The smell of smoked meat wafted from the backyard of the desert house. In the distance, the jackals started howling and a pack of white Canaani dogs and desert cats stood outside the house drooling. A pale light was climbing over the surrounding mountains and the kids, who had fallen asleep very late around the fire, were still snoozing. Only the chef was moving around in work shoes and a woolen coat, taking pictures of the sandwiches he had toasted in his Bedouin oven - a compartment for wood below and a baking compartment above, a chimney and that was it, just like in a children's picture.

I placed the kettle on the small gas ring which had given support to the original weak gas range of the house, and I put out two cups for coffee. The chef came in through the light blue door and with his two hands red from the cold, presented me with a Reuben, two slices of rye bread with thinly sliced corned beef, sauerkraut, Swiss cheese and Russian dressing. My hands had not yet regained their ability to function after a night of sleeping opposite the fire and I held the hot toast, astounded, not believing he could really think I could open my eyes at six in the morning and immediately bite into this accordion, no matter how tasty.


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But I didn't feel like clipping his colorful wings after he had baked rye bread in two stages in the freezing morning and was now standing in front of me in his expensive wool coat, the best piece of clothing he has, with the sleeve covered in flour, adding wood to the fire. "You must see it," he said, putting his hand out to take me to see his personal oven in action, close up. He opened the oven door and pushed me and himself and two small sweet potatoes, an onion and a potato inside.

I sat down on a log opposite the hills and I put down the warm Reuben next to me in a hiding place, remembering how my grandmother had taught me to go to festive dinners equipped with a thick plastic bag in my handbag into which I could empty the entire dinner plate without being seen and then say that the food was really wonderful. I prepared two black coffees with milk for the two of us and went back to the desert porch to smoke an early-morning cigarette after not even stopping smoking for an hour despite what I had promised myself on my birthday.

When the girls woke up, they sat down in a row opposite the fire and when I got up to warm myself, the little one said, "I want you to move, can't see anything." I moved and left them to sit and watch the continuity program of the fire channel without interference, realizing that if we had a bonfire in our regular home in Tel Aviv, we could do without HOT and connect to the heat instead. But actually that's not such a good idea right now when we've just finished painting the house for Hanukkah.

Slowly, slowly, everybody of every age learns how to open the hot oven door carefully and put in another log, to close it and to watch closely how it is accepted by the coals and eaten by the fire.

Each girl was given a hot Reuben toast in her hand, and to the question of whether she eats sauerkraut or doesn't eat cheese, the chef responded: "I'm not asking her if she likes it or not, I'm giving it to her because it's good for her."

"But if she doesn't like cabbage? Is that democratic?" I asked with a sudden burst of humanism.

"I never claimed food was democratic," he answered without moving an unnecessary muscle in his face.

"He's right," the eldest agreed with him, even though it's rare to find something she can agree to at her age, including that it is now morning, in the morning.

The bottom line is that all the little Reubens were eaten and the diners licked their lips and suddenly found that it is possible, to their surprise, to eat sauerkraut with corned beef in the early morning. It's a new kind of cornflakes. Then we ran down to the hut, went up to the cheeses, and as usual stopped at the wines. There we had them pour us young wine into an empty mineral-water bottle. The horses began a world war with the dogs and in the distance, somewhere in the Negev, we could hear the cannons firing.

"What, it's evening again," the little one said. "I don't want evening, I want morning."

"Soon, right after the night," the chef promised her.

"When I'm big?"

"A long time before that," he told her and asked: "What do you want to be when you're big?"

"When I'm big, I want to be black," she said.

"And what kind of work do you want to do?" he continued interviewing her.

"Hopping over things," she said.

We drove home in the dark and in pouring rain that was quickly swallowed up by the dry earth. In Tel Aviv, what remained of the corned beef was waiting for us in the fridge. True, the legendary Reuben was very precise when he invented the sandwich that bears his name but if you're 15 then even just plain bread, mustard and pickles are enough to tear into with big bites. And even if you aren't.

The following day only the rye bread was left to star alone and then we learned that there is nothing tastier than this bread, simply with a ripe avocado, salt and tomato, or butter and honey, or pate with olives and pickled pepper. By the way, it's best to remember to wash your hands after touching the pepper's piquant seeds; otherwise, you might have the same experience I had this morning, as a result of which I am writing this with one eye closed.

A Reuben sandwich

Corned beef was set for stardom back in the 1920s. In a sandwich. The place: Omaha, the capital of Nebraska.

The man: Reuben Kulakofsky, the owner of a grocery store in the daytime and the organizer of illegal poker games at night, in the luxurious Blackstone Hotel. Reuben would put out thick slices of rye bread in front of the hungry card players, spread Russian dressing on them, add Swiss cheese and piles of thinly sliced corned beef, to which he added sauerkraut that had fermented in the basement. He would place all of this in the oven until the cheese melted into the meat.

One of the regular players, Charles Schimmel, the owner of the Blackstone, decided to put the sandwich on the hotel's menu and from there, its name went out to the world.


Rye bread Rye starter

380ml apple cider at room temperature

20g fresh moist yeast (about 1/2 cube)

20g date honey syrup (silan)

100g rye flour (Stybel No. 7)

Sift the rye flour into a large bowl that holds at least 2.5 liters.

Pour the cider and date honey into another bowl and allow the yeast to dissolve in the mixture. Wait about 10 minutes and add the entire mixture to the flour in the other bowl. Beat until the dough takes on a liquid and uniform texture. Now leave it, uncovered, in a warm corner of the kitchen. In about two hours, the quantity of dough will be trebled. A sweet smell will fill the room and the dough will look like rain clouds, threatening to overflow out of the bowl and into the room. This is the first stage of the yeast rising. Leave it alone.

About an hour or two later, the cloud will fold into itself and will shrink to the volume of its original liquids. At this point, the process will begin that will give the dough its deep, rich and slightly sour flavor. Cover the bowl. The first 24 hours at room temperature will create the initial starter. Forty-eight hours will deepen the taste in the bread.

The dough

300g white flour (Stybel No. 1)

100g whole wheat flour, preferably organic, or rye flour

20g wheat gluten

25g olive oil

Rye starter

Mix all the dry ingredients together in a large bowl. Add the starter and the oil. Mix, and make sure that all the flour is quickly integrated into the liquids. Make a ball out of the dough and transfer to a work surface that has been lightly powdered with flour. Knead with circular movements for about 12-15 minutes. Return to bowl covered with nylon wrap. Leave in a warm spot until the dough doubles in size.

Now fold the dough toward its center until there are no more air bubbles left in it. Cover and allow the dough once again to double in size. Now the dough will be thick and flexible and will not stick to your hands. Take it out of the bowl and mold it into a loaf shape. Place it on a baking sheet covered with baking paper that has been lightly oiled with olive oil. Alternatively, the bread can be baked in a loaf pan. With a sharp knife, cut three 2mm-deep diagonal slits into the top of the loaf, leaving equal spaces between them. Powder part of the top of the loaf with a thin layer of white flour. Put the baking pan in the refrigerator and allow the dough to rise overnight, uncovered.

Next day, heat the oven to 200 degrees and place the baking rack in the lower third of the oven. Put a bowl of boiling, bubbling water at the bottom of the oven and place the baking pan on the rack. Bake the loaf for 10 minutes while it gives off steam.

After 10 minutes, remove the bowl of water from the oven and bake the loaf for another 35-40 minutes. Remove from oven and tap on the loaf's golden top. A muffled, somewhat hollow, sound indicates that the bread is baked through.

Switch off the oven, quickly remove the loaf from its pan and leave it inside the switched-off oven with the door closed, for another 5 minutes.

Remove and place it on a wire rack that will allow air to flow freely around, above and below it. After 45 minutes, the bread may be sliced.


Russian dressing

Many people believe that Russian dressing is nothing more than Thousand Island dressing. But while Thousand Island is based on mayonnaise and ketchup, Russian dressing is actually a variation on the theme of French vinaigrette, but more piquant and hotter.

2/3 cup of corn oil

Juice from 1 fresh lemon

1/4 cup red wine vinegar

2 tbs smooth Dijon mustard

1 medium onion, peeled and chopped finely

3 garlic cloves, peeled and chopped finely

2 tbs red Tabasco sauce

sea salt

coarse black pepper

Place all the ingredients, except the oil, in the bowl of a food processor with the steel blade. Close the lid and operate on high speed. As the processor works, slowly dribble in the oil. The liquid will soon grow thicker and its color will be pale. This is the beginning of emulsion. Add the rest of the oil. Now the mixture in the processor bowl should be thick and smooth. Stop and remove the lid, taste, and if necessary add a little salt or lemon juice. The mixture is ready. Close the lid and continue processing for another 30 seconds. Now the emulsion is stable and can be kept in the refrigerator for up to four days.

The Reuben sandwich

For one sandwich

Two thick slices of rye bread

Russian dressing

4 slices of yellow cheese of the Emmenthal variety

Sauerkraut (see last week's recipe)

10-15 thin slices of corned beef (see last week's recipe)

Spread a generous layer of Russian dressing on the bread. On one slice, place 2 slices of cheese and then add the sliced corned beef in a generous layer. Drain the sauerkraut, pat dry with a paper towel and add a helping on top of the corned beef, followed by another 2 slices of cheese. Cover with the second slice of bread. Press the two slices of bread together well, spread a little butter on the outside of each slice and put it in a toaster oven that has been heated to 270 degrees, or a regular oven at a temperature of 220 degrees.

When the bread is a golden brown and the cheese begins dripping out of the toast between the sauerkraut and the corned beef, remove the sandwich and slice in two. A moment before biting into it, look in wonder at the thin slices of corned beef that have found their exact place on top of each other, because with meat, like with music, the exciting taste is hidden in the almost invisible space that is created between two slices of corned beef.