Hummus and Gentrification in Jaffa

Text and Photos by Joel Hart

A meal at Abu Hassan consists of a bowl of hummus spread so it’s thicker at the edges. The middle of the bowl contains a heaped spoon of tahini sauce; a handful of chopped parsley; a few whole chickpeas; sprinklings of cumin and paprika on opposite sides of the bowl; and a generous splash of luminous olive oil. Pillowy pita bread and chunky layers of raw white onion are provided as dipping devices.

It’s 9 a.m. at Abu Hassan, and Firaz Karawan, whose uncle founded the restaurant, is eager to explain “you will never see people from Jaffa here after 12 o’clock.” He continues, “you will see tourists, you will see people from outside, from Tel Aviv, from Rishon Letzion.” 

Abu Hassan is the most famous hummus restaurant in Tel Aviv-Jaffa (Jaffa was annexed to Tel Aviv in 1950). Before the internationals flood in, its clientele are businessmen conducting their morning calls whilst routinely eating a bowl of hummus; construction workers and mechanics standing and rapidly stuffing down hummus in a pita to fuel their energy for the day; and night owls, such as taxi drivers, bodyguards and doctors, consuming at a more leisurely pace. It's still busy, but everyone is local. 

The restaurant has been serving hummus to local Palestinian residents for more than 60 years and local Jewish residents for the past few decades. As 97 percent of the Arab population of Jaffa were exiled in 1948, including almost all of the professional classes and prestigious families, the remaining working-class population reconfigured their community and identity around culinary practices and institutions. 

It is only in recent decades that it became an essential stop on the culinary agendas of tourists and Israeli-Jewish hummus aficionados. On a Friday lunchtime, it is heaving, with people queuing round the corner from the restaurant, waiting for their hummus fix, as crates of pita bread and boxes of onions are brought into the restaurant at regular intervals. 

Conducting ethnographic fieldwork in Jaffa for 18 months as part of my doctoral studies, I witnessed Abu Hassan in its multiple modalities. My weekly pilgrimage was in part driven by anthropological curiosity, but mostly, I admit, by the hummus. 

In its most standardized and popular form, a meal at Abu Hassan consists of a bowl of hummus spread so it’s thicker at the edges. The middle of the bowl contains a heaped spoon of tahini sauce; a handful of chopped parsley; a few whole chickpeas; sprinklings of cumin and paprika on opposite sides of the bowl; and a generous splash of luminous olive oil. Pillowy pita bread and chunky layers of raw white onion are provided as dipping devices. Every time I ate this dish, there was an element of surprise. I was forced, each time, to muse over what makes its composition so superior. 

It begins with the hummus itself, which is a profoundly velvety texture. It is also intensely citrusy, subjecting the palate to satisfying lashings of mouthwatering zing. This is the first promise of each mouthful. Then you feel the tahini sauce, soft and nutty, but still tangy with citrus. Next come the spices. I usually prefer hummus without the addition of dry spices, but the integration in individual morsels makes for a more varied experience on the palate. Whole chickpeas offer the unadulterated essence of chickpea, contrasting with its less pronounced flavor in the hummus. Finally, you have the olive oil, a subtle, only slightly fruity version supplied by olive oil producers operating in the agricultural area around Khalil (Hebron). The interplay of texture and taste differs with each dip, taking you on a journey.

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This lemon-heavy dish has been served in the 'Ajami neighborhood for 65 years, initially out of the Karawan household. According to Jaffa-born Palestinian scholar Salim Tamari, citrus fruits, along with olive oil and cotton, were essential to the emergence of Jaffa as the cosmopolitan city of Palestine. Fitting, then, that while the historic orange orchards have largely been uprooted, citrus is probably the most distinctive ingredient in Jaffan hummus. 

Twenty years after the operation began, Ali Karawan opened the first branch of Abu Hassan on Ha-Dolfin Street. It was here that they began serving their most renowned dish, msabbaha. Native to the Jaffa region of historic Palestine, the dish is similar to mashawsha, an unblended hummus dish found in the Galilee area, but unlike it, it is served warm and without any egg in the mixture. 

To make msabbaha, chickpeas and their warm cooking liquid are mixed with tahini and a blend of green chile, lemon juice and salt known as tatbile. Roughly translated as “condiment,” tatbile is also served on the side of every order. I would occasionally add some halfway through a bowl of hummus.

Abu Hassan's version of msabbaha is spicy, zesty and so hearty, that some customers eat it with a spoon rather than bread. The legendary dish was devised by Ali, who was born in Jaffa in 1942. 

“Even if I did give you the recipe, it's in his hands,” Firaz says. “They try to keep the msabbaha the same as it was 40 years ago." 

Ali passed away more than 10 years ago, proud of the unprecedented success of Abu Hassan.

Firaz now manages the branch, and he feels that part of the restaurant’s appeal is the “simplicity of the place. It's really small, and it’s not wow.”  Inside, there are five tawny-shaded oak tables, each able to seat four people. The walls are furnished with newspaper review clippings, a portrait of Ali and paintings of Jaffa’s cityscape. 

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To make msabbaha, chickpeas and their warm cooking liquid are mixed with tahini and a blend of green chile, lemon juice and salt known as tatbile.

As Firaz explains, the major contributing factor to Abu Hassan’s endurance, is “the simplicity of the hummus itself. There are not too many ingredients in it. We don't spend a lot of money on the place because we try to spend most of the money on the quality of the food."  

There are just four ingredients in the hummus: chickpeas, water, lemon juice and a tahini that the brand Baracke produces especially for Abu Hassan. The art is in the balancing of these ingredients. Alongside hummus and msabbaha, there is ful, which is made from three different varieties of brown and white fava beans melted down together. The hot, slightly dense ful provides a temperature and textural contrast to the soft, voluptuous hummus. When struggling to choose between the dishes, there is also the option of ordering a “triangle” (mutha'alat in Arabic, meshulash in Hebrew) which is equal parts hummus, msabbaha and ful. One can also order a bowl of extremely sharp, zippy labneh. 

Many customers have come to put their own personal touch on their bowl. I once sat opposite a taxi driver from Ramle who asked for his msabbaha covered in parsley, because “It's good for the health.” 

There is a notable intimacy between each diner and their individual bowl. Even when people come together, for much of the meal there is an ineffable focus on display, their heads elsewhere, lost in clouds of hummus. 

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After running through the unique features of Abu Hassan on Ha-Dolfin Street, Firaz says wistfully, “there used to be a view to the sea.” One of the symbolic eyesores obstructing that vista is the Andromeda Project, a luxury gated community that both physically and ideologically disconnects the Palestinian population of ‘Ajami from Jaffa’s historic center. But Jaffa's culinary institutions have persisted as celebrated, dynamic symbols of Palestinian Jaffa. 

When I asked about the infamous hummus wars and the different claims of ownership to this now globally beloved dip, he passionately stated “of course its Palestinian.” 

“It’s a different taste and concept in Lebanon, and in Turkey,” he says.  

Food is unavoidably political in Jaffa because battles of heritage and belonging are written into the signs and scripts of the city. As you enter Jaffa from Tel Aviv on Nahum Goldman Street, for instance, you'll see a sign for “authentic Israeli falafel.” At a national scale, moreover, hummus has become a cult food, and an agent of what anthropologist Dr. Dafna Hirsch understands as gastronationalism, borrowing the term from the sociologist Michaela DeSoucey. The Palestinian-ness of Abu Hassan thus retains a special significance. 

Abu Hassan, however, is not shielded from the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. As well as the first area of Tel Aviv-Jaffa to fall prey to the forces of gentrification, Jaffa became a hotbed of vigilante violence as the provocations of settlers in Jerusalem and the Hamas-Israel confrontation that ensued led to unprecedented tensions within the so-called mixed cities inside Israel’s borders. These tensions led to a lull in business, just as they have in the past, but Firaz remains sanguine. 

“Even right now, you see all the problems in Jaffa,” he says. “Work goes down a bit. But this place always has the ability to get up and recover from the problems. I don't know what the main reason is for this recovery, but I feel like this place is blessed from above."

Divine providence aside, its global popularity is crucial to the maintenance of Jaffa's Arab identity. 

“From all over the world, they come here, and I'm shocked,” Firaz says. “It's good for us also, we like to see people from outside here. They see us here, they see Jaffa, they visit the Arab places. In Arabic, they call Jaffa, yafa umm al-ghariba [the mother of strangers]."

Alongside hummus and msabbaha, there is ful, which is made from three different varieties of brown and white fava beans melted down together. The hot, slightly dense ful provides a temperature and textural contrast to the soft, voluptuous hummus.

Whilst Abu Hassan can seek to reclaim some of Jaffa's past, it is still out of reach for most Palestinians.  

“We have family who are refugees in Gaza,” Firaz says. “It's about 20, 30 years since we saw them." 

They know about Abu Hassan though. 

“It's the name of some hummus places there, and they have better hummus than here! I guarantee that.” 

In hummus, there is a cultural continuity across the green lines into the Occupied Palestinian Territories and beyond. 

“In Jordan, all the owners of the most famous hummus restaurants come from Jaffa,” says Abed Sattal, a veteran activist from the al-Rabita League for Jaffa Arabs. You go to Kalha, or Abu Jbara, or Hashem in the old city. They were all in the Shuk HaPishpeshim [Flea Market].” 

As the Palestinian diaspora has spread beyond the Levant, Abu Hassan’s hummus has reached farther shores.  Of Ali Karawan's six children, one ended up in Copenhagen and opened a branch. 

“I think it's going very well,” Firaz says. “But it's not the same of course, it's not the same ingredients. The chickpeas change, the tahini changes. It's not the same at all.” 

Different territory doesn't just mean different ingredients, but also a detachment from the social relationship between Abu Hassan and Jaffa's Arab community. 

“There are people lots of families in Jaffa that we know, and we bring them each day, every day, without even looking at the quantity of what we give them,” Firaz says. Abu Hassan also provides food for three days to houses of mourning. “I think [charity] is another big reason this place is really famous. Everyone in Jaffa knows how much this place gives. More than the other hummus places. We give to the poor, to those who really need.”

Feeding the poor takes on a more poignant tone against the politics of displacement. Jaffa's Arab community has felt increasing pressure since a 1989 urban renewal plan began spinning the wheels of gentrification, leading to radical urban transformation and shifts in the population of the city.  

Nonetheless, Firaz insists, "We try to keep religion out of this place and eat together like brothers. When I sit down here, I am Muslim, my neighbors are Jewish, my neighbors are Christian, and they are like brothers." 

The current political climate in Israel makes it easy to dismiss such narratives. Arab Labor actor Salim Dau's claims that eating hummus in shared spaces does nothing to promote coexistence between Jews and Arabs. 

“It really does change something,” Firaz insists. “Everyone speaking to each other. It's a good sign for coexistence, even when it's getting worse.” 

Sattal reiterates this point. 

“Abu Hassan is special, it's the place where you can see what we call 'coexistence,' because when you go to Abu Hassan, you do not choose the table where you sit,” Sattal says. “They choose the table for you. And in front of you, can sit any person from Jaffa, he could be Arab or Jewish.” There is perhaps no greater metaphor in Jaffa for what the urban anthropologist Dani Monterescu calls “contrived coexistence.” Jewish and Palestinian diners are forced to sit at the same table, sometimes without exchanging a glance. Yet, the sociological significance of sharing a meal should not be underestimated. 

“Persons who in no way share any special interest can gather together at the common meal,” wrote George Simmel, one of the progenitors of the modern discipline of sociology, noting that it turns “the exclusive selfishness of eating” into an “immeasurable sociological fact.” 

Yet, as Sattal points out, “you are focused on your plate.” 

Indeed, just as food is not exactly shared, neither is the space of the city, meaning commensality cannot compensate for gentrification. According to Sattal, the opening of a second location in an area of Jaffa in which most of the residents are Jewish indicates its limitations.

“They’ve made a Jewish Abu Hassan, letting people go to a Jewish restaurant instead of the Arab one,” he says. 

If you find yourself directed by Google Maps to the Abu Hassan branch on Yehuda Hamayit, it is worth the 10-minute walk to the edges of Jaffa's last majority-Arab neighborhood, 'Ajami. 

“Here, there's just hummus,” Firaz points out, adding that some accoutrements offered elsewhere, such as pickles and French fries, are not traditional Palestinian accompaniments to hummus. 

This differentiates Abu Hassan from Jaffa's other hummus places, such as Ha-Asli and Haj Khalil, which bring you pickles on arrival, and offer a broad range of toppings. Such practices are more aligned to the style of service and menu you find at what Israeli-Jews would call hummusiyot ­­– homemade hummus restaurants ubiquitous across the country. 

Hirsch, makes a convincing case that in Israel, hummus is not just food, but also a resource mobilized in varying political, social and economic projects, and that one ought to be skeptical even of claims that culinary comprehension of the 'Other' can lead to political understanding too. Particularly, that is, when hummus is marketed as Israel's national food without reference to its Arab origins. 

Still, it is possible to point to Abu Hassan as a potent symbol of Palestinian identity and note the Israeli-Jewish engagement with that. Abu Hassan, it could be argued, has set the tone for the recent emergence of Palestinian food businesses like foodcentric cultural center De Yaffa and Yaffa Knafeh in central Jaffa.

If Jaffa’s urban infrastructure is to be reassembled to serve all its citizens, hummus will, in no small part, provide the necessary metaphor.