Refugees In Jerusalem From Ashkelon Struggling To Stomach Ashkenazi Food

“How about mayonnaise?”

Jerusalem, October 26 – Families staying in Jerusalem to get respite from the rocket barrages plaguing their city in Israel’s south acknowledged the trouble they have encountered with the dishes that locals have prepared to nourish them, since the cuisine to which they are accustomed has flavors other than salt and garlic.

Residents of Ashkelon, Israel’s southernmost Mediterranean city and a continual target of Hamas rocket barrages from the Gaza Strip, accepted invitations from institutions and private citizens to escape the brouhaha for at least several days in the relative calm of the nation’s capital, which has seen but a handful of missile alert sirens since the current war began on October 7. The distance from the launch points is also significantly larger, which means people have more time to reach shelters or safe spaces than in areas closer to Gaza – a minute and a half vs. a mere fifteen or thirty seconds. But the demographic differences between the south of the country and Jerusalem is manifest in the vastly different types of food the populations prepare: the bland food of the northern and eastern European Jewish culinary repertoire has sparked puzzlement and no small measure of disgust from people more accustomed to the robust spices and flavors of Mediterranean, Levantine, and Oriental ingredients and techniques.

“What… is this?” wondered Rivka Abohav, 43, a mother of four, referring to tilapia cooked with barely a hint of black pepper, no bell peppers, and certainly no tomatoes. “Is this for the cat?”

Some sliced turkey similarly confused her neighbor Shoshana Edri, 45. “Are you sure this is turkey?” she wondered to her family. “It looks and smells more like egg white. Is there any actual food in this care package?”

“Oh, look, someone ordered pizza for us!” exclaimed fourteen-year-old Tziyon, her son. He opened the box. “Imma, where are the toppings? There’s not even corn or olives on this. What happened to them?”

Down the street, in other temporary accommodations, Ya’akov Mizrahi stood paralyzed with confusion as a local Ashkenazi resident, with an ear-to-ear grin, handed him a package of sweet carrot salad, chicken soup with matza balls and plain noodles, and marble cake. “Th… thank you?…” he stammered, looking around to see whether the man had also brought something with which to flavor the food, or something sour to put in the soup.

“Ketchup?” offered the neighbor, holding out several packets. “How about mayonnaise?”

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