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 8th 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
