//literary & arts//
Spring 2017
Fine Dining: Jewish Style
A Review of Zahav
Julia Crain
We piled into the family Suburban and drove the 45 minutes to Philadelphia. It was a “special occasion” in my mom’s book: all four kids home and finally, a highly-anticipated and long-awaited dinner at Zahav.
My mom first became a cult follower of Michael Solomonov and all of his restaurants after he spoke at my synagogue in Wilmington, Delaware. Like every other mom there, she got a signed copy of his cookbook, Zahav: A World of Israeli Cooking. She then hosted a meal for her friends with recipes exclusively from that cookbook. Clearly, we had high expectations for our dinner at Zahav.
Solomonov’s host of restaurants in Philadelphia and (most recently) in New York have collectively garnered him critical acclaim—including three James Beard Foundation awards—and have also posed questions of Jewish identity. With his restaurants called Abe Fisher and Dizengoff, Solomonov, an Israeli Jew who lives in Philadelphia, demonstrates the multiplicity of “Jewish food” within a single street block. Located near the swanky Rittenhouse Square in Philadelphia, Abe Fisher presents upscale takes on food from the Jewish Diaspora. Dishes range from “Shabbos chicken” to “Chicken liver mousse” and “Cinnamon babka.” Next door, the hummusiya Dizengoff offers freshly-made, warm hummus platters to eat at a countertop or to take away. Side-by-side, Abe Fisher (consisting of food from Jews in Galut, the Diaspora) and Dizengoff (consisting of food from Jews in Eretz Israel) grapple with Jewish ethnographic questions, and ultimately affirm a belief in the interconnectedness of Jews regardless of geographic location.
Walking through Zahav’s entrance door, we noticed both the mezuzah and the lack of Kosher certification: an incongruence that epitomizes the restaurant’s dance between celebrating Jewish culture and disregarding Halakha (Jewish Law).
My nine-year-old sister, whose first trip to Israel was last year, spotted an enlarged photograph of Machane Yehuda, the bustling shuk (marketplace) in Jerusalem, on the wall. Eagerly, she showed off her knowledge to the hostess, who returned her enthusiasm by pointing out an orange kippah in the sea of kippot. “It’s a Flyers (the Philadelphia NHL team) kippah in Jerusalem!”
As Jews from Delaware (a state with a measly total of seven synagogues—including the Chabad), we are far from accustomed to seeing signs of Jewishness in spaces outside of our home or synagogue. My mom used to come into my elementary school classes to talk about Jewish holidays just because most of my classmates would have never otherwise heard of them. I had to argue with my ballet teachers about the necessity of missing rehearsal for Yom Kippur services because they didn’t realize that Yom Kippur was, in fact, as important as Christmas.
Our dinner at Zahav took place during Hanukkah. In accordance with custom, but wholly unexpected at a restaurant in the States, our waiter offered us a themed Hanukkah menu, complete with sufganiyot and latkes. Rather than presenting itself solely as an Israeli-themed restaurant, Zahav transformed into a space for Jewish holiday celebration.
Before dinner, I had insisted that we stop at one of Solomonov’s other Philadelphia eateries: Federal Donuts. It felt only natural, then, for him to slide the Jewish version of donuts—under the guise of religious celebration—into Zahav’s menu for the holiday.
Food plays a central role in Jewish life. Ritual and law control Jewish food consumption, dictating the food we can eat, how we can eat it, and the prayers we must say in order to eat it. Furthermore, tradition prescribes certain foods as essential to celebrating specific holidays: apples and honey for Rosh Hashanah, hamentashen for Purim. While Zahav’s Hanukkah menu flirts with religious Jewish engagement, it strays from Kashrut—a fundamental aspect of traditional Jewish food preparation—out of its unwillingness to compromise taste for religion. And admittedly, so do I. Holding myself back from complete infatuation, I question the depth of my appreciation for the perfectly delicious, yet religiously shallow food I am devouring. Is Zahav’s engagement with Judaism surface-level or intentionally divergent from tradition? The food is unquestionably amazing. But is the rest—Kosher “style,” mezuzah on the door, Jewish-holiday-themed-menu, and blasting Israeli music—just total kitsch?
Solomonov’s intended clientele is clearly not limited to Jews. When I asked Solomonov about the connection between his restaurants, which span from Israeli food to the food of the Jewish Diaspora (essentially standing in for the totality of the Jewish people), I incorrectly assumed he would argue that his restaurants serve as quasi-pilgrimage sites for Jewish foodies. Instead, he spoke about “consistency in hospitality” and “bold flavor”—general positive traits one can ascribe to any restaurant experience. His toyings with Jewish food practice allow non-Jews to voyeuristically peer into the Jewish experience in a gastronomically pleasurable, but ideologically superficial way.
To be clear, Solomonov is far from standing alone in his presentation of non-Kosher but Kosher-style “Jewish food.” Countless delicatessens, for example, serve renditions of matzo-ball soup, latkes, and your grandma’s brisket. However, his conformity to the status quo does not preclude him from criticism. Rather, Zahav provides one example of a far-reaching cultural phenomenon: the picking and choosing of one’s connection to Judaism based on trivial criteria (in this case, flavor and taste). What good comes from kugel-induced nostalgia if one’s embrace of Judaism begins and ends with cultural frivolity at the expense of religious richness?
On the other hand, I wonder if I am holding Solomonov to an unfairly high moral standard. Though Solomonov’s cooking is Halakhically not-Kosher, his recipes—which never mix dairy and meat, and use only Kosher meat—are rooted in custom. What makes his food treyf is the preparation in a non-Kosher kitchen. For a restaurant competing against others without stringent, ideologically-based dietary restrictions, is this abandonment of total observance of tradition in favor of a broader appeal as a business a reasonable compromise? This tension between adherence to Jewish law and assimilation into mainstream society is the fundamental and unsolvable Diasporic concern.
Most importantly, how can I claim the ability to judge another Jew’s lack of Halakhic observance?
Despite his tenuous relationship with tradition, I think back to my mom’s dinner of entirely Zahav cookbook recipes, and recognize the beauty in offering Jews the tools to cook food from Israel. With recommendations for where to buy uncommon ingredients and explanations of the rich cultural diversity that comes together to create Israeli food, Solomonov brings families and friends closer together over delicious food. Israeli food, as Solomonov presents it, is a constantly evolving and recently defined genre. In categorizing Israeli cuisine, he explained, “Israel is so young. It’s a true melting pot of people who were in Israel, were exiled, and have returned (combined with new immigrants all the time). The food is the best reflection of that migration.” In the coming months, Solomonov will narrate a documentary titled In Search of Israeli Cuisine, in which he travels around the country, speaking to cooks from over 100 nationalities, and argues his thesis of the encompassing and overarching category of Israeli cuisine.
As Solomonov continues his quest to pinpoint the parameters of Israeli cuisine and assert its rightful identity and permanence, I think about Zahav’s perhaps ironic location: it is only a few blocks away from Independence Hall in Philadelphia. The likely unintentional, but coincidental proximity of Zahav to the site of the signing of the U.S. Declaration of Independence and Constitution reflects Solomonov’s attempts to shape Israeli national identity through the formation of a nationally codified cuisine.
My mom first became a cult follower of Michael Solomonov and all of his restaurants after he spoke at my synagogue in Wilmington, Delaware. Like every other mom there, she got a signed copy of his cookbook, Zahav: A World of Israeli Cooking. She then hosted a meal for her friends with recipes exclusively from that cookbook. Clearly, we had high expectations for our dinner at Zahav.
Solomonov’s host of restaurants in Philadelphia and (most recently) in New York have collectively garnered him critical acclaim—including three James Beard Foundation awards—and have also posed questions of Jewish identity. With his restaurants called Abe Fisher and Dizengoff, Solomonov, an Israeli Jew who lives in Philadelphia, demonstrates the multiplicity of “Jewish food” within a single street block. Located near the swanky Rittenhouse Square in Philadelphia, Abe Fisher presents upscale takes on food from the Jewish Diaspora. Dishes range from “Shabbos chicken” to “Chicken liver mousse” and “Cinnamon babka.” Next door, the hummusiya Dizengoff offers freshly-made, warm hummus platters to eat at a countertop or to take away. Side-by-side, Abe Fisher (consisting of food from Jews in Galut, the Diaspora) and Dizengoff (consisting of food from Jews in Eretz Israel) grapple with Jewish ethnographic questions, and ultimately affirm a belief in the interconnectedness of Jews regardless of geographic location.
Walking through Zahav’s entrance door, we noticed both the mezuzah and the lack of Kosher certification: an incongruence that epitomizes the restaurant’s dance between celebrating Jewish culture and disregarding Halakha (Jewish Law).
My nine-year-old sister, whose first trip to Israel was last year, spotted an enlarged photograph of Machane Yehuda, the bustling shuk (marketplace) in Jerusalem, on the wall. Eagerly, she showed off her knowledge to the hostess, who returned her enthusiasm by pointing out an orange kippah in the sea of kippot. “It’s a Flyers (the Philadelphia NHL team) kippah in Jerusalem!”
As Jews from Delaware (a state with a measly total of seven synagogues—including the Chabad), we are far from accustomed to seeing signs of Jewishness in spaces outside of our home or synagogue. My mom used to come into my elementary school classes to talk about Jewish holidays just because most of my classmates would have never otherwise heard of them. I had to argue with my ballet teachers about the necessity of missing rehearsal for Yom Kippur services because they didn’t realize that Yom Kippur was, in fact, as important as Christmas.
Our dinner at Zahav took place during Hanukkah. In accordance with custom, but wholly unexpected at a restaurant in the States, our waiter offered us a themed Hanukkah menu, complete with sufganiyot and latkes. Rather than presenting itself solely as an Israeli-themed restaurant, Zahav transformed into a space for Jewish holiday celebration.
Before dinner, I had insisted that we stop at one of Solomonov’s other Philadelphia eateries: Federal Donuts. It felt only natural, then, for him to slide the Jewish version of donuts—under the guise of religious celebration—into Zahav’s menu for the holiday.
Food plays a central role in Jewish life. Ritual and law control Jewish food consumption, dictating the food we can eat, how we can eat it, and the prayers we must say in order to eat it. Furthermore, tradition prescribes certain foods as essential to celebrating specific holidays: apples and honey for Rosh Hashanah, hamentashen for Purim. While Zahav’s Hanukkah menu flirts with religious Jewish engagement, it strays from Kashrut—a fundamental aspect of traditional Jewish food preparation—out of its unwillingness to compromise taste for religion. And admittedly, so do I. Holding myself back from complete infatuation, I question the depth of my appreciation for the perfectly delicious, yet religiously shallow food I am devouring. Is Zahav’s engagement with Judaism surface-level or intentionally divergent from tradition? The food is unquestionably amazing. But is the rest—Kosher “style,” mezuzah on the door, Jewish-holiday-themed-menu, and blasting Israeli music—just total kitsch?
Solomonov’s intended clientele is clearly not limited to Jews. When I asked Solomonov about the connection between his restaurants, which span from Israeli food to the food of the Jewish Diaspora (essentially standing in for the totality of the Jewish people), I incorrectly assumed he would argue that his restaurants serve as quasi-pilgrimage sites for Jewish foodies. Instead, he spoke about “consistency in hospitality” and “bold flavor”—general positive traits one can ascribe to any restaurant experience. His toyings with Jewish food practice allow non-Jews to voyeuristically peer into the Jewish experience in a gastronomically pleasurable, but ideologically superficial way.
To be clear, Solomonov is far from standing alone in his presentation of non-Kosher but Kosher-style “Jewish food.” Countless delicatessens, for example, serve renditions of matzo-ball soup, latkes, and your grandma’s brisket. However, his conformity to the status quo does not preclude him from criticism. Rather, Zahav provides one example of a far-reaching cultural phenomenon: the picking and choosing of one’s connection to Judaism based on trivial criteria (in this case, flavor and taste). What good comes from kugel-induced nostalgia if one’s embrace of Judaism begins and ends with cultural frivolity at the expense of religious richness?
On the other hand, I wonder if I am holding Solomonov to an unfairly high moral standard. Though Solomonov’s cooking is Halakhically not-Kosher, his recipes—which never mix dairy and meat, and use only Kosher meat—are rooted in custom. What makes his food treyf is the preparation in a non-Kosher kitchen. For a restaurant competing against others without stringent, ideologically-based dietary restrictions, is this abandonment of total observance of tradition in favor of a broader appeal as a business a reasonable compromise? This tension between adherence to Jewish law and assimilation into mainstream society is the fundamental and unsolvable Diasporic concern.
Most importantly, how can I claim the ability to judge another Jew’s lack of Halakhic observance?
Despite his tenuous relationship with tradition, I think back to my mom’s dinner of entirely Zahav cookbook recipes, and recognize the beauty in offering Jews the tools to cook food from Israel. With recommendations for where to buy uncommon ingredients and explanations of the rich cultural diversity that comes together to create Israeli food, Solomonov brings families and friends closer together over delicious food. Israeli food, as Solomonov presents it, is a constantly evolving and recently defined genre. In categorizing Israeli cuisine, he explained, “Israel is so young. It’s a true melting pot of people who were in Israel, were exiled, and have returned (combined with new immigrants all the time). The food is the best reflection of that migration.” In the coming months, Solomonov will narrate a documentary titled In Search of Israeli Cuisine, in which he travels around the country, speaking to cooks from over 100 nationalities, and argues his thesis of the encompassing and overarching category of Israeli cuisine.
As Solomonov continues his quest to pinpoint the parameters of Israeli cuisine and assert its rightful identity and permanence, I think about Zahav’s perhaps ironic location: it is only a few blocks away from Independence Hall in Philadelphia. The likely unintentional, but coincidental proximity of Zahav to the site of the signing of the U.S. Declaration of Independence and Constitution reflects Solomonov’s attempts to shape Israeli national identity through the formation of a nationally codified cuisine.
//JULIA CRAIN is a junior in Barnard College and a Contributing Writer for The Current. She can be reached at [email protected]. Photo courtesy of Zahav Restaurant.