Author: jlhm photography

The first time I went to Shaya was for my son’s birthday a little over a year after the restaurant opened.  We were told by numerous sources that getting a reservation for dinner less than weeks in advance was nearly impossible, but we decided to show up early and see if we would have any luck.  Indeed, we were able to get a seat on the patio, and it was perfect on a beautiful New Orleans spring evening.  The next struggle was figuring out what we would eat because we wanted nearly everything on the menu.

And the *next* struggle was saving room for the “real” food after gorging on the pita bread.

I am Greek, so pita bread has been part of my diet my entire life, but this pita bread was transformational.  It felt simultaneously sinful but heavenly.  Lighter than air but filling.  It was like nectar of the gods in bread form.  It was the stuff of dreams and obsession (seriously, I was instantly obsessed).

We dipped it in za’atar.  We slathered it with curried cauliflower hummus. We buttered it.  We ate it plain.  We swiped it across plates to devour every drop of everything.  (We had to order more, and I believe we would have paid twice as much for them without hesitation.) 

 

 

 

And then came the lamb.  Oh. My. Gosh., the lamb.  Slow-roasted lamb with a pomegranate glaze lacquering meat and bone, served on a throne of hummus, and crowned with a fruit-spiked tabbouleh inset with glistening diced watermelon.   As much as we wanted to dig in, we stared; it was like we were gods ourselves being presented with the perfect sacrifice, and it was pleasing in our sight.

And then we ate.  (Well, we took a picture, and *then* we ate.)  If this wasn’t the most memorable restaurant meal I’ve ever had, I can’t at the moment recall one that beats it.  I was hooked. 

 

Four days later, we headed back so my son could celebrate his birthday with his grandparents.  We avoided the reservation obstacle this time by getting takeout and heading to the Tree of Life at Audubon Park for a picnic.  We have now had repeat performances on the patio and under the Tree of Life, but we have also managed to make reservations and eat inside.  And I have been on a quest to duplicate, to the best of my abilities without a wood-burning oven, that soft, pillowy, cloud-of-heaven pita bread.  (I have to confess I’ve been happy with my experiments, although I will never be able to duplicate without that woodsy char.)   

Fast forward to January 1, 2018.  On the 8^th day of Christmas, I found out about The Cookbook.  I didn’t wait for gifts from my true love; I immediately preordered, which, in spite of my cookbook addiction, I’ve only done once before.  I set about helping pass the time until the March 13 delivery date by searching online for recipes to create some of the dishes I loved.  

I had already made his whole roasted cauliflower (from his Domenica restaurant) but set about making that again along with his hummus, my “fake Shaya” pita, and his curried cauliflower hummus. 

It got me through January, and then a very busy February got me to March.  A flourless, sugarless Lent was keeping me from more pita bread, but I was counting down the days to the arrival of my book when I realized with horror and dismay that it was coming the day after I left for a trip to a friend’s farm in east Texas!  Talk about delayed gratification!

We got home late at night, but the next morning, I tore into the package.  That beautiful pita on the cover enticed me wickedly in the middle of my Lenten commitment, but it was quickly subdued when I started reading the book.  

Now, I read cookbooks just about every day.  I keep them by my bed, and I literally have bookcases full of them.  Some of them are recipe-reading, and some have delightful food memories sprinkled here and there like garnishes.  Every once in a while, there’s one that has stories; some are engaging enough, others are tedious, and occasionally I stumble on ones that are non-stop self-promotional horn-tooting (gag, I have to rethink even cooking from those).  But not one has gripped my attention like Shaya.

 

As I said, I always have cookbooks at my bedside.  Quite a few years back, I gave up reading fiction due to a lack of self-discipline.  Once I got halfway through a novel, I couldn’t put it down even if it meant staying up all night to finish.  So I quit fiction cold turkey.  I had always enjoyed reading cookbooks, but the stack by my bed became taller once I kicked my fiction habit.  It was easy to read a chapter or even just a few pages before heavy eyelids readied me for lights out.  But this book was different.  It left the bedside and came to the sofa, not for recipe-searching but for reading.  I curled up and read like the old fiction days.  Alon Shaya’s stories were engaging, full of food imagery, emotions, and memories that read like a good book.  I could read one story and (force myself to) get up and get back to work, or, as I did maybe more than once, just sit there and lose myself in the book and forget all about deadlines, chores, and do lists.  I found myself wanting to try nearly every recipe, even some including ingredients (like liver) that I typically loathe.

I read this book cover to cover.  I’m still in the midst of cataloging them, so I don’t have an accurate count yet, but I own over 650 cookbooks — small potatoes next to major collectors but certainly more than the average home.  I can say unequivocally that this book has been the best read.  

In some ways, I connected on a very personal level.  I grew up in a heavily Italian area, and I related to the love of Italian cuisine.  The writing about Hurricane Katrina, well, I think it would probably touch most people, but for people in south Louisiana, it has extra meaning, and reading his recollections from that time brought tears to my eyes.  I was gratified feel one more comrade 

in the gut-pulling desire to fill myself and others with the food of my ancestors, the feeling that they are with me when I prepare their recipes or use their kitchen tools, and what feels like the very soul of my genetic makeup to preserve those things for the generations to come.  And while I could not relate to the lack of a stable home life or the brushes with trouble, I felt the sadness but was encouraged by the ever-present hope.  Sadness for a little boy who needed structure but hope because of people providing tidbits of it along his way.  Sadness for the trouble-making that stemmed from a need for attention or fitting in but hope that a teacher could provide a doorway out of that trouble.  Sadness for struggle, instability, and confusion but hope that they can feed determination, success, and resolution. 

When I first found out about the book, I told a friend I would pay $80 for the lamb and pita recipes alone.  At the current Amazon price of $22.48, it’s a steal.  I have told even my non-cookbook-obsessed friends to buy it, and I know of a couple people who will find themselves unwrapping a copy from me in the future.  Buy this book.  Even without a wood-burning oven, you won’t regret it.  🙂

Shaya: An Odyssey of Food, My Journey Back to Israel

^{front porch of the home where we gathered}

I was invited to participate in a casual gathering where each of us would bring an object that held a memory for us, and we would share our memory with the group.  We were instructed not to think about it ahead of time or plan what we would say.  It helped that I wasn’t sure until just before we left that I would be able to go, and then I rushed to change my clothes and grab an object.  Part of the problem for me is that I have many (some have said too many, but phooey on them) objects that hold memories for me, which is why I have so many objects I can’t part with!  I went for one and thought it was too vague because it was associated with many memories; I started thinking he maybe meant one very specific memory.  I went for another, my father’s class ring, also with many memories but holding one new and very specific one; then I thought I’d cry too much.  I looked for my Greek doll my great grandparents gave me.   I thought about the fairy tale book from my grandparents.  My grandmother’s necklace.  The Steiff donkey from my great uncle.  The doll I got for my 7th birthday.   One of the Nancy Ann storybook dolls that had been given to my mom as a child that she handed on to me.  The list could have been nearly endless!  Thankfully I mentioned to my husband the first thing that had come to my mind, and he didn’t know why I had questioned it.  I grabbed it, and we went on our way.

Here are the pictures of our objects.  The captions are intentionally brief because I did not ask permission to share the memories.

It is important to put time into our friendships.
^{Can you guess what it is?  (note to A:  I gave it a slightly jaunty tilt as a nod to its origin!)}

_{Nuns, Robert Redford, and pot-throwing inspiration…}

_{Appreciate your mother, and give credit to your guardian angel}

_{New York adventure & the gift from a dear and bawdy friend.}  

^{Seriously, is this just the best?  HER DRESS COMES OFF.  hahaha}

_{Leatherback preservation & rescue}

_{A traumatic move and the good that came of it.} ^{Broadening horizons figuratively and literally}

_{Another traumatic move and more enlightenment.}

_{Philosophical.  Don’t search for lost horseshoes; they will find you.}

^{and life-long tenderness for a beloved companion}

_{Be there for your kids.}^{PS If you aren’t sure which sins you should avoid, your kids can tell you.  🙂}

_{Don’t forget to wind your watch} 

^{Keep tradition.}

_{Life is full of buried treasure}

^{Recognize & keep yours}

_{Embrace differences & find yourselves in them}

When I was first contacted about this gathering, the idea behind it intrigued me, and I was excited to go.  Then when it came together and I knew we were going, I froze.  Panic.  Who will be there?  I don’t want to talk in front of everyone.  I don’t want to share.  What if I cry?  I almost didn’t go.  (I’ve been told I hide it well, but going to gatherings causes me deep anxiety.  Even when it’s people I know.) But my husband was looking forward to it, which surprised me, so I walked over on wobbly legs.

I was rewarded.  The similarities that kept popping up delighted me.  Who would think in a small gathering (12 people) in a rural area that we would have three girls who were uprooted to move halfway across the country — or world — to a “foreign” place in high school?  Two of them from Ohio to Louisiana!  Two people whose items were related to when they lived in … Hawaii!  Two whose objects were pottery items they had made themselves.  Two who had the experience of working with a leatherback turtle nest and assisting the hatching baby turtles.  Two POW bracelets.  The similar experiences kept popping up among everyone.  I found that I had something in common with everyone, including new discoveries of similarities with people I’ve known for decades.  And a member of the group informed us that our son had a very similar object as my husband and obtained in quite the same manner – at close to the same age – a fact about which we were previously unaware.

What a wonderful way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

Click to enter