Flame-Roasting Eggplants

Roasting eggplants on an open flame can be messy but is definitely worth the effort as the smoky aroma adds immensely to the taste.

First line your stovetop with aluminum foil. Place a whole eggplant (or more than one if you are confident) on a rack over the open flame and roast, turning occasionally, until the skin is scorched and blackened and the flesh feels soft when pierced with a wooden skewer or a fork. The eggplant can also be broiled in the oven, or grilled on a charcoal barbecue. Cool slightly  (to avoid burning your hands) and peel, carefully removing every last bit of scorched skin, or cut in half lengthwise and scoop out the flesh with a wooden spoon.

Ideally, roasted eggplant should be served shortly after roasting, and seasoned while still warm to ensure optimal absorption of every spicy nuance. But if you need to store it for later, drain the roasted flesh of excess liquid, cover with oil and refrigerate. Season before serving.

Roasted Eggplant with Tahini

This classic combination always works. Use best quality tahini.

Add ½ cup raw tahini seasoned with 3-4 tablespoons lemon juice, 2 cloves crushed garlic, 2-3 tablespoons chopped parsley, a pinch of salt and freshly ground black pepper to the flesh of two roasted eggplants. If the mixture is too thick, add water gradually and stir to desired texture. Sprinkle with toasted sesame seeds or pine nuts before serving.

Roasted Eggplant with Pecans and Blue Cheese

This union of particularly strong flavors produces a delicious sandwich spread. Add about ½ cup crumbled blue (Roquefort style) cheese and ½ cup toasted chopped pecans to the flesh of two roasted eggplants.

Romanian-style Roasted Eggplant Salad

Don’t be alarmed by the amount of oil. The eggplants love it, and so do the Romanians.

Add ½ cup oil (the Romanians insist on strongly flavored sunflower oil, preferably unrefined), at least 3 cloves crushed garlic, salt and freshly ground black pepper to the flesh of two roasted eggplants. You may also add two grated onions and/or two peeled, grated tomatoes. To keep the texture pleasantly palatable rather than muddy, mix the oil with the other ingredients by stirring gently with a wooden spoon. 

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Citrus Semolina Cake

Semolina cakes are found throughout the Middle East and are popular in Jewish Sephardic kitchens. Called basbousa, safra, tishpishti or revani, they can be filled with dates, garnished with almonds, and can even be made with ground walnuts instead of, or in addition to, semolina. These crumbly dry cakes are doused with syrup immediately after baking, making them moist and very sweet.

The following is a slightly unorthodox version that contains freshly squeezed orange (or tangerine) juice and citrus marmalade, and is prepared with separated eggs for a light fluffy texture.

Ingredients (for a 25×30 cm/10×12 inch baking pan):

Cake 6 eggs, separated 100 g (3½oz, 1/2 cup) sugar 100 g (3½oz, 1 cup) ground coconut 140 g (5 oz, 1 cup) sifted flour 270 g (10 oz, 2½ cups) semolina 25 g (1 oz, 1½ tablespoons) ground almonds 20 g (2 small sachets, 4 teaspoons) baking powder 240 ml (8½ fl oz, 1 cup) oil 360 ml (13 fl oz, 1½ cup) freshly squeezed orange or tangerine juice 2 teaspoons grated orange zest 240 ml (8½ fl oz, 1 cup) orange or lemon marmalade

Syrup 1 cup sugar 1 cup water Crushed almonds or coconut flakes for garnish

1. Preheat the oven to 180°C (350°F).

2. Using an electric mixer beat the egg whites with the sugar for 8 minutes until they hold stiff peaks.

3. Combine all the dry ingredients in a bowl: coconut, flour, semolina, ground almonds and baking powder.

4. Beat the egg yolks in a separate bowl, gradually adding the oil, juice, orange zest and marmalade.

5. Stir in the dry ingredients slowly until combined well. Gently fold in the peaked egg whites.

6. Pour the batter into a well-greased pan and bake for 30 minutes, until the cake turns golden and a toothpick comes out dry with a few crumbs adhering.

7. While the cake is in the oven prepare the syrup: Bring the water and sugar to a boil and simmer for 20 minutes. Cool slightly.

8. Take the cake out of the oven and pour on the syrup evenly. Cool completely and garnish with almonds or coconut.

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Last week, Janna Gur, author of The Book of New Israeli Food, posted some insightful and entertaining stories about her book.  In light of this week’s holiday bonanza, Janna has graciously provided us with some of her new Israeli recipes to help spice up your meals. Enjoy, Jewcers!

Traditional Couscous Soup

This is the vegetarian version of the exotically fragrant Moroccan soup that is served with couscous. Use the same procedure to prepare couscous soup with chicken (see below).

Ingredients (serves 6-8)

1 cup chickpeas, soaked in cold water overnight, rinsed and drained
4 carrots, cut into 2-3 large chunks
4 medium potatoes, quartered
1 large onion, quartered
Salt and freshly ground white or black pepper to taste
Small pinch of saffron or 11/2 teaspoons turmeric
200 g (7 oz) pumpkin, cut into 4-5 large chunks
4 courgettes (zucchini), cut into 3-4 large chunks
Half a green cabbage, quartered
4-5 stalks celery stalks, peeled and cut coarsely (save the leaves)
1/2 kg (1 lb 2 oz) instant couscous

Directions

1. Put the chickpeas in a large saucepan, cover with water and cook for about 30 minutes. Drain, pour in 2 liters (2 quarts) of water (to prevent the soup from becoming cloudy later on), and cook for another 30 minutes, until the chickpeas are tender.

2. Add the carrots, potatoes and onion, season with salt, pepper, saffron or turmeric and cook for 45 minutes until the vegetables are tender.

3. Add the remaining vegetables (except the celery leaves) and cook for 15 minutes, until tender. Taste and adjust the seasoning. Add the celery leaves and cook for another 15 minutes.

4. Prepare the couscous according to the manufacturer’s instructions.

5. Place a heap of couscous in a deep dish. Arrange the vegetables on top  and ladle the soup around and over the couscous.

Red Couscous Soup

When adding the pumpkin, cabbage and courgettes (zucchini), add one small can (300 g, 1012 oz) of tomatoes in tomato  paste and continue according to the recipe.

Spicy Couscous Soup

Add 1-2 tablespoons of filfel chuma (p. 296) or harissa (p. 298) towards the end of the cooking cycle.

Couscous Soup With Chicken

Add 6-8 chicken drumsticks for the last 30 minutes of the cooking cycle.

(Image: Shutterstock)

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So here, in my final post, I would like to make a modest contribution toward your next trip to Tel Aviv, which, if you are a foodie, should be prominently featured on your Israeli itinerary. 

• 1. Don’t Eat in Old Jaffa – this quaint quarter, dotted with souvenir shops, is a must stop for every tourist visiting Tel Aviv. Go by all means, it is really pretty, but please don’t eat there! Jaffa is a treasure trove of culinary delights, but none of them is to be found there.
• 2. Stay away from Kikar Atarim – this concrete atrocity is situated right in the middle of the hotel strip of Hayarkon Street, blocking the access to the beach. Built in the late 70s as an exclusive shopping complex, it now houses seedy arcades and touristy restaurants of the worst kind. In one word: no!
• 3. Be wary of any place that has a waiter at the entrance beckoning the customers to come inside, especially if it is situated near the waterfront.
• 4. Don’t eat anything but breakfast in your hotel. With very few exceptions, hotel food is overpriced and uninspired.
• 5. Look out for "business lunches," local name for prix-fixe lunch menus. This is your chance to have a spectacular and relatively inexpensive meal at some of the most prestigious places in the city, such as Katit, Raphael or Herbert Samuel.
• 6. Treat yourself to a Friday brunch. Even though you probably can have one at your hotel, this has become a local institution, with many restaurants serving decadent brunches for more than reasonable prices. Try Carmella Bistro, Comme il Faut, Manta Ray or Dallal. Book ahead!
• 7. Check out the markets. Carmel and Lewinsky are the most interesting ones. The latter, a maze of commercial streets in downtown Tel Aviv, is a great place for foodie presents such as rare spices and condiments.
• 8. Spend some time in the Jaffa flea market.  Recently renovated, it is quite charming and worth the visit not only because of the vintage and antique stores but because of the restaurants situated in an around it. Yoezer, Pua, Charcouterie and Margaret Tayar are the most interesting ones.
• 9. Don’t shy away from the street food; if the place looks clean and the line is long, you can’t go wrong. Besides the ubiquitous falafel you should try sabich (fried eggplant and boiled eggs combo with a spicy condiment), shawarma, bourekas and a Tunisian sandwich.
• 10. Don’t miss the cafes.  They are everywhere, and the coffee is usually great. Pastries are good too. Most cafes serve breakfast and light lunches. Among my favorites are La Central, Orna and Ella, Tazza D’Oro. The best café chain is Arcafe.

Janna Gur, author of The Book of New Israeli Food, spent the past week guest blogging on Jewcy. This is her parting post. Want more? Buy her book!

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It is called Chadar Ochel, which means "dining room," or rather "dining hall," and one look at the place is enough to grasp what kind of dining hall the owners had in mind. Bare walls, long tables, and wooden benches. Had they added a self-service counter and a faint scent of Economica (local equivalent of Lysol), the illusion would have been perfect – welcome to the communal dining hall of a typical kibbutz.

Some background is needed to explain just how unexpected the whole thing is. The restaurant is situated right next to the Opera House, a stone’s throw from one of the poshest neighborhoods in Tel Aviv. In its first incarnation it housed the most expensive restaurant in town – Jonathan Roshfeld. It then became Foodart House – a restaurant by day and a chic venue for small elegant functions by night. Foodart by the way is one of the best and the most expensive catering firms in Israel. They still own the place, only now they decided to turn it into a kibbutz.

This is interesting for a bunch of reasons. First of all, the kibbutz dining hall, as an institution, is practically extinct. With most of the kibbutzim being privatized, the communal dining hall ceased to play its focal role in the daily life of kibbutzniks. In many places it is deserted or abolished, in others reborn as a restaurant. 

But even more symbolic is the fact that the kibbutz dining hall has shaped in many ways the culinary ethos in the early days of the Zionist enterprise. On a kibbutz the ideal of a consummate Israeli came to its full fruition: a khaki clad soldier-farmer, with tanned arms and proud posture, who worked the land and ate the fruits of his labor. This Israeli has severed his ties with the Diaspora and had little use for gefilte fish or chopped liver. By himself he chopped veggies for his morning salad, the main feature of a modest meal that one day would evolve into the famous Israeli breakfast. He didn’t regard food or cooking as a way of personal expression or cultural statement.

Nothing could be further from the kibbutz that has suddenly appeared across the Opera house. The décor may be Spartan and prices egalitarian, but the food is the feast of individuality. This is what we had for dinner: cream of eggplant and labane cheese (creative Palestinian), Mafroum – potato stuffed with meat (North African), beef tongue in beet syrup (Ashkenazi), deep fried kubbe on a bed of Swiss Chard (Iraqi), ikra – fish roe (Romanian), lamb patties Tagine (Moroccan). I probably forgot a couple of dishes, but you can get the gist. Hummus, by the way, is not on the menu, and neither is falafel. "Israeli food is so much more than hummus and falafel," says Omer Miller, the chef. But he doesn’t rule out the possibility that one day he will offer his own versions of these all-Israeli hits, as well as his personal take on the gefilte fish.

Janna Gur, author of The Book of New Israeli Food, is guest blogging on Jewcy, and she’ll be here all week.  Stay tuned. 

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We all lived in Riga, but Granny Rosa and Grandpa Usher were originally from Kishinev. During World War II they were evacuated to the relative safety of Central Asia. When the war was over and they learned that all their family members who remained in Kishinev had been murdered, they decided to find another place to live and ended up in snobbish, pretty Riga, capital of Latvia.

Howeve,r in all matters culinary Rosa remained a Kishinev gal. Once a year a delivery of fresh eggplants arrived in a suitcase, and Rosa would cook up a storm. She would then call Granny Vera: "Drop by Veruchka. I have cooked blue ones (i.e. eggplants) with red ones (i.e. tomatoes)".

"So I went," Vera told her friends over a cup of coffee with cream, her voice thick with irony. "But instead of blue ones and red ones, she gave me some grayish goo…"

That grayish goo, that Granny Rosa had been making for me since I was little, was the best eggplant salad I ever tasted  –  flame roasted eggplant flesh, mixed with grated tomatoes, sunflower oil and chopped onion.

Granny Vera was my second mom. We lived in the same apartment. She tried, unsuccessfully, to turn me into a piano playing prodigy. She was very strict, stricter than my parents, but knitted the most beautiful sweaters for me. She also baked the most beautiful cakes. Once for my birthday she baked a cake with whole apples inside.

Rosa and Usher were my "weekend grandparents." Staying over at their place was always about food.  "Eat bread," Granny Rosa would order, while I gulped down chicken soup loaded with noodles. This is where I got my habit of eating bread with everything. I loved her food – her gefilte fish was golden and peppery (another reason for arguments with Vera whose version was pearly grey and subtly sweet), her zharkoye, meat stew with prunes – irresistible and because of her I even learned to like cholodetz, savory jelly made from gelatin rich veal or chicken bones and giblets. Most people find its wobbly texture off-putting, but I find it oddly delicious, especially with a generous dollop of fiery horseradish sauce

In the mid-70s we all left for Israel. Granny Rosa and Grandpa Usher were the first to go, then my aunt Gita, and finally my parents and I with Granny Vera. Before we left, Granny Vera had to sell her piano. I think it was the saddest day of her life.

In Israel, through a strange turn of fate, I found myself writing about food, editing a food magazine, developing cookbooks. "Do you come from a family of foodies?" I am sometimes asked, and automatically answer "No I don’t," thinking about my parents, who are great at many things, but foodies they are not. But then I remember Vera and Rosa, the applecake and the eggplant, two great cooks who agreed on almost nothing except their love for their granddaughter.

Janna Gur, author of The Book of New Israeli Food, is guest blogging on Jewcy, and she’ll be here all week.  Stay tuned. 

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Every woman has different memories of her pregnancy. I just wanted to sleep. The constant drowsiness took over my thoughts and habits during these long nine months, and I craved coffee. Good, strong cappuccino, which I had discovered a few months earlier on a trip to Italy.

Having a cup of good cappuccino in Tel Aviv of the late eighties was virtually impossible. Most Israelis were happy with their nes (instant coffee) or their botz (literally “mud”, finely ground coffee dissolved in boiling water). One could have an espresso or a cappuccino, locally called hafuch (upside down), but one really shouldn’t, as it is watery, bitter, and either scaldingly hot or lukewarm.

One day a rumor reached me that on the corner of Ben Yehuda and Frishman, there was a place famous among coffee freaks. It was called Mersand, and these guys knew about coffee. Intrigued but skeptical, I arrived on a hot sunny afternoon, plopped my bulky frame on a small chair and ordered a hafuch.

The very first aromatic sip catapulted me out of my narcolepsy. Suddenly alert and with an early euphoria of a well earned caffeine buzz, I surveyed the surroundings. The place looked pretty spartan, with low stools, tiny Formica topped tables and a modest cake display (it took me another visit to discover that these simple looking cakes were actually delectable). But who needed cakes when you had this unbelievable coffee? I returned almost daily, and when my daughter was born, took long walks there with the stroller. I got friendly with the owner, middle-aged and extremely good-looking Mike Mersand. I started recognizing the regulars—a peculiar mix of aging surfers and yachtsmen and elderly, meticulously turned out German-speaking ladies. I arranged my errands so that they would take me via Mersand and met my friends there. And I never stopped to wonder how such a great place could exist in a coffee desert.

Until one day, almost overnight, the desert started to bloom. A couple of young Israelis returned from a long journey abroad and decided that what Tel Aviv needed as a real espresso bar. They rented a tiny place on Yavne Street, off Rothschild Boulevard, and spent a small fortune renovating it. The concept was no frills, no food and no tables. You grab your coffee, you drink it standing up at the bar in three gulps, like in Italy, and off you go (and no paper cups, mind you). And the coffee will be great. The coffee was indeed great, but this was the only thing that went according to the original plan.

Israelis treat their cafés as surrogate homes. They like to sit down, have a bite, read the paper, meet some friends. The owners realized that if no food was served, the place would go bankrupt. So they added tables, put some food on the menu and a brand new breed of a local café was born—with Italian coffee and Israeli everything else. A couple of months after the opening, Espresso Bar (the place was actually called “Espresso Bar”, luxury reserved for ground breakers) was a hit, with crowds waiting for a table filling the entire block.  Soon they opened another branch on Maccabi Street in Northern Tel Aviv, and then another. Other entrepreneurs were quick to follow suit and in a matter of months, espresso bars became part of the local scene.

Today you find them on every corner. The majority, sadly—chains. Privately owned, charmingly idiosyncratic establishments are becoming increasingly rare. But the coffee is invariably good. “Starbucks” failed in Israel, and we take great pride in the fact that the beverage this coffee giant offered was not good enough for the local palate.

And what about Mersand? I went there the other day. The place changed ownership, handsome Mike is no longer around, but the ambience and the run down décor remained basically the same. Elegant German ladies still linger over coffee and homey cakes. I ordered hafuch, it was fine, but completely forgettable. Or maybe it was just me. Twenty years older.

Janna Gur, author of The Book of New Israeli Food, is guest blogging on Jewcy, and she’ll be here all week. Stay tuned.

(Image: Shutterstock)

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In Israel hummus is a religion. There are books dedicated to hummus, guides for hummus restaurants, hummus blogs and hummus fan clubs. There is hummus aristocracy – half a dozen places enjoying national acclaim and worthy of a special trip (Said in Acre, Ali Karawan in Jaffa to name a few) as well as "regional" hummus spots known only to locals. There are upscale restaurants serving hummus with fancy toppings and run down holes in the wall with seating arrangements on the sidewalk. If you are a real Israeli you must love hummus. At the age of 16, when I immigrated to Israel, I wanted nothing more than to be a real Israeli, and yet, my first encounter with hummus didn’t go too well.

I was in my senior year in high school, hardly six months in Israel with a vocabulary of 500 words in Hebrew. Together with my class I went on my first ever tiyul shnati (annual outing) to Eilat and had my first kumsitz (Israeli style get together by the campfire). The menu consisted solely of canned foods, one of them a particularly vile version of hummus spread, now luckily off the market. One tentative bite was enough to clarify that hummus was not for me.

A year later, on another tiyul shnati, this time to the Golan Heights, I chanced upon a restaurant in the Banias nature reserve, where I witnessed the following scene: long rows of tables filled with customers who with rhythmical circular movements mopped up a whitish paste using chunks of pita. "What are they doing?" I asked my classmate. "Eating hummus … duh"

At this point I already knew about 1000 words in Hebrew, but decided to keep them all to myself, and not to share with my classmate my thoughts about the level of local culinary finesse.

Another year passed and I was already a student at the Hebrew University, almost an old timer, with an extensive vocabulary of 2000 words, but still a hummus virgin. A bunch of friends were going to a famous downtown Jerusalem hummus joint Ta’ami. For obvious reasons I wasn’t keen to join but they talked me into it. And, god, was I glad that they did.

My first taste of real hummus was a revelation.  The spread was airy as a mousse and yet filling, flavourful yet subtle. The warm whole chickpeas added texture and the garlicky sauce provided the kick. I later learned that particular style of fluffy light hummus is typical of Jerusalem. The owner, famous for his bad temper, stood in the middle of the restaurant urging customers to finish and vacate their seats for the next wave of hummus lovers. "Don’t eat, swallow," he spurred us on, "and don’t even think of ordering coffee…."

Ta’ami closed down  a few years later and the legend has it that the owner’s children brought about its decline. "Instead of yelling at customers, why don’t we enlarge the operation," they suggested to their father, and pointed out that the adjacent store had recently been vacated. Their father went along with the idea, and suddenly there were enough tables for everyone, no need to yell, and no hungry crowds at the doorstep. The magic was gone. Another version of the story is much less dramatic, although probably more precise: the quality went down and hummus lovers found another place in which to worship the chickpea deity.

Janna Gur, author of The Book of New Israeli Food, is guest blogging on Jewcy, and she’ll be here all week.  Stay tuned.

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