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across Mahane Yehuda market, seeking
the next delicious tidbit.
We found it in a small shop where
a man stood spooning fried eggplant,
tea-boiled eggs, hummus, salad, and
amba, a sauce of pickled mangoes, into
warm pita. This turned out to be a
beloved Israeli creation called sabich.
It was a great sandwich. A fantastic
sandwich. “More!” the chefs cried,
chasing the flavors.
After the sacred atmosphere of
Jerusalem and the ancient beauty
of Akko, Tel Aviv’s vibrant, electric
character came as a shock. The city
seems not to sleep; late into the night
the streets were filled with people,
the restaurants clamorous and loud. If
ever a city was made for chefs, this is it.
All bets were off: the chefs dutifully
showed up for market tours and major
meals, but in between they sneaked
off to indulge in extracurricular eating.
“Don’t tell anyone,” Nancy whispered
on our first afternoon, “but Jonathan
got a reservation at the hot new
restaurant in town.” She lowered her
voice. “He could only get a small table,
so we can’t bring the whole group.”
But we arrived at Abie to find that
we were not alone: all the others had
made their own secret reservations, and
we laughed and saluted one another as
we devoured fried red mullet, cabbage
in white wine, and delicate shrimp
skewered on wild fennel. The food was
beautiful in its freshness and simplicity.
The chefs toured the Carmel Market,
marveling at the quiet, sun-splashed
village in the middle of the city. Adeena
Sussman, an American chef and
cookbook author lucky enough to live
just above the market, took us to
meet her favorite vendors. Her new
cookbook, Sababa, explores Israeli
cuisine—in other words, we could not
have had a better guide. This man has
the best tomatoes, that one the largest
pomegranates, and here is the bakery
where handsome men bake fluffy
Yemeni pitas over open fires. At a meat
emporium named M25, we ate ox
heart and corned smoked tongue so
tender it could stand in for foie gras.
We moved on to Shimon, a family-run
shop specializing in Yemeni soup. We
ladled on hilba, an herbal sauce made
of fenugreek seeds; tossed in onions
and the hot sauce called zhug; added
a splash of lemon juice. When Eden
insisted we visit yet another stall for
the world’s best burekas, we followed
her to find flaky phyllo-wrapped
pastries of almost impossible richness.
“Stop!” Adeena cried. “We’re going
to lunch!” HaKosem is most famous for
shawarma and falafel, but when I
encountered the fried eggplant, my
teeth met a shatteringly crisp crust
followed by a substance so soft and
seductive it no longer resembled any
vegetable I’d ever known.
But time was running out, and
there was still so much to taste. We
headed off for a third lunch—or was
it a fourth?—at North Abraxas in
downtown Tel Aviv, where we sat at
the counter as beautiful food was setbefore us. There were no plates;
the artful compositions are simply
plopped onto butcher paper.
Cuttlefish in beets resembled an
O’Keeffe painting. A sweet potato,
the skin blackened in the coals, had
become orange ambrosia. Whole peas,
cooked in the pod, were served like
edamame; we scraped the tender flesh
off with our teeth. Everything was new
and inventive. The chefs took notes.
It was almost five when we
finished—just time enough to get to
our first dinner. HaBasta, in Nachalat
Binyamin Market, served us baked
crabs, razor clams, whole grilled
shrimp. Despite all we’d eaten, we
succumbed. “Are we not professionals?”
murmured Nancy, taking some more
tiny grilled fish, delicate as baby eels.
And yet, we managed to do justice
to the Libyan feast at Guetta, in Jaffa.
We tucked into the robust meat stews
of Tripoli, the spicy fish stew called
chrayme, lasagna-like mafrum, and
endless meat-filled pastries as if we
were eating our first meal of the day.
By the time we left, it was midnight,
but the chefs didn’t want the night
to end. “No use in going to bed at this
point,” someone cried. “We might as
well stay up all night.” And so, in one
last gasp of decadence, we headed
off for giant pizzas at an outdoor
nightclub. “Have you ever seen pizza
served like this?” asked Gail, pointing
to the heaps of za’atar and swirls
of ketchup on the side. “Ketchup on
pizza?” said Marc, reaching for a slice.
“Maybe we should order another.”
The next morning, I stumbled
onto the plane, bleary-eyed and still
full. It will be good, I thought as I
collapsed into my seat, to remember
what sleep is like.(Israel, continued from page 119)