Yesterday we had dinner at Yafa Tel Aviv. The place has a reputation, and it is well deserved.
The cuisine here resists easy definition. I would call it Mediterranean with an Israeli character, where French and Italian influences surface quietly, one at a time. The space itself is arranged with considerable taste: considered design, a warm atmosphere, impeccable service. We ordered generously, and nothing disappointed.
The sauces deserve a word of their own. They are precisely the thing you cannot replicate at home. The dishes themselves are simple in concept. fish, salads, carpaccio, the kinds of things you find on any menu. But the preparation and the flavour turn out to be unexpectedly rich, layered, built from many small gradations of taste. That is where the craft lives.
There was, however, a moment that caught me off guard. By Israeli standards this is not the pinnacle of fine dining, not the most expensive or exclusive address in the city, but it almost certainly belongs among the twenty best tables in the country. Before our visit we had studied the menu carefully and knew exactly what we wanted to order. When we arrived, the menu was entirely different. It turned out it changes almost daily, depending on what the kitchen has on hand that day.
As a concept, it is interesting. As an experience, it was not entirely convenient. We had counted on specific dishes, and had little appetite for improvising the whole evening from scratch. To the restaurant’s credit, the staff apologised sincerely and sent out a complimentary dessert. The evening was a success regardless, but that menu surprise stayed with me. I will admit I had never encountered anything quite like it in Israel.
Even so, I will say this: Yafa Tel Aviv was, is, and I hope will remain a genuinely fine and pleasurable part of the Israeli culinary scene.
