|
In December of 1972, I was in Israel. I traveled in an old bus, with the luggage piled on top, through the golden south and greener north, among stone houses with chickens and goats in the yards and stone-walled fields where oxen or mules still drew the plows, past deserts, hills, and the rusting remains of tanks from various battles. The range of climate, as well as terrain, was astonishing for such a small country, from the chill, and even snowflakes, of Jerusalem to the mildness of Tiberius, where the gentle sea breeze murmured in the palms along the beach, to the heat of Jericho, which lies 1300 feet below sea level. Of course, for me, food has always been a major component of travel, and the food in Israel was great. I had falafel for the first time in the open-air market in the Arab quarter of Jerusalem. In Tiberius, I was introduced to millet, and had wonderful breakfasts of goat cheese, tomatoes and olives, gnarly bread and dark coffee.
A friend of my father’s, Doug Young, had founded a college in Jerusalem, the American Institute of Holy Land Studies, and I had received an invitation to come to dinner. The Young’s apartment was fabulous, with Oriental rugs, brass lamps, and inlaid wooden chests. The cuisine was Arab: chicken and rice flavored with cinnamon, onions and almonds. We sat on the floor and ate with our hands. Hot, mint tea was served in tall glasses. It was a memorable meal.
The recipe below is my recreation of the memorable dish I enjoyed that night. It’s okay if you eat this with a knife and fork, but if you try it with your hands, remember not to serve it piping hot, and remember, too, that if you were in Arab company, you would have to use your right hand to eat.
|
Add comment