On The HummusTrail In The Galilee

In search of the best chickpea spread in the north. A spicy culinary and cultural journey.

A hummus dish at A-Sheikh restaurant, an institution in Nazareth, above. Left, dipping into the house specialty at Hummus Imad. Photos by Joshua Mitnick

by Joshua Mitnick
Israel Correspondent

Nazareth, Israel — As Independence Day
fireworks exploded over Tel Aviv rooftops, the host of the rooftop party I attended stuck Israeli flags in a platter of hummus and falafel. “Guess where we got the food?” she asked. “In Jaffa. At Hummus Asli.”
It is one of Israel’s cultural ironies. Ask Israelis where they go for the best chickpea spread that many call the national dish, and they’ll tick off places — mostly in Arab areas — in Jaffa, Abu Gosh, Ramleh or the Galilee. Just as the Arabic “Ahalan” often replaces “Shalom” for hello, so the cross-cultural hummus dominates local food obsession.
Cultural expropriation or Arab-Jewish integration?
The best way to judge is by road tripping to the Galilee, best known as

a mecca for hikers, B&Bers, and Sea of Galilee-dippers, but also known as a destination for hummus pilgrims who come north solely to discover obscure Arab-run hummus joints — or hummusiya. For the tourist, a stop at a hummusiya can be the perfect complement to an active day outdoors, as well as a window into local culture.
As the name implies, it’s the hummus that takes center stage at a hummusiya. Don’t expect to find a shwarma rotisserie or a kebab barbecue. And be prepared to do without a cucumber and tomato salad.
Instead you’ll usually find three varieties of hummus: straight-up hummus with tehina and various toppings; hummus and cooked “ful,” or fava beans; and the Galilean meshawehsheh, hummus with chickpeas, usually covered with a mixture of olive oil and lemon juice.
To enhance my multicultural culinary adventure, a friend, Habeeb Daoud, agreed to come along for the ride. Daoud is the owner of Uzbeh, a Palestinian-Lebanese restaurant in the village of Rama, and the food he serves there (which goes far beyond the usual hummus, falafel and French fries) has drawn food critics from Israel and abroad.
As a hobby, when traveling around the country, Habeeb likes to ask the locals to direct him to a beloved hummusiya, where he samples, makes mental notes, and then sometimes attempts to copy.
He sees hummus as a metaphorical melting pot between Israeli Arabs and Jews. At hummus joints all over the country, the two groups sit side-by-side at the counter or at the same tables. “It forces the two nations to cross boundaries,” he said. “That’s part of the magic. It forces people to meet.”
One Monday morning, we met in Nazareth — the largest Arab-Palestinian city in Israel and arguably the cultural and intellectual heart of Israel’s one-fifth minority. The massive basilica of the Church of the Annunciation serves as the tourist anchor in the hometown of Jesus.
As Habeeb browsed the sacks of colorful spices at the Abul Jaber market, the spice seller recommended some hummus joints. We decide to start with a Nazareth hummus institution, A-Sheikh, just a few blocks from the old city.
At 10:30 in the morning the nondescript but airy restaurant is mostly empty. Our waiter, Yarmouk Zouabi, says his family owns the restaurant and has been in the hummus business since the 1930s. Like many hummusiyot, this one became so popular that Zouabi’s relatives were able to expand their business into a full-fledged restaurant.
We order a 20-shekel hummus plate, and soon we’re devouring the plate with our eyes. The warmed chickpeas and fava beans meld with a hint of lemon juice. Every bite is savored. “There aren’t a lot of spices here,” explains Habeeb. “There’s a little garlic and lemon juice.”
The next stop is just a couple of minutes’ drive away. Across from the soccer stadium that’s home to the Achi Natzeret soccer club, stands Hummus Imad, another hummusiya-turned-restaurant. It’s not even noon but the crowd here is substantial. Between the shiny metallic furniture, the wait staff dressed in white shirts, and the informal din, the place has the look and feel of an Arab version of a Jewish deli.
We are given a plate (also 20 shekels) of straight-up hummus and tehina, with a small pile of chickpeas in olive oil in the middle. The hummus is creamy (the way many Israelis like it), clean and it goes down smooth.
“I know his secret,” Habeeb whispers. “Here, there’s barley and lemon. He’s mixed the hummus and the tehina at a warm temperature, and that’s what gives it its warm taste.”
So this relatively simple street food eaten for breakfast and lunch by Arabs of the Levant, and for nearly everything by Israelis, turns out to be a delicate mix of chickpea and tehina paste, lemon, garlic and water.
Habeeb says that the hummus in Lebanon and Syria differs in its makeup because economics limits the amount of tehina that can be included. After two hummus plates in an hour, I’m starting to feel full, and wonder to myself how long I can keep this up.
It’s time to push on to another town, because the restaurants will be closing by late afternoon. As we begin taking in the picturesque countryside of the Galilee hill country, I tell Habeeb my Independence Day food anecdote, and we start a conversation about Jews, Arabs and the food that stands between them.
As the son of 1948 evictees from the Christian Palestinian abandoned village of Ikrit, Habeeb might be expected to see hummus as another element of a cultural expropriation.
But he’s not interested in arguments over ownership of hummus. In his view, the food has no ethno-national exclusivity. The connections are through geography. If Jews want to claim hummus as their own, that’s fine with him. “Just make good hummus,” he says.
We’re headed to Shfar’am, a Lower Galilee town with an ancient Jewish synagogue and cemetery I’ve never seen. Unfortunately there’s little time to see the sights because we’re here to eat. As we cruise down Shfaram’s main drag, we pass one hummusiya Habeeb knows, drive into the heart of the Old City and park across from a stone wall that is part of the Sisters of Nazareth Monastery.
There we walk into the Al Aheli restaurant, which is a warm dining room with deep cherry-wood furniture and décor that features paraphernalia from the Maccabi Tel Aviv soccer team.
Not exactly what we came for. When the proprietors realize that we’ve come in search of hummus, the Najjar family quickly whips up a batch. It tastes yummy, though we probably should have sat at the sandwich stand that seems to be the original operation. The Najjars are warm and hospitable though, and if you come in search of Shfar’am’s old synagogue, it’s probably worth dropping in on Al Aheli.
Habeeb and I head west once again to the coastal highway and follow it north to Acre. We turn into the seafront Old City, with stone alleyways bustling with spice shops, fish mongers and eateries. All are within a couple of blocks.
Habeeb takes me to several hummus joints in the Old City. There’s Abu Elias — aka Tony — a Christian hummusiya right next to the majestic 18th-century Jezzar Pasha Mosque, built by the Ottoman governor of the same name.
Around the corner, near the entrance to the Old City is Abu Suheil, the first female run hummusiya I have stumbled across. It is reputed to be one of the best in Israel. But I wouldn’t know because by the time we visited Suheila with her modest smile, I admit I was no longer hungry. Suheila took over the business after her father Abu Suheil died and no one else would run the restaurant. “I couldn’t let my father’s restaurant close.”
At one end of the restaurant hangs a picture of her father (same smile and gleaming eyes) with the slicked back hair of the 50s. She insists the hummus recipe is her dad’s.
Deeper into the Old City lies Hummus Said. For Habeeb, the restaurant embodies the essence of the social meaning of hummus. Here there is a constant flow of people — be prepared for a line on Friday afternoon — who sit wherever they can find a seat. Jews pass the olive oil to Arabs, and businessmen rub shoulders with the day laborers.
Habeeb orders the ful and I get the meshaweshe, a mountain of cooked chickpeas with a base of hummus, drenched with tehina and sitting in a pool of oil. At 15 shekels with free refills (not needed) it is a heavenly dish.
Soon we are joined by Motti and Haim from Kiryat Yitzhak, two brawny middle-aged regulars who could pass for Mafiosos as they summon up lunch with a nod of a head. After overhearing our table mates ask the waitress for a side of fava beans, Habeeb offers them some of his ful.
“There’s nothing like this in the U.S. That’s something 100 percent I can promise,” said Motti.
And as we all sat there with mouths dripping with hummus and olive oil, we all nodded in agreement.

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