The hummus at Avazi, in Tel Aviv’s Hatikva neighborhood, has a concave shape and filling of fava beans.
(Ted Weesner Jr. for The Boston Globe)
In Tel Aviv, hummus comes with its own vocabulary
The hummus at Avazi, in Tel Aviv’s Hatikva neighborhood, has a concave shape and filling of fava beans.
(Ted Weesner Jr. for The Boston Globe)
TEL AVIV - Treat yourself to a plate of hummus, pita hot from the oven, and an icy beer at an outdoor cafe in this pulsing city and you’ll understand how different hummus is from the versions that have been around in the in the United States since the hippie days. What you know as chunky bean dip, circa 1977 (emphasis on the beans) has in Israel been elevated to a contemporary art form. With a little kitchen work, the pureed chickpea spread (along with its many tasty accoutrements) can begin its own state-side ascendance.
It must be said that no Israeli would claim ownership over hummus, which can be found all over the Middle East and has Arab roots dating to the 12th-century reign of Saladin. Yet in a country whose gastronomy can feel a little hodgepodge, hummus has been embraced with something close to fervor. One cookbook author, Janna Gur, has observed that in the formation of the country’s identity, settlers sought to leave behind the cuisine of the Diaspora and take up the local fare of the Levant, which includes dishes such as shawarma and falafel. Delectable hummus can be found in just about every restaurant and roadside stand. Some establishments grind it to order and all make an unusual presentation. The puree is spooned onto a plate and the center is scooped into a concave shape, so the hummus resembles a bowl. A flourish of olive oil, a garnish of paprika, and a sprinkle of cilantro boost the visual flair and flavor index.
At a typical Israeli restaurant, hummus is featured as part of an array of mezze, small plates that might include red cabbage, tahini, pickled vegetables, roasted mashed eggplant, red pepper puree, or chopped salad. The pita, thicker and chewier than the variety we know, comes piled on a separate plate; refills are free. It can represent dangerous dietary terrain. Before you know it, you’ve blithely plowed through several platters. This pita - which seconds as a scooping and dipping implement - puts our thinner versions to shame. (The Butcherie in Brookline, the largest purveyor of Israeli food in New England, sells the real thing, baked hourly and sold in packs of four for $2.79.) There are also eateries in Israel where hummus is the solo event, large plates served alone or with fixings (from $4 to $6). Sandwiches including hummus, primarily with falafel and shawarma, are the province of street vendors.
What really sets the indigenous version apart from the various American ones (except those homemade versions sold at Middle Eastern markets) is the creaminess quotient. Israelis refuse to skimp on tahini, the ground sesame seed paste that looks something like peanut butter. The result is a hummus that is at once intensely flavorful, light, velvety, and madly sustaining. That chickpeas sport a serious nutritional profile does not enter the conversation (though surely, when food wasn’t as plentiful, it once did).
To add a layer of complexity, an order of hummus can be topped with either warm fava beans (called ful), toasted pine nuts, or more tahini, which is ladled into the center and sometimes doused with an aromatic olive oil. Stewed fava beans over hummus are a revelation atop a revelation: earthy, pepper-tinged, and meaty without a trace of meat. In this dish the two robust beans slug it out, both vying for your palate’s attention, neither ever quite vanquishing the other. It’s a fight you’re happy to have waged in your mouth.
In pursuit of a recipe for the fava beans, I tracked down a Jewish grandma (and fantastic cook) who emigrated from Baghdad in 1945. Karmela Eini passed along her recipe for ful to her granddaughter Natali Hagby, 25, as if it were prayer committed to memory, after which she also offered her hummus recipe with similar passion and precision.
For the ful, Eini recommends small dried fava beans, available locally for about $1 a pound at many Middle Eastern shops, and lots of cumin. Green chili peppers and chopped fresh cilantro embed a piquant fire. When it comes to making hummus, Eini likes to soak dried chickpeas with a splash of soda water, then pump up the flavor with garlic and plenty of lemon juice. It goes without saying that she has a heavy hand with the tahini.
Perhaps not surprisingly, the act of eating hummus has given rise to its own lexicon in Israel. The Yiddish “tinkin’’ means to dip; the Hebrew “l’nagev’’ to mop up. Here’s what you do: Tear off a piece of fresh pita and fashion it into a makeshift spoon. Then swoop in for a bit of both hummus and ful, ending your scoop with a delicate curl of the wrist - the hummus connoisseur’s preferred motion - and keep going until the bowl is clean. Latter-day hippies and bean freaks will want to follow suit.
These shops carry the ingredients to make hummus and ful; and they also have homemade hummus and pita.
Bay Sweets Market, 120 Spring St., West Roxbury, 617-327-3737
Droubi Bakery, 748 South St., Roslindale, 617-325-1585
Eastern Lamejun Bakers, 145 Belmont St., Belmont, 617-484-5239
Massis Bakery, Mt. Auburn St., Watertown, 617-924-0537
Sevan Bakery, 599 Mt. Auburn St., Watertown, 617-924-3243
The Butcherie, 428 Harvard St., Brookline, 617-731-9888
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