CULTURE CLUB
On a journey to Israel’s stunning wine country, the key is taking the time to breathe
I’m propped on a stool on a terrace looking out over arid patches of land laced with rows of green grapevines. A bird chirps enthusiastically nearby and the sun creates shadows on the vine-covered pergola, which is thankfully providing some shade. I squint for a glimpse of the Sea of Galilee, which I know lies beyond these orchards but is blocked from my view by the hills dotted with trees.
“Shall we taste some wine?” asks Jonatan Koren, co-founder of Lotem Winery.
I’m on a pilgrimage to explore the wild, wild west and upper Galilee region of Israel and its bounty. It’s now Sunday, my third day on the road, and he’s opened up shop just for me, so l’chaim!
Strangely, most of the wineries here close on Sunday as opposed to Saturday, when businesses often shut for Shabbat. There are no wine tastings paired with heaping plates of grilled fish wrapped in grape leaves as is the case every other day of the week — and, especially, on the Sabbath, which is more celebration than contemplation in these parts. But while the festivities may be over, the music still plays. In fact, there’s always music on at Lotem, Israel’s largest organic winemaker.
“My partner and I are not kosher, but quite spiritual people,” says Koren, referring to co-founder Yaniv Kimchi, whom he met during his army service, “so we have speakers that play music from the moment the grapes come in, to the fermentation, and the aging. It makes the wine better.”
Buena Vista Social Club is playing when I pop in to visit the oak barrels after trying all nine varietals — from a light and fruity shiraz to a lip-smacking orange wine dubbed “Old Shnorkel” after Kimchi’s 19-year-old mutt.
“It’s more of a hipster wine,” admits Koren, 38.
There were plenty of those up at Assaf Winery in the Golan Heights, which I had visited the day before.
I pulled onto the property at about 11:30 a.m. and next thing I knew it was almost four o’clock in the afternoon — which is precisely what Oren Kedem, CEO and
We look at it like you’re coming to our house. You’re in my living room and we’re all sitting together.
winemaker of the estate his parents founded, aims for: a place to retreat and let time elapse.
“Tel Avivians come and sit for six hours,” says Kedem, who spent time working at vineyards in Sonoma before returning to his birthplace in the Golan. “We never give them the feeling that someone is waiting for a table. There is plenty of room to enjoy, relax, drink, open a book.”
Or, if they’re lucky (and have a spare $440), sleep, rinse and repeat. The 3.5-acre estate not only has three cabins — hand-built by his brother Shahar and stylishly decorated by Kedem’s Brazil-born wife, Karen — but will soon have a yoga studio, spa and pool.
“We look at it like you’re coming to our house,” says Kedem, who lives on the property with Karen and their two young daughters. “You’re in my living room and we’re all sitting together.”
The tapas-style dishes that his sister, Adi, who studied at the French Culinary Institute, whips up at Adika Cafe are worth the trek no matter how long you stay. Start out with labneh sprinkled with za’atar, followed by homemade challah slathered in spicy tomato jam and make sure to leave room for brisket-topped baba ganoush.
There’s plenty of wine to wash it all down with, of course, whether it’s a citrusy Sauvignon Blanc or, my favourite, the Four Seasons blend of Cabernet Sauvignon, Syrah, Cabernet Franc and Merlot. Assaf produces about 55,000 bottles a year and while Kedem hopes to increase that amount, he’s not aiming for global reach.
“The vision is to keep it local,” Kedem, 37, says. “We just want to do the food we love next to wine we love.”
About 15 minutes farther up Route 91, inside Kibbutz Ein Zivan, lies Pelter Winery, a much bigger operation run by brothers Tal and Nir Pelter. With vineyards near the production facility, which also acts as a public tasting room, as well as in Jerusalem Hills and further south in Mitzpe Ramon, Pelter produces upward of 500,000 kosher and non-kosher bottles a year — from a sparkling Blanc-de-blanc to Pinot Noir and unoaked Chardonnay.
I’d lazed the day away at Assaf so I didn’t have time to sample all the varietals — not to mention any of their spirits. (Since 2013, the brothers have been distilling arak, brandy and gin.) But they did bring me over some goat cheese, made by Tal’s wife, Inbar, which was a welcome snack.
It would be about an hour’s drive back to Amirim, a small vegetarian community where I’d booked an Airbnb — not because I don’t eat meat but because it was well situated for the places I’d be visiting. Also, it looked peaceful.
My so-called solitary cabin, however, ended up being a little too remote — despite the presence of ants, mosquitoes, cats and, I learned after two sleepless nights, a wild pig. So the following day I hightailed it back to the coast and checked into the lovely Shtarkman Erna Hotel in the resort town of Nahariya. Run by two generations of women, the 30-room guest house is yet another example of keeping it all in the family, complete with heirlooms and sepia-toned portraits hung as decor.
It’s a good thing I filled my plate at the extensive breakfast buffet because my first stop of the day was back inland at Malka Brewery in Tefen.
Forget Goldstar, the Budweiser of the Holy Land. Malka, which means “queen” in Hebrew, offers those with discerning tastes something a bit more, well, royal to guzzle — and two different spots from which to do so: Queen’s Court, overlooking Yehiam Valley and Haifa Bay, hosts live music in an outdoor courtyard setting; while Queen’s Salon, which I visit, has a second-floor taproom overlooking the production warehouse, where tasting flights feature an Irish stout, Belgian blond and more.
It only takes a pint to make my stomach rumble again. And what’s the next best thing to an ice-cold beer on a hot day? Ice cream, of course. Or, as it’s known in Hebrew:
glida. Which is precisely why the founders of Buza Ice Cream, which has six locations throughout the country, decided to call their brand Buza: ice cream in Arabic.
“It’s better than just saying ice cream in Hebrew,” says 33-yearold Adam Ziv, who founded the company with 36-year-old Alaa Sweitat, a chef from Tarshiha. “It gives a little bit of mystery to the Jews and a bit of respect and familiarity to the Arabs.”
The pair believes uniting the two cultures is just as important as making flavourful spoonfuls of salted toffee and mascarpone cherry.
“We can use business as a bridge to connect,” says Ziv, who is Jewish, while Sweitat is Muslim. “We can compromise and learn from each other.”
At the parlour and production facility on Kibbutz Sasa, an Israeli soldier tucks into a cup of strawberry sorbet while a family of four samples seemingly every flavour.
“I think we understand two things when other (businesses) only understand
one,” says Ziv. “First, we are precise and we have knowledge; and the second is we are creative and we care about raw materials. We see the whole picture.”
As I attempt to keep my twoscoop cinnamon cardamom cone from dribbling down my arm, I recall that expansive view back at Lotem. By immersing themselves in such a rich land and focusing on both quality and community, these Israelis really are making masterpieces.