Gastronomies of Trauma

Disgusting Cheese Sandwich, Schipol Airport

Every westerner who cares about my existence was freaking out about my trip to Israel, but I needed to go. Inexplicable need. The freaker-outers were in my head, however, and departure day was tense. Was I being stupid, traipsing off into a war zone? Perhaps. But we vote with our feet, and my feet decided for me. Meanwhile, the soggy pre-departure sandwich turned out to have some horrible piece of gelatinous lettuce deep within.

Tacos Luis, Jerusalem

My sister met me at the airport, and we rode the train to Jerusalem. She was craving tacos. Wherever you go I will follow, I told her. This is a Tanach reference (the complete Hebrew Bible). I didn’t dare hope there would be outstanding kosher tacos in Jerusalem. But lo, beneath the mural of Emiliano Zapata and Israel’s first Prime Minister David Ben Gurion sharing a beer, we feasted on wildly stupendous meat tacos, assembled by a young man dancing unselfconsciously to some trance music.

Phyllo Cheese stick and an Oat Milk Latte, Aroma, Emek Refaim, Jerusalem

Caught up with a friend who lives nearby. A joy to see her, but I could not, for the entire hour we sat schmoozing, stop thinking about the 2003 Café Hillel bombing nearby. Those privileged enough to be untouched by terrorism might call these “intrusive thoughts.” Those whose lives have been touched by terror must try to go on living in spite. Great, strong coffee.

Boeuf Bourguignon, D’s Shabbes Table, Yael Street, Jerusalem

Not an abstract or theoretical Shabbat; a practical one, the precious sanctuary in and of time. But walking back to my hotel at 1 a.m. through deserted city streets was not my favorite. I had no cash and none of the taxis took cards. An Arab driver said, “Where you going? C’mon, I’ll take you, don’t worry about it.” Felt a hundred percent safer with him than I would with any of the keffiyeh-appropriating, sloganeering mercenaries I used to know back in the U.S.

Pizzeria Flora on a park bench somewhere, Jerusalem

Joined a thousand people demonstrating with the hostage families, had a bit of a panic attack in the crowd, walked away, breathed. Came upon this takeout-only pizza place. Had a feeling it was going to be great: a positive intrusive thought! Ten minutes later, I had my doughy perfect mushroom leek garlic pie to go. I devoured it on a park bench, paper napkins flying everywhere in a high wind.

Hummus and Falafel, Akko

Road-tripped to the north with a friend. Akko’s magnificent old walled city dates to the Crusader era and foiled none other than Napoleon’s army. We found a small falafel place near the shuk (market), where a woman loaded up our table with olives and onions and tomatoes and pickles and the most ideal hummus and pita plus golden fresh huge, perfect falafel. “How can we possibly eat all this?” we asked her, stuffing our faces. “You’re going to walk it off,” she said. “Or” she said, gesturing at her own ass, “You’ll just get fat. Who cares?” In a wire cage hanging from the ceiling, a blue parakeet sang to us and we whistled back.

Uri Buri, Akko

“A fish place,” is how our local pal described it, but this was no fish place. I mean, there was fish on the menu, but we immediately discarded the menu in favor of chef’s choice. Course after effortlessly inventive yet unpretentious course. There were only two other tables seated for dinner. Not exactly a bustling moment for the hospitality industry. The white-bearded sage himself appeared and offered us a tour of the kitchen. “No stress,” he explained. “No music, no yes chef, no yelling. No stress.” The anti-Bear. How has he remained in business and retained all his employees full time during a horrific, protracted war? Because, he said, “I let money grow, waiting for a time when something happens. Something always happens. I don’t buy a new car. I let money grow, and then I am prepared.”

Benataiim Beach Cafe, Tel Aviv

Too little sleep, too many margarine-soaked gas station bourekas (stuffed phyllo dough pastries), and now I’m under the weather. Ordered an infusion of lemon, honey, ginger, and a cinnamon stick at the beach café, the name of which translates to “For the Time Being.” Bought an apple, some dates, hippie crackers, and a banana at the corner store. Picked up some dried rose buds from the shuk for tea. Does the food here taste better because it is my home, or is it my home because the food tastes better here? An hour south, in what should have been the Shanghai of the Middle East, there is unfathomable destruction, devastation, and hunger. But I am not there (and neither, lucky reader, are you). We are fortunate, safe, and well-nourished. For the time being.