Chocolate heals a broken heart,
although Ben & Jerry’s can be equally successful. Twizzlers, to me, are
movie candies- the sweetness of the strawberry licorice paired with salty
popcorn is enough to make any movie worth seeing. Cakes are for celebrations. But
kanafeh? Kanafeh is simply an experience.
I’ve eaten kanafeh twice in my
life; both times were in Israel. The first time, I was 21 years old and urged
by an old friend to head to Jerusalem for the best middle-eastern dessert that
the Arab people had to offer. This time, I sought it out myself, in the heart
of Tel Aviv. If my memory served me correctly, this dish was “achla”
(“wonderful”, in Arabic/Hebrew slang), and worth the trip to the shuk (outdoor
market where you can find anything from vegetables and breads to costumes and
curry flavored sesame seeds).
The shuk is often crowded with
shouts from vendors to come purchase from the best, smells of raw fish and
sewage, pushy Israelis trying to make their way past tourists like me, and of
course, food booths. This particular shuk, “Shuk HaCarmel” is located on a
narrow side street on the busiest intersection in Tel Aviv.
Most of the booths have beautiful
displays of fresh and local vegetables for the best prices this side of the
Galilee. The kanafeh booth, however, is more of an isolated table in the middle
of the shuk. Once I approached, I figured out why this confection vendor stands
alone among the hustle and bustle of the marketplace.
The old man who makes this
dessert stands confidently by his sweets. His hands are visibly worn from years
of preparing this unique dish. He’s perfected his recipe over the years to the
point where he is certain that his culinary creation will sell, without the
need for customer service. Simply stated, the man is rude! He doesn’t care to
elaborate on his feelings of the dish, his recipe, or the history of kanafeh.
Therefore, I had to do some online research for a background on kanafeh, but I
assure you the experience is all my own.
Kanafeh is a sweet pastry made
from layers of thread-thin, crispy dough with nabulsi cheese (a sweet cottage-cheese-like
filling), drizzled in sugar- and rose-water. Often times, it is topped with
crushed pistachio to add to the crunch, and coated with orange food-coloring.
This dessert dates back to the middle ages of Arab culture and is often cooked
in large pans, double the size of a pizza-pie dish.
In my most recent kanafeh
experience, I approached the vendor to ask if he could tell me a little bit
about the dessert. His response was a dismissive “I don’t have time for this”,
in Arabic-accented Hebrew, of course. (To elaborate, he had no other customers
at the moment but me.) Alas, I was persistent. So I asked him for a slice of
his dessert.
He proceeded to slab a
mouse-pad-sized serving of moist kanafeh on a square Styrofoam plate, and
charged me 10 shekels for my purchase. (This translates into approximately
$2.50.) It wasn’t the price of the dish that bothered me, but the amount he
gave me. It would have been impossible (well, maybe not impossible, but
certainly unhealthy) for me to eat the entire serving.
I asked him to cut the serving
down to half of what he had given me. So he removed half of the kanafeh and
returned the plate to me. Again, I asked him how much he would like. Again, he
responed, “10 shekels.” I looked at him, confused. I might not speak his
language, but I know that if you remove half of my purchase, I should only pay
half of the original price. Determined to get 10 shekels from me, he added a
small piece of baklava to my plate. Annoyed, I paid the man his 10 shekels, and
walked away with what I’ll call a “piggy-portion” of dessert, all for me.
This particular kanafeh was not
the warm, moist dish I remembered from Jerusalem. However, there was no
mistaking its distinct rose-water flavor and phyllo-dough crunch. Kanafeh is a
staple dish at Arabic celebrations and can be found in many Middle-Eastern
specialty stores in the US. Fortunately for me, I have the authentic version of
this dish at my disposal, just down the street. Unfortunately, acquiring it
necessitates interacting with, quite possibly, the least friendly Arab-Israeli
I have yet to meet in this country. But the dessert is so unique and decadent
that it is often worth the aggravation… and the ten shekels.
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