INTRODUCTION
I was born and raised on Kibbutz Dan in northern Israel. Although it was a great place to grow up as a child, food was the least exciting thing about it. The generation of Jews who escaped Europe before the war, or came after, built this country on the idea that food was purely a means of survival. Unfortunately, my kibbutz was also founded by these same eastern Europeans, who left behind many of the culinary traditions of their native homes; all I can remember from my early days is boiled, flavorless dishes—too often oversweetened or way too vinegary.
Luckily, we took trips to Kiryat Shmona, the nearest town, and Tel Aviv, where street food offered a variety of new flavors and ingredients. Keep in mind that until the early ’90s, the culinary scene in Israel, generally speaking, was as interesting as hummus in a can! The best meals were at home, and if you were lucky enough, you had a Moroccan or Persian friend who would invite you over for dinner.
There were also interesting culinary influences from our neighbors just over the Lebanese border, only a half mile away. We shopped and ate in areas that are now part of Palestine, and there were a few Druze villages just twenty minutes north where we could enjoy freshly made falafel, grilled meats, and sweets, as well as a delicious Arabic coffee spiced with cardamom. These cultures greatly impacted our meals at home, bringing new ingredients and dishes into our limited repertoire. Today, Israel has close to seventy different ethnic groups and, in turn, access to each of their uniquely authentic cuisines. We are finally seeing a culinary revolution that is as exciting as anywhere else on the planet. Israeli cuisine has certainly come a long way.
Growing up in the Galilee did have its advantages: we were surrounded by nature. The Dan River, which flows into the Jordan, brought schools of rainbow trout, which we’d catch, stuff to the gills with wild herbs, and cook whole, simply, on the grill. Within reach were sprawling apple orchards, cornfields, and citrus groves. As kids we would venture out and fill up on everything we could pick ourselves, especially since we knew what was waiting for us back at the communal dining room for dinner.
Still, not every dish in the kibbutz was worth avoiding. One highlight from those days was the flatbreads my friends and I would bake in makeshift dirt ovens and eat with sour labneh cheese and fragrant za’atar, a mix of sesame, sumac, thyme, and other herbs. Picking fresh thyme, oregano, or rosemary was a matter of going out into the garden or into the nearby fields where they grew wild. (To this day, I have a hard time paying for herbs packed in plastic clamshells at the supermarket.)
After we left the kibbutz, I started cooking because my mother worked late and my sisters and I needed to eat. It was that simple. She would leave ingredients and directions out on the counter, and we were on our own. Often the recipes would hail from one of my family’s different cultures—my mother’s father was Tunisian and his wife was Transylvanian.
When I was seven, my father’s work brought us to Belgium for four years, and we would venture to nearby Paris or Holland sometimes on the weekend. We all brought a little something back from that experience—I’m just glad my mother returned to Israel with a new love of cooking and the exposure to what we considered exotic ingredients at the time. Seafood, which was not readily available in Israel—mussels and clams simply don’t thrive in the Mediterranean Sea—and pork were introduced to our dinner table. Even though kosher laws did not permit either, it was certainly a nice break from mashed chickpeas and tahini. (Was my family kosher? It depends who you ask.)
As teenagers my sisters and I had to work one day a week and half of our summer vacations at the kibbutz. For a while, I did my part by picking apples and avocados, but I mainly worked in our fish farms harvesting trout, carp, and tilapia. I think that my first spice blend was made on the banks of a large dirt fishpond. After a long day of harvesting fish, we started a small fire and cleaned a few tilapias. I remember grabbing some chile flakes, salt, paprika, garlic, and fresh za’atar leaves from our cooler and coating the fish with this impromptu mixture before grilling them. This was to become our signature fish rub for the next few years.
When I turned nineteen, I became a sergeant in the Israeli Army to complete my mandatory military service. It was the first time I was officially in charge of a kitchen— one of my many duties during that time. After my service ended, my older sister convinced me to do some traveling. I spent the next year venturing through South America, eagerly exploring every open-air market and bazaar I came across. Seeing endless mounds of chiles, merkén spice (a blend of smoked pepper and coriander), and Chilean Chiloé berry, none of which I had encountered before, sent me on a quest to learn about their origins and how they grew. I visited family-run farms in Peru and Ecuador to watch the chile harvests and ventured to Colombia to see firsthand how cardamom was grown.
Upon returning to Israel, I began seeing markets in an entirely new light. I loved the interaction with the vendors and the bargaining, particularly that Persian guy at Levinsky Spice Market in Tel Aviv. Each bag of spices at the market was a journey to a faraway place. Even now, I can’t begin to count how many times I walked the threeblock-long spice market looking for a new treasure.
CULINARY SCHOOL & OLIVIER ROELLINGER
My newfound passion for spices brought me to search for a job in a professional kitchen. But without any culinary school training, I couldn’t even land a job as a dishwasher. After many attempts, I was lucky to meet chef Gil Frank, who owned the Menta catering company and who loved the fact that I hadn’t been jaded by the culinary industry yet. He hired me as a sous chef and taught me some basic kitchen skills, and we spent three fantastic years working together. He encouraged me to attend culinary school, and I owe him a lot for having faith in me and for his support.
On his suggestion, I enrolled at the Institut Paul Bocuse in Lyon, France, where I would learn the techniques needed to make these ingredients come to life. During my first and second years, I had to do externships lasting six to seven months. When it was time for my second externship, one of the chefs at school who knew how fascinated I was with spices lent me a book by Olivier Roellinger. I knew nothing about him or his restaurant. I read that book twenty times in the next few days, and I couldn’t understand how this worked: a French chef in Brittany was seasoning local ingredients with exotic spices from all over the world. I always thought the French were satisfied with salt, pepper, and a sprig of fresh thyme.
I immediately sent him an application letter. It came back denied, saying they did not accept interns. So I sent a second one. To my surprise, I was accepted. I arrived there on a spring afternoon and was greeted by Olivier’s wife, Jane, who told me to place my things in the attic, where I would sleep, and to be downstairs for dinner service at five p.m. A few hours later, I found myself in a small kitchen surrounded by many types of fish, seafood, vegetables, and bags of turmeric, galangal, and curry leaves. Seeing these spices in a French kitchen was certainly a first; it took me a few days to understand what Chef Roellinger was doing.
I wanted to learn everything from him—the history and trade routes, the larger story. But Olivier, the consummate mentor, pushed me to do my own research and develop my own style. I needed to connect with spices by creating my own path, not by simply following his. I didn’t understand it at the time, but now, years later, I can only thank him for doing so.
When I moved back to Lyon, I worked in a small restaurant where, for the first time, I was able to create my own dishes and use spices as I saw fit. The city had a large Lebanese and Armenian community, so I was fortunate enough to have access to mahlab seeds (page 178) and sumac (page 260). After three great years there, I moved to New York City in 2002, ready for change.
Copyright © 2016 by Lior Lev Sercarz. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
