The Romcom Conundrum & Shakshuka

When Two Good Things Happen at Once

There's a certain part of a movie, often a romantic comedy/romcom, where the protagonist has been so smitten or so confused by love that he accidentally began dating two different women. (It’s usually that formation). All is well for a while until the bumbling guy makes us so tense it’s like we’re watching “Meet the Parents” or any Ben Stiller movie after a few espresso shots. TENSE. It all leads up to one horrific blow-up.

In this increasingly uncomfortable escapade, he invariably runs between dates, making up excuses, jetting to the bathroom, whatever…his dates are left for long minutes as he gets sweatier and makes sloppier mistakes. In this trope, he even gets their names wrong and they end up meeting each other. The gig is up. He loses both of them and is left with no one. At least he doesn’t have to pretend anymore, right?

What does this have to do with shakshuka, the consummate Israeli brunch? Well, I’ll tell you.

This past Sunday, Harel, our visiting Israeli guest, asked about a good local grocery store. He wanted to make shakshuka for anyone around the next morning. He knew everyone would be craving a skillet of jammy tomato, cooked down to a sauce with eggs that simmer in the same pan. Sometimes, people make it with a hefty amount of firey spice and cumin. Sometimes, it’s mostly sweet paprika and garlic, which they use for a mild and sweet shakshuka. However the style, and as many as there are people, it’s eaten atop bread or dipped in.

So anyway, I knew the shakshuka was coming.

Monday, we all awoke to sprinkles of rain. Some of the guests were already out for touristy stuff, but a nice handful of guests were home, canceling any plans not as promising as the shakshuka.

The boys went out for eggs, tomatoes, olive oil, and tomato paste. By the time they returned, we had howling rain, loads of thunder, and skies that never let up. We were solidly rained in.

This is when another guest staying on my same floor, Wered, turned to me and asked, “Can I make you shaksuka?” And now my two-timing shakshuka dates begin.

I directed her to the ingredients and she began work cutting onions and garlic, then tomatoes.

I periodically ran upstairs to the other team who needed salt, sweet paprika, and whatnot. I am convinced that no one makes a lousy shakshuka, and Israelis seem as able to make the dish as an American kid can make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but it is an art all the same. I am sure some make their shakshuka totally bland, or their egg/sauce ratio is crap. Maybe some folks only add salt, but in my experience, Israelis are foodies, like Japanese people are foodies. They know balance, tasting as you go, texture, seasonality, and building umami.

So downstairs? Wered and her shakshuka. Upstairs, Harel and his team.

Both started at different times. Harel used sweet bell peppers and whatever I brought him, and he found. Wered taught my son at the same time, explaining and adding everything to their pan.

And then, I got the call and the texts at the same time. The same time! Both teams finished theirs at the EXACT same time, replete with salads, homemade dressing, and other additions. Both teams excitedly set a place for me. Both wanted to have me clink, “l’chaim” with them from the start and pile their respective shakshuka high on my plate.

And I wanted to be with both of them, honestly. I wanted all of their shakshuka and to taste it in earnest, thinking about what was added and what was different. I wanted to chat and linger as one does on a cozy morning of torrential rain. You connect.

This is exactly why I ran up and down the external flight of stairs like a broken lighthouse, all the wind and rain sopping my clothes. To connect. Once, I almost wiped out. Each time, I returned to the shakshuka dates a little more rumpled, a little more disheveled and soggy. Towards the end, I probably had sauce on my chin or lip.

But when someone offers to make you shakshuka, you emphatically say yes. It’s just a good thing they were not on the other side of town from each other. I ate two full plates of shakshuka that morning—eggs, toast, the works—-sweet paprika-infused onions and garlic that cook down, down, down to be the basis of an Israeli staple—brunch.

My takeaway tips from cooking with my Israeli friends whom I Host:

Don’t wait until the end to sprinkle in the spice.

I’ve seen them add spice like paprika, baharat, or chili directly into the oil to infuse every molecule with the flavor. I do this too, now, from the start. Spice is not an afterthought, but flavor that marries with the pot itself, at or nearly at the start.

Bloom your spice in oil. Layer. Add. Taste. Let’s not be afraid.

Have good bread with your shakshuka—ideally, challah.

And yet, our guest often buy a loaf of white bread—it would not be their first choice, but I see that it is the gathering to enjoy food, especially shaksuka together, that is the main point. But if you can make or buy a loaf to compliment your shaksuka? Go for it.

Resources on Shaksuka and Using Spice:

The Wide World of Jewish Spices by Leah Koenig for Tablet Magazine.

In this primer of spices, Leah Koenig also quotes Lior Lev Sercarz, Israeli-born, classically-trained chef who is a spice king and merchant, creating blends for chefs from Daniel Boulud to Michael Solomonov.

A Recipe & thorough explanation:

Vered Guttman’s Tomato Shakshuka

That’s it for now—shakshuka is so perfect and so simple that it is understandable why I’d run in and out of a typhoon for it!

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