The Taste of New Old World

Tucked behind Tel Aviv’s throbbing Carmel Market lies a neighborhood that seems to float in the haze between history and myth, the Old World and the New. Dusty ramshackle tenements squeeze next to bright blue buildings with ornately gilded doors. Languid cats doze in the flitting sunlight on narrow, cobbled streets, as clotheslines of old frocks and brand new jeans flutter in the breeze overhead.

There's an impressive calm that whispers, "Lie down, close your eyes, let the world fade away." But there's also an intangible spiritual power insisting that your eyes sparkle and your heart soars.

I had been in Israel several months before hearing of the Vineyard of the Yemenites, a tiny quarter of central Tel Aviv that everyone and yet no one seemed to know, and I had come for the marak basar, or meat soup. Despite my inquiries, I had been repeatedly told that I didn't need to know the ingredients; I just needed to try the dish.

Ambling down one empty corridor, I finally begin to hear sounds of life soaring from around a corner, a spicy aroma drifting closely behind, beckoning me.

Suddenly I emerge onto a street peppered with filled tables, mouths chattering and eating at the same time. I weave my way toward the hub of the activity, a small restaurant set off from the street and down a short flight of stairs.

I am ushered to an open table by a bubbly little woman in a greasy apron, making small talk with my limited Hebrew and then requesting marak basar. She immediately pivots on the spot and shrilly yells something into the open kitchen, where a sweaty chef is bustling in full view of the room. He shouts something back, they share a laugh, and my waitress glides away.

A few minutes later, the soup appears. As instructed, I drop in a dollop of skhug, a green Middle Eastern hot sauce with the piquancy of dragon fire, and slowly stir the bowl.

I close my eyes and lift spoon to mouth, the zesty and rich soup transporting me to yet another world.