Tel Aviv’s ‘Pita Nazi’

Sabich, the ultimate Israeli street food, has made a legend out of quirky store-owner Oved Daniel

While hummus, falafel, and even shawarma are known around the globe, the ultimate Israeli street food—sabich—remains one of the country’s best-kept secrets.

Sabich is a pita stuffed with fried eggplant, hard-boiled eggs (traditionally haminados, which are the brown eggs from Sephardi-style cholent), hummus, tahini, and vegetable salad, while some versions contain boiled-potatoes as well. Pickled cucumbers, chopped parsley, and onions seasoned with purple sumac are usually added, as well as a Yemenite hot sauce called skhug, and amba—a thick yellow sauce containing pickled mangoes, fenugreek, and turmeric.

Making sabich sounds simple enough, but preparing it just right is an art form that few truly master. And the truest master of this culinary art is Oved Daniel, Israel’s most revered sabich-maker, who declares without false modesty that he is the Diego Armando Maradona of sabich. For 27 years, Oved—like Maradona, he’s generally referred to by one name—has been dominating Israel’s sabich scene from his little corner on Sirkin Street in Givatayim, a small city bordering Tel Aviv. During that time, his establishment has become an institution that customers flock to from all over the country. But now, the man who is as much a legend in the world of sabich as Maradona is on the soccer field has granted a highly coveted franchise to two young men, Maor Ben-Tov and Aviv Shary, who this month opened the very first branch of Oved’s Sabich in Tel Aviv proper.

Growing up in Givatayim and being weaned on Oved’s Sabich, Ben-Tov and Shary always wanted to open a branch of their favorite street-food stand. After studying at Tadmor School of Culinary Arts and Hotel Management in Herzliya, working at several restaurants, and pestering Oved about it for no less than three years, their dream finally came true. On the first Friday of November—following a grueling two-month apprenticeship at Oved’s original stand—Ben-Tov and Shary opened their place on Karlebach Street. On the back of their black employee uniforms they have printed Oved’s slogan that shamelessly advertises “the best mana in the universe.” Mana in Hebrew means portion, dose, or serving, and the word is used in reference to a pita-sandwich, as well as when talking about heroin—which tells you how Israelis think about sabich.

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Sweet Potato Kugel

A sweet and earthy treat for the Shabbat (or Thanksgiving) table 

In her renowned cookbook, Jewish Cooking in America, Joan Nathan shares the memories of "Jewish homesteader," Sophie Trupin, recalling her life as a Jew on the American frontier:

"I was busy in the kitchen, carefully scooping out the eggs encased in layers of hardened coarse salt. I then began peeling pounds of potatoes, which my mother would grate on the fine side of the grater. My mother was making a huge potato kugel, made from fresh potatoes, onions, eggs, a little flour, and baked with plenty of goose fat. It wasn't Friday night, but my mother put a white linen tablecloth over the oilcloth-covered dining table."

Sophie's austere frontier life likely resembled that of her ancestors in Europe, where her mother's kugel recipe originated. According to food historian Rabbi Gil Marks' The World of Jewish Cooking, Jews have been making these starchy baked puddings since the seventh century.

But it was the Jews of Rhineland who perfected the notion of cooking bread dumplings inside Shabbat stew, and eventually outside of the stew pot in round, covered dishes. Kugel got its name from the word koogel (German for "ball"), which referred to the kugel's shape.

Today, inter-family debates rage over the best kind of kugel. Some people swear by a savory potato kugel, filled with sautéed onions and schmaltz. Others prefer a rich lokshen (noodle) kugel, stuffed with cheese and either sweetened with raisins and cinnamon, or made savory with sour cream. Still others scoff at any kugel except the simultaneously sweet and peppery Yerushalmi kugel, which Marks says was popularized by the Hasidim of Jerusalem in the late 18th century, who migrated to Israel from Eastern Europe.

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Jewish Coffee Cake

No coffee required.

Ashkenazic coffee cake, most often made with sour cream, is a dish with a history going back to 17th century Eastern Europe. Recipes for this pastry have changed over time. Though the original Jewish coffee cakes called for coffee as one of the main ingredients, today most such cakes are perfect partners for a hot cop of joe, but are totally caffeine-free.

In contemporary Jewish homes coffee cake is often served for breakfast on Shabbat and holidays, and at the break fast table after Yom Kippur and Tisha B'Av. When enjoying coffee cake after Shabbat, some families like to sprinkle the fragrant spices used in havdalah on top of the cake. Sweet, and containing nuts, cinnamon, and/or chocolate, a slice of coffee cake is one of the best ways to make a meal special.

This recipe comes from my mother, who liked to make coffee cake for celebratory brunches. The filling can be adapted for the crowd. If you're hosting some chocolate-lovers, try the chocolate filling. If your family gobbles up raisin challah, try the raisin-nut filling. The simple combination of pecans and walnuts in the nut filling is surprisingly elegant. Any way you go, you're bound to end up with a table full of smiles and crumbs.

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Pumpkin Challah

Perfect for a Fall Shabbat

I have never met a homemade challah I didn't like. There is something undeniably cozy and inviting about warm, fresh bread on the Shabbat table. Few other tastes can rival this. On the other hand, challah's ubiquitous appeal means that it's hard to find one loaf that stands out from the crowd. Enter: pumpkin challah.

With a heady mix of pureed winter squash, cinnamon, and cardamom braided into deep, strawberry-blond loaves, pumpkin challah is at once exotic and familiar to my Ashkenazic taste buds. A rare find, indeed.

In Maggie Glezer's indispensable baking book, A Blessing of Bread, she writes that pumpkin challah--a.k.a. pan de calabaza--is a Sephardic specialty imbued with deep meaning. Like other foods made with pumpkin, it represents the hope that God will protect the Jewish people just as the pumpkin's thick shell protects the flesh inside.

Sephardic Jews traditionally serve this bread during Rosh Hashanah, when eating auspicious, symbolic foods is especially popular. Still, it is equally delicious served on any cold autumn or winter Shabbat when the added heartiness and kick of spice can be fully appreciated. Needless to say, the leftovers make a spectacular base for challah French toast.

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