn’t somehow taste better, it does! Fresh olives, an assortment of goat cheese ranging in age from three days to eight months, rolled in ash, almost liquid inside, and fresh-baked bread, eaten in the same pasture as the goats that provide the milk (and the amusement) is incredible. But what I have come to know of as pita, halva, couscous, shawarma (gyro) and any other “Israeli” food or product have been poor imposters to say the least. We expect matzo balls and chopped liver, neither of which did I see or eat in a two-week stay. You see lahukh, a large, fluffy Yemenite grilled bread, or laffa, a large soft flat bread, like a giant tortilla, lightly browned pita, very soft, filled with anything from chocolate or ice cream for kids, to lobster falafel in “high-heeled” restaurants. Shawarma – sliced, marinated leg of lamb, chicken thighs or turkey legs, heavily seasoned, skewered and slowly vertically grilled on a gas flame, then shaved on fresh pita with an array of fresh condiments, that may include French fries, cucumbers, red cabbage, hummus, various pickles, zhug (like harissa, hot pepper sauce) preserved mango puree, a Syrian favorite – and the list goes on. Can you really compare that to the gray, scrapple-like mass we see in the States for shawarma or gyro? Don’t get me wrong; growing up in Philly, scrapple is a personal favorite, and one of the four food groups, along with cheese steaks, Tastee Cakes and Wise potato chips.
In the most casual of restaurants, a diner is inundated with a display of “salads” ranging from pickled beets, chickpeas salad, hummus, grated radish with lemon, tabbouleh, olives, like the sidebar for shawarma or falafel, the salads, which are generally gratis with a meal, run the gamut. I think if you ate at markets, stalls, from casual family restaurants to the nicest hotel establishments, you’d find everything in these “sides,” including langoustine ceviches, fresh grape leaf rolled truffles, seared foie gras, brandied currants and silan (date honey). Along with other things, Israel is one of the world’s top producers of foie gras, “Goose Gold.”
The clean flavors and tastes of the dishes of the “everyday” make a smooth transition to restaurant fare: figs and dates stuffed with goat cheese and sprinkled with silan and fresh toasted cinnamon bark; a slaw of shaved fennel, lime-green pistachios and extra virgin olive oil; tabbouleh with its green parsley contrasted by the translucent ruby hues of fresh pomegranate seeds; or fresh bourekas (a favorite local pastry, made of fresh phyllo sheets or multilayered, 98 percent butter puff pastry), filled with everything from golden thistle honey-soaked poppy seeds to fresh goat cheese, lamb and hyssop – all these and more fill the air and eyes with visions of Paris or the Riviera, and you haven’t left the Carmel Street Market yet!
We headed for the Golan on Tuesday – yes, all of this has only been two days, my senses are already overloaded. As we drive away from the sea, out of the L.A.-like traffic and cement surroundings, the sidewalks become fields, orchards and groves. Giant date and coconut trees line the roads; as we pass olive trees, donkeys and more block box houses, we see the mountains ahead. We pass hillside towns, sparsely populated, with many homes in disrepair or semi-built, it becomes hard to tell, though when you see the city center, a mosque, you know it is an Arab village. There are all religions here, but the major break is Jews and Muslims, not Arab and Israeli. We visited many kfars (villages) and towns where people seem to coexist easily; I tried not to read anything into my trip that wasn’t clearly evident. In
Aside from being offered the sweetest of sweet baklava and the blackest of night, “strong like ox” coffee, we witness the making of fresh phyllo – you know that multilayered paper stuff we buy in the freezer section next to “Hungry Man” dinners. This seemingly impossible production is done by hand, in a matter of minutes, with a flour-water mixture. In a land where they honk before the light turns green and I got pushed into my plane seat by a four-foot-tall white-haired Bubbie-type woman rushing to get off, the food process is never rushed. Rolled by hand on a 3-feet-by-8-feet stainless steel table, with excessive cornstarch. My guess was a 10-pound ball of fresh snow-white dough is rolled out then folded, then rolled again, then folded, repeating the process until the dough consists of 16 see-through layers covering the table. Many candies, jellies (Turkish delight) and nut confections are also produced here.
The rich, earthy smell of toasted nuts – pistachios, almonds, sesame, Brazil nut – all held together with the help of molten lava-like caramelized sugar. And that crazy, angel-hair mass known as katafi (kadaif), shredded phyllo, is made on a one-of-a-kind rotating griddle that dispenses multiple rows of pancake-like batter and scrapes it off the same hot surface at the end of its round. A short, dark man collects the fine bunches of cooked pastry, like so many strands of a horse’s mane in a bareback rider’s grasp. All operations seemed to be carried out with ease. The operations were open to the air, but clean, and the ever-vigilant eye of the Mashgiach (rabbinical/kosher supervisor on premises) ensures quality and adherance to Kashrut law.
The goat cheese snack in the pasture, which I mentioned earlier, took place on a small family-run farm named Barkinet, near the Tenuva Dairy. A husband-wife-son trio operates this small dairy/home farm, 90 percent of which is under open sky. The goats roam the pastures, birth and graze. They are protected by two large dogs that sleep and stay with them constantly, plus a couple of other family dogs, your typical farm inhabitants, one with three legs, one with a cut-off tail, another squinting through a half-closed eye, all of whom stop by for a quick sniff or squat, but return home for a warm snack and shade from the blazing afternoon sun.
On a second trip to the Golan, we drove along the Sea of Galilee, opulent and glistening in the morning sun. Sea gulls and a variety of sea eagles, herons and shore birds call this area home, for its endless supply of easy-to-trap, -pierce and -catch fish. Making our way between and up mountains, we visited Yarden and Golan Heights wineries. Many other top Israeli wineries operate here, not the least of which are Tishbi, Barkan, and Binyamina. As with the cuisine, the wines produced here are world-class, all in their respective value classes. Creative winemaker flavors and time-tested world varietals that are purely grape-driven. Most of the winemakers and oenologists are either European-trained, UC Davis graduates or both. From citrusy whites to chewy, rich California-style reds and everything in between. Late harvests, late field straw-hued, prism shades of gold and bronze, intensely rich, cloying sweetness with the slightest crack of a bubble to clear the palate, cryogenic ice wines – something for everyone and every food.
At Golan Heights Winery, younger, less extravagant sibling of well-known Yarden Vineyards, as we look east from the reception balcony, we ask about the big hole and broken trellis in the vineyard below. Victor Schoenfeld, the winemaker, with a big smile and chuckle, quips, “Hezbollah, not great shots.” With some bewilderment, we continue our tour of the winery, taste a very clean fruity Pinot Blanc, a merlot, a Syrah, a blockbuster, fruity, fat, round cherry (the kind us fruit-forward types like, no Bordeaux finesse for me!), a Golan Late Harvest Gewurztraminer successfully masquerading as a Sauternes. As we left the tasting to walk the vineyards northwest, I saw two flags on a hill about 500 yards from us among the vines. I could make out the blue and white of what I figured was the Israeli flag and the other, not 75 yards away, amongst the birds, bees and wild flowers of this gorgeous hillside, was the Lebanese flag.
At this point I realized my location and its proximity to everything bad, as viewed and marketed by the TV and news. I came here as a cook, not a diplomat. All the seeming turmoil gave way to beauty and incredible foods and divergent styles, which somehow, in cuisine, come together. On our return to Tel Aviv, around 10 p.m., we stopped in a semi-upscale, yuppie neighborhood. Getting out of the car, we were blinded by neon, reminiscent of the Wildwood Boardwalk; in fact, the bustling line of kids, businessmen, yuppies and cabbies we stepped into were all clamoring, in the typical Israeli friendly screaming and gesturing style, for one local favorite – sabich. This typical Israeli fusion street food of paper-thin fried eggplant, hummus, tahini, zhug (ground hot peppers), hard-boiled eggs, cabbage, preserved mango and the full complement of salads and sauces, all wrapped in a giant soft bread, probably weighing in at 2 pounds. The craziest thing is David “Dudi” Sasson, a second-generation Sabich maker with a kiosk at 129 Ha’Roeh Street Ramat Gan
To many people’s surprise, certainly mine, this is a growing cuisine. And like the Israeli’s constant rush, hyperbolic ego and initiative (according to some of the producers we met, large and small, they invented everything from pita to couscous and katafi, and even ice cream), though I may not believe all these claims, it is this “stick-to-it-iveness” that gets them through and will forever set their culinary mark, with me anyway.
As with all things Jewish, kosher, Middle Eastern and Israeli, these terms are sometimes interchangeable, incorrectly used or thrown into a statement as a show of liberality, but they are all as different as the peoples and cultures that bring together and also divide them. It is an incredible land and a strange dichotomy that has helped develop this little-touted yet infinite cuisine.
Writer's Note: One of our favorite restaurants in Tel Aviv..Manta Ray. Chef is here in Atlanta
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