We were driving north to the old coastal town of Acre—a beautiful maze of cobbled streets, elegant mosques in their pillared courtyards, arched doorways of Templar churches, all wrapped up in a wall fortified through centuries of fear of marauding fleets, which periodically came charging from the pretty Mediterranean bay beyond.
We came from quite a different place: the sooty, sweaty streets of Tel Aviv, where we lived at the time, a very sad and stressful period for us. I had just stormed out of a job that I loved, ripping ties with friends who were like family, and started a job which I hated. Sarit had just walked out of a business she had set up, leaving when it turned from a boutique bakery to a cookie factory, breaking her heart on the way; she too was in a job she knew was going nowhere. We had been living together for a year then and were very much in love, but we both realized that something had to give. So we drove to Acre for some fun. Cobbled streets and mosques and bays are all fine, but we of course went to eat: this particular bay happens to bring ashore some of the best seafood you can find anywhere, and nowhere does this produce get treated better than in one restaurant in a parking lot overlooking the bay.
At this restaurant they gave us cold white wine that had been made nearby, fresh bread and olives, sweet eggplants steamed and marinated, fresh anchovies that they cured themselves and raw local prawns that were sliced thinly and seasoned gently with a few rounds of chili, some sea salt and olive oil.
At this restaurant we realized how far we were from where we wanted to be, and how much we needed a change. It was there that we decided to up camp and go travelling abroad, and where I finally managed, by the by, to convince Sarit to marry me—not least because I needed a UK work visa. I had asked a few times before but she’d never seen a reason to agree.
The trip back to our flat had a different feel altogether. “I have a new lease on happiness,” she said to me, which is one of the nicest things you can hear anyone say, doubly so when it’s someone as reserved and frosty as Sarit.
The rest of 2004 was just as turbulent, full of highs and lows—Sarit was diagnosed with a medical condition that cast a big shadow over our travel plans, and a rift started that year between my family and me that would eventually tear my relationship with them apart for a long time to come. But that was also the year we got married and so the best year of my life, and at the very end of that year, on 23 December, we landed at Heathrow with our clothes and duvet, and a new lease on happiness.
Uri buri prawns
Try this when you get your hands on fresh, good-looking prawns—small ones work best: about the size of your little finger. It’ll make for a very pure and flavorsome mouthful, and may give you a new lease on happiness.
Serves 4 (allow 2–3 prawns per person)
8–12 fresh prawns (depending on size)
1 red chili
sea salt
1 lemon
the best olive oil you can find
Peel and de-head the prawns. Lay each one on its side on the chopping board, slit along the back, remove the brown intestine line and then slice it down the middle lengthways, opening it into two halves. Spread all the prawn halves flat on a serving plate, cut surfaces facing up, and pat them down a little with your fingers to flatten.
Cut the chili into rings, as thinly as you can, and place a slice on each piece of prawn (you won’t need to use the entire chili). Season with a little sea salt and then squeeze the juice of the lemon all over the plate and drizzle with the olive oil. Allow to sit for 5 minutes, then close your eyes, imagine the sea and eat.
