Fall of the Legends

Friends and Family have been raving about various vegan restaurants here in Tel Aviv So much so, that some of these places have become almost mythical. We keep saying, here in our soul food kitchen, that we need to get out more and try out some of these places: To get out of whatever rut we’re in; to expose ourselves to new culinary concepts; hell, just to get out of the kitchen once in a blue moon.

So finally, on Irit’s birthday recently, we decided to venture out and try one of these mystical places. We asked our wait person what were the most kickass dishes on the menu. Not the most popular, mind you. The most kickass. We had already been given a list of recommendations from our familial peanut gallery. But, hell, it’s a question I always ask whenever I eat out: what is the chef doing tonight that is absolutely amazing.

I should pause here and admit that we’re a problematic pair when it comes to food. First of all, we don’t eat all that much. We decided to circumnavigate that issue, deciding in advance that we would taste a bunch of dishes and haul the leftovers to my vegan son, down the street from the restaurant. OK, chalas. We’re also pretty fucking picky when it comes to food, which I suppose is obvious. I come t o a meal absolutely looking to be wowed, wanting to be wowed. Which, if you think about it, is a pretty dumbass standard. Why not just eat out with the intent of enjoying the evening out? Especially given the fact that with COVID-19, it had been a solid year since we’d stepped out. We decided, determinedly, to leave our wow thinking caps at home.

We didn’t eat very much that day, saving our appetite for dinner. And we studied the menu in advance, debating which dishes we wanted to order. The wait person’s recommendations were, let’s say, underwhelming. We went with our gut. And the dishes were . . . ok.

This is not a restaurant review. I’m not looking to get into that biz, no fucking way. This is really more of a meditation on why it is I can’t turn off the tape in my head that says “Martin, you can do this shit in your sleep.” I don’t like that tape at all, quite frankly. I’d rather focus on the nice touch of cilantro used to finish a tamarind-glazed tofu dish, for instance. The effort is short-lived. I found myself the next morning after our dinner date re-creating every dish we’d had the night before. What the fuck. There are really whole parts of me I would like to rewire. Oh well. Next life.