Shakshuka!

Shakshuka!

Shakshuka: a Moroccan dish of eggs poached in tangy stewed tomatoes, which makes a good breakfast but is eaten any time. (Lonely Planet guide to Israel & the Palestinian Territories, 5^th edition, March 2007, p. 63.)

By Sunday at 8:00 a.m., I was on my own. The money changer at the Hotel Dan wouldn’t open until 9 a.m. My cousin had told me I’d find restaurants right on the beach, so I headed down toward Frishman Beach.

Down; and then up; and then, down again, just to be sure (and to while away the time until 9 a.m.). At the appointed time—sharp—I crossed the money changer’s threshold and promptly changed $330 US into 1089 NIS. The exchange rate was 3.3 scheckels to one American dollar on that first Sunday of my trip.

With mainly crisp 100 NIS notes in my purse, I headed back down to the first sand-side place I’d stumbled into. I still hadn’t gotten the hang of the NIS—or New Israeli Scheckel—U.S. dollar conversion, so I was a bit of a captive audience. However, I was quite hungry.

Other than a la carte, there appeared to be three specials. They all came with juice, bread, and coffee. I remembered reading about shakshuka in Lonely Planet. Tomatoes sometimes give me heartburn, but I decided to take a chance.

I hadn’t had a glass of juice since the States. I was about to find out that, unless you order a fresh-squeezed glass of some juice or the other (and it is, indeed, some of the very best in the world), you’re presented with something that remotely resembles Tang. The coffee turned out to be strong enough: more than American; less than, say, Turkish (which is also often available). It was quite palatable.

And then the shakshuka arrived, with three perfectly just this side of runny eggs gently continuing to cook in a boiling sea of stewed tomatoes. Stewed—and seasoned—as it turned out: I added an unnecessary dash of pepper out of habit.

Tearing off a piece of bread, I dunked it into the shakshuka. True to form, I cautiously worked my way around the egg yolks. Soon enough, though, I couldn’t resist. How could I? Hell, though my HDL is blessedly through the roof, all this cholesterol ingestion wouldn’t help my cause on this beach-side and increasingly hot day in Tel Aviv, Israel. But I was hungry, and so I went to town, devouring every bit of egg white and egg yolk in that skillet. As I could already feel the heartburn rising, though, I refrained from finishing all those seasoned stewed tomatoes.

As in other Mediterranean climes, the bill came in its own good time: 48 NIS. Should I tip, I wondered? I handed the waitress one of those crisp 100 NIS bills; she returned with two twenties and change. Change enough—though I still hardly knew what was what—with which to leave her something? I took the liberty of asking a young hunk sitting across from me. 5 or so scheckels, he said. So I left seven.

55 scheckels divided by 3.3 equaled $16.67 on that particular Sunday, that was growing steamier and—if humanly possible—sunnier by the minute.

Worth it, for that sunny-side-up concoction of eggs and spicy stewed tomatoes that is otherwise known as…Shakshuka!

Copyright, 2008 by Georgina Marrero All Rights Reserved