Unfortunately, I’m not a huge fan of the noodles themselves.  I find the textures of both soba and udon to be a bit too spongy for me.  I’m a firm believer in firm noodles, and I think the best noodles I’ve found so far have been the noodles in Suzhou.  The noodle counters there are usually breakfast places, where you can order a bowl with some goodies piled on top, such as fish (鲍鱼) or shrimp (虾仁), and slurp it all down before heading to work.  Now the broths I find are a little too sweet and not a match for the Japanese broths I’ve had, but the noodles themselves are heaven itself.  They’re a little thicker than ramen and more al dente, much firmer and in my opinion better.  I keep on telling my relatives that they need to export these noodles to America and give the whole ramen craze here a run for its money.

I hadn’t noticed on our way in that a large part of the first floor was essentially an aquarium: there were bins and tanks filled with fish, crabs, shrimp, and all sorts of things that I couldn’t recognize. (I’m sorry I didn’t take pictures, I might go back again at some point and I’ll definitely take shots then.)

The most interesting two dishes that we had were scallops with garlic and rice vermicelli (蒜蓉扇贝) and the razor clams (蛏子).  I’ve always liked scallops and I’ve always liked garlic, but I’ve never had anything quite like the scallops here.  The garlic was fried but not too much, just to the point where it gets a bit sweet, and formed a nice complement to the meaty, juicier taste of the scallops.  The razor clams I thought were actually snails until I looked them up online; turns out they’re long-ish clams that have tentacles that made me think they were snails’ antennae.  Their texture was also kind of snail-like, but their taste was more subtle and didn’t have that distinctive snailiness.

But the first thing that we had was “Shaoxing yellow wine” (绍兴黄酒). I’d only known the brewery Shaoxing for making the best cooking wine, but apparently they also make a stronger version for drinking. The server brought us the wine, which was served hot, and some huamei (话梅), which are some sort of dried berries, sweet and sour in taste, to soak in the wine. The taste from the huamei seeped quickly into the wine and the whole concoction tasted surprisingly good.

Next came the drunken shrimp. Now the Chinese are very fond of eating their meats and seafood recently slaughtered, but the drunken shrimp takes this to a new level: they actually bring out live shrimp marinating in a wine sauce and they tell you not to open the lid on the bowl for 10 minutes, until the alcohol from the wine kill the shrimp and they stop moving.

Now EV was already freaked out at this point and he ended up not even trying any. AY and I were a bit more brave and tried it after the requisite 10 minutes. They tasted pretty good; unfortunately the shrimp were all very small so you didn’t really get much meat, but the sauce was very tasty. I tried a couple and was going to grab another one when… I saw one of them move. Ever so slightly, its tail flexed without anyone touching the bowl. And at point I’d decided I’d been brave enough and I could bear to let the rest of the bowl go.

After finally getting off the train I walked on over to this hip new hutong called Nanluoguxiang (南锣鼓巷) that’s been taken over by expats and hip cafes and bars. I was supposed to see a film screening in one of the cafes there but there was road construction right outside the window and I couldn’t hear anything so we ended up leaving 10 minutes into the movie and just wandered around.

We eventually wandered over to Qianhai (前海) and Houhai (后海) which form a nice little scenic area with small alleys filled with shops and food stalls. All was fine and dandy, and then a familiar scent hit me. The scent was faint at first, but the stink wasn’t your average Chinese hot summer stink. As we kept walking the smell got stronger and stronger and at some point I was just following my nose towards the stinky heaven that I knew was waiting for me.

Now if you’re not Chinese (and maybe even if you are) you might never have heard or appreciated the sublime delicacy that is stinky tofu (臭豆腐). It’s tofu that’s been slightly fermented to make it a little pungent, and then deep-fried and served with hot sauce. It’s more of a snack food than a meal, and so it made sense that there would be a stall there that was making it, but it’d been so long since I’d had it that I didn’t even think to look for it here.

We finally found the stall and my friends stood back a healthy 20 feet or so while I got some. I had to wipe away the drool as I finally got my batch and bit into the first piece. It was pretty good, the texture was right but it wasn’t quite as flavorful as I would’ve liked it. I offered one of my friends a piece and he tried it, but one piece was enough for him. I on the other hand, didn’t budge until I’d finished the whole thing, yuuuuuuum.

Istanbullus know how to eat, whether it’s on the street, in the cafe, or wherever. I’ve just barely had a few tastes of Turkish food and I’m in love already. None of it is too foreign since there are a great deal of Turkish restaurants in New York and they’re actually quite good, but the variety here is much greater and the ingredients are much fresher.

The baklava here is to die for… I don’t think I’ve seen them drenched in as much honey and rich sugary goodness as the place on Istiklal Caddesi where these photos were taken. The window arrangements would lure group after group of tourists and locals alike to come stare and drool.

The local street food is quite good too. I especially like the balik ekmek (literally fish bread) which is a grilled fish sandwich topped with tomatos, lettuce, and a big pile of onions. SG and I debated whether the fish was actually caught by the fisherman tending their poles on Galata Bridge, but given how clean (or not) the Bosphorus is I’d rather not think about where the fish came from and rather think about how it’s gonna end up in my stomach.

I also tried this fried doughy thing, which was filled with feta cheese. It was sizzling hot and yummy, and the couple running the stand were definitely hogging all the business near the Aya Sofia.

The one disappointment so far has been the Turkish tea. I’d expected something new and interesting but it kind of tastes like a watered-down Earl Grey. Hmm can someone say Chinese tea snob?

Saturday I went to this restaurant Manta Ray suggested by TR for a late lunch. The restaurant is right on the beach with beautiful views of the sea and of old Jaffa, where the old lighthouse sits perched above a small promontory overlooking the sea. The food at Manta Ray is tapas style, and even though the choices all looked amazing (most were meat-free too so I theoretically could have ordered almost all of them), I ended up picking the ceviche, roasted eggplant with sour cream, and a chickpea and calamari dish. The ceviche was great, a nice balance of onion, lemon, and fish, the eggplant was soaked in delicious olive oil and topped with a dollop of sour cream, and the calamari and chickpeas formed a light complement to the heavy eggplant dish. The tapas came with this Balkan bread that was kind of like focaccia, straight out of the oven and drizzled with more olive oil.

So since this is the Israeli New York I decided to experience it as I experience NY, namely by eating and drinking. Friday night I went out to this bar Evita suggested by TR around midnight and I was surprised by how empty it was. Now this is supposed to be one of the institutions of gay Tel Aviv so I assumed it would be much more packed; to this day I’m not sure if it was empty because (a) midnight is way too early to go to a bar or (b) I’m so used to the crush of bars in New York that an average, uncrowded bar seems empty now.

The bartenders at Evita were very friendly, which I’m not sure was because of their general disposition, or because they like foreigners. In any case the service definitely came with a smile, and after about a half hour it also came with a free round of shots too! Now if only I could get that kind of service in New York maybe I could drink excessively and live on my grad student salary without having to think about where my next meal’s coming from…

The next stop on the stumble was Cedamus Amori (“Surrender to Love”), which was a slightly more subdued yet also slightly more cruisy bar. I met up with IC here, a friend of a friend from New York, and after a few drinks we were ready to really kick the night into high gear. That’s when things started flailing.

First we checked out this place -1 suggested by TR that’s supposed to be one of the new “cool clubs” in Tel Aviv. Unfortunately when we got to the door there was a line (or rather a mob, since Israelis haven’t been introduced to the concept of forming lines) that was about 5 people deep and 20 people wide. Even more discouraging was the crowd, which looked like they were either in or had recently graduated from high school, and probably high on some kind of substance they don’t sell at bars.

We decided that it probably wasn’t worth the trouble to get in past the tweaked out club kids so we tried going to this other place HaOman. After a 15 minute cab ride we end up in this warehouse district near the old port; sketchy doesn’t begin to describe the atmosphere. We wander towards the entrance of HaOman and after being frisked by some guards (why are the ones who frisk you never hot?) we went into the entrance. IC talks to the girl at the register then immediately turns around and walks out. I catch up to him and ask what happened, and he says that the cover is 120 shekels (= $35) and that he’d rather just call it a night than pay the cover and deal with the crowd inside. At this point it’s about 2:30AM anyways and I’m starting to lose the partying spirit so I don’t try to convince him otherwise. In retrospect it was probably the right decision, since IC says that as we were walking to find a cab he heard some old gross guys who’d also just left complain to each other “Who knew the club was going to be full of fags.”

We take one last detour before calling it a night for some malawach megargel, which was this filo dough thing wrapped around melted cheese and served with a hot tomato sauce. As far as late night drunk food goes this stuff rocked. Kind of like a greasy pizza with greasy filo dough and greasy cheese stuffed inside. (The picture doesn’t really do it justice; it was huge and dripping with oil.)

Final verdict? Tel Aviv’s nightlife gets points for its late hours and plentiful options, and it loses some points for its palpable trashiness and excessive covers. But I’d do it again in a Tel Aviv minute!

I made a reservation to see the Bahai Gardens today, which unfortunately was a Hebrew tour because I couldn’t make it to any of the English tours. The gardens take up an entire hillside of the Carmel hills, so I didn’t really know where to go to meet the tour guide. I figured I would just get off the bus somewhere near the gardens and walk till I found the entrance.

This was definitely not as good an idea as I thought. Although distances in Haifa are indeed very small, it turns out that two places that are 500m apart on a map in longitude and latitude are usually also 500m apart in altitude. So after meandering through the hilly streets for half an hour I finally arrived drenched in sweat at the entrance to the Bahai gardens, having done enough exercise for my quads and glutes to make Jane Fonda jealous.

As we were escorted inside (we = me and 20 Israelis) a group of soldiers who were also visiting the gardens were nice enough to translate the guide’s comments. But almost immediately after we got inside we were joined by two more groups, one speaking Russian and the other speaking… English! So I quickly ditched the Hebrew group and joined the English speakers, some of whom were actually Asian.

Bahai is an interesting faith; I’m not going to go into a long exposition, but here are two tidbits that I found particularly surprising. First, Israelis are not allowed to convert to Bahai. Apparently the religious leaders think that having Israelis who are also Bahai might lead to conflict with the state of Israel and so in order for Israelis to convert they have to renounce their Israeli citizenship. Second, the original prophet of the religion (the Bab, whose shrine is pictured here) was martyred by the Persians relatively early on, and the guy who really spread the religion (the Baha’u'llah) was one of his followers. Not unlike Mormons, with Joseph Smith being the original prophet but Brigham Young being the one who really established the religion as a force.

Anyway, as I followed the English-speaking group I couldn’t help but notice how diverse the group was. There seemed to be a small Argentinian contingent, a bunch of Americans, a few Japanese, and some Commonwealth accents. I have a real hard time telling apart English from Australians, even though if you have them speak one after the other I can tell that the accents are different. There was one guy with the Commonwealth Delegation who couldn’t have been more than 18 years old, and who was really Doom-and-Gloomy, with a hoody on, smoking any chance he could get, and in general giving off a fuck-off vibe. In the back of my head I was thinking “Since when did the English start to behave like the French? They can’t pull it off as well.”

I followed the tour until the end and I started noticing some oddities. First, one of the Japanese guys kept speaking to the tour guide in Hebrew. I was surprised and to be honest slightly ticked off… I’m supposed to be the token Asian who learned Hebrew! Second the tour guide kept on mentioning “We’ll get falafel after the tour.” Why would the Bahai garden tour include falafel at the end?

I had nothing better to do and just followed the group out. The tour guide kept on explaining stuff after we left the gardens, telling us about how the German Colony was founded by Templers (not to be confused with Templars) in the 19th century, etc. etc. etc. Finally I went over to Asian Hebrew Speaker #2 and ask him “Is this just a normal Bahai garden tour or are you guys part of some separate tour group or something?” He didn’t speak English very well and muttered something about a kibbutz. Not really understanding what he said, I went over to the Commonwealth Delegation and asked them the same question.

Turns out the group was visiting from a kibbutz, and they were all visiting from abroad to learn Hebrew at the kibbutz. There were people from New York, NJ, Florida, Argentina, Japan, and of course the Commonwealth (England and Oz). Apparently they spend five or six months in the kibbutz working in one of the factories there; in exchange they get room, board, and Hebrew lessons. Almost like the Cultural Revolution I thought, instead the propaganda classes are replaced by Hebrew.

As I discovered this the group started wandering towards the Wadi Nisnas neighborhood for falafel. One of the Commonwealth Delegates said, “Come on get some falafel with us, I want to see if you can fool the lady from the Kibbutz.” I figured I had nothing better to do so I followed them through the winding alleys and sidestreets of Wadi Nisnas.

After getting lost three times we finally made it to this random falafel shop in the middle of the neighborhood. In fact there were dueling falafel shops, one right across from the other, and I felt bad for the shop across the street as they watched this group of 20 hungry foreigners wait for falafel at their competitor while they stood idly by. Anyway the falafel turned out quite tasty and the kibbutz lady did not notice that I’d snuck in line. Having gotten away with the crime I decided that, being a big red Commie deep down, I couldn’t take money from a kibbutz so I offered to pay the kibbutz lady for my falafel. But she ended up being impressed with my broken Hebrew and just let me get away with the free meal!

While we were waiting there, I noticed that Doom-and-Gloom was still smoking. As he pulled out his box of cigarettes I noticed that on it in big huge letters were the words “FUMER TUE”. It turns out D&G was French after all! I instantly switched to Francophile mode and started talking to him and his face lights up when he realizes I speak French. In one second he completely transforms from Doom-and-Gloom to, well, a normal kid, you know, one who actually smiles. Turns out D&G just immigrated to Israel from France (a lot of the French Jews are moving to Israel these days), and doesn’t really speak English or Hebrew. He’s on the kibbutz to adjust and learn the language, but, well, the French aren’t really renowned for picking up foreign languages and I think he was having some trouble adjusting. Not to mention the fact that half the group was American or Commonwealth and the rest spoke decent English; he must have felt really isolated, whence the Doom-and-Gloom.

We chatted for a while and he seemed like a nice kid. He left France because he hates the French. I can totally sympathize; the least attractive thing about France are its people… the culture, the wine, the food, the music, the nightlife, the cinema, it’s all amazing. It’s too bad that the people who produce it tend to be self-absorbed ungrateful pricks with an overly developed sense of entitlement. And now, apparently even the French can’t stand the French anymore! And I guess the attitude thing really comes natural to them; even D&G seemed to fall perfectly into the stereotype, but maybe it was just from habit. Hopefully Israel and Israelis will treat him well. So far people in Haifa have been as friendly and helpful to me as I could hope. Maybe it’s the blonde-in-Africa phenomenon, or maybe it’s because Israelis really are like sabra (prickly on the outside but sweet on the inside)?

Sometimes your aisles are so crowded that I can barely squeeze through past the exasperated soccer mom looking at her kids and wondering that maybe, just maybe, she could get out of the parking lot before they realize she’s abandoned them in the freezer room, or the white guy trying to impress his Asian girlfriend with his knowledge about light vs dark soy sauce. And sometimes it’s just so damn cold out that the thought of trekking over to 12th Ave through the gauntlet of bums, projects, and police stations almost seems not worth it.

But then I remember that crunchy and sweet Gala apple you gave me two weeks ago. Or that tender asparagus you gave me on Valentine’s day. Or even that heavenly stinky cheese you proffered over the holidays that forced my roommate to declare a DMZ across the middle of the fridge. And I know that I can try to resist as hard as I can, but there’s no way that I could ever tear myself away from you for another supermarket. Whole Foods’ yuppie luxury tree-hugging self-indulgence and Gristede’s overpriced trash heap just can’t compare to you.