Eating Israel

“Food is our common ground, a universal experience” ~James Beard

My ten day trip to Israel peaked on day three at Mahane Yehuda market in Jerusalem. Established in the 19th century on an empty lot, the market was one of the only available shopping destinations for residents outside the Old City. Today, rows upon rows of stalls between Jaffa Road and Agrippas Street sell tables of fresh fruits, piles of nuts, buckets of brilliant spices, bricks of soft white cheese, and even non-food items like shoes and belts. Luckily, the market was relatively empty during my visit- no lines and easy access to the piles of fresh pita with and without za’atar, fluffy jelly donuts, and filo pastries at evenly spaced bakeries. While meandering from vendor to vendor, an intense grazing reverie was interrupted. I was literally double fisting a lafa falafel and a piece of fluffy white halvah as the comment, “Israeli food is so boring,” floated above the market hum.

And no, this was not the opinion of a homesick travel companion who missed hamburgers and pork ribs. Rather, the statement came from a 20 year old local with an itch to travel to the US after his service in the army. Ironic — here I was, thinking that American food is boring. How could he possibly think that a country with such an amazing market has mundane cuisine? Taking a step back, I considered his thought. Israeli food is very basically Mediterranean-grilled meat, olives, pickled vegetables, hummus, pita, lafa, falafel, and shakshuka, are staples. Foreign food that could inject variety into local cuisine isn’t highly evolved.

I was beginning to see the Israeli’s point. One thing can be said for American cuisine- we are foreign food connoisseurs. After copious amounts of travel, I came to the realization that no other country matches our infamous ability to rip off another’s national dish and make it better. Ever tried a softer, chewier bagel than one in New York? Certainly not in Eastern Europe, home of this boiled carbohydrate, where it lacks texture and bite. How about General Tso’s Chicken, one of the most popular menu items in Chinese restaurants? Completely invented in the US. Ironically, this dish has backpedaled its way to China in Beijing’s tourist restaurants.

Pizza? So much better in New York than Rome. Indian, Thai, Vietnamese, Japanese… all are available even in medium-sized US cities. Perhaps this is what my new Israeli friend was referring to?

He clarified, “I can get pita in the US if I want.” Hold on, buddy. Ethnic food aside, if you think for a second that the soft, chewy, fluffy pita from an Israeli market can be found readily in the US… then dream on. If you’re lucky, a warm pita may be hunted down at a decent Mediterranean restaurant. In neighborhood grocery stores where more Americans shop, you’ll find only dense, cold, crumbly pre-packaged pita that tastes more like cardboard than bread.

And hummus? Even at even the most modest Israeli shawarma stand, hummus tastes like fluffy silk — so readily available it is taken for granted. Meanwhile, in the US, your best bet is Sabra in a plastic container- unless you know where to dine, you risk encounters with runny hummus, chunky hummus, or over-salted hummus.

At the end of the conversation, I just couldn’t agree that Israeli food was boring… the quality alone is fascinating. I suspect when my friend leaves his country, he’ll be entertained with trying new foods for a few months. But then he’ll miss the accessibility of fresh, juicy pomegranate, soft figs, and fresh bread. Demonstrating my point, I waved my last bit of lafa back and forth saying, “Oh, you’ll miss this,” referring to the impossibly tenderness of the flatbread.

Then it hit me. Food itself is not boring — it’s really only the perception of the food that earns the label “mundane.” My Israeli friend was apparently bored with the pita and grilled meat that I couldn’t stop consuming… I’m bored with the French fries and hot dogs that he can’t wait to try. It’s this disconnect that touches the heart of travel, which isn’t really about the place or the food itself, but about the willingness to embrace your personal novelty. While walking away from the market with my new friend, I munched on a second piece of impossibly airy, sweet halvah — in a few months he’ll probably be noshing on a footlong and a pile of fries with a smile as large as mine is right now. That smile is the shared understanding.

Anna Fishman
www.thesaltedlemon.blogspot.com