Today a friend and I drove out to Ramle, a small mixed (Arab and Jewish) city about 30 minutes' drive from Tel Aviv, for the sole purpose of chowing down on good Indian food. The restaurant is called Maharaja, and – for those who share my passion for “the real thing” – it's located at 100 Herzl Street, near the entrance to the shuk. Maharaja is owned and operated by Indian Jews from Bombay and it's strictly no frills: with its greasy high-back upholstered benches, fluorescent lighting, formica tables, and waiters in stained white shirts, the place reminded me of a particularly grungy hole-in-the-wall I used to frequent in the seedy Pahar Ganj area of New Delhi. Except in Delhi one would not expect to see Indian men who cover their heads with crocheted yarmulkes before tucking into a nice big tali for lunch.



Our waiter, who had paan-stained teeth and henna-dyed hair, told us that he had moved to Israel (from Bombay)15 years previously, but had never really learned to speak Hebrew (actually he didn't need to tell us that; we took pity on him and switched to English almost as soon as he opened his mouth); he spoke English with that characteristic Indian lock-jaw accent that Peter Sellers imitated to hysterical effect in one of his movies (can't remember what the film was called). He (the waiter, not Peter Sellers) was convinced that my friend and I were British; when I asked him why he thought we were from the UK, he answered, “Because you are being so polite, isn't it.”



We ate, and ate, and ate: saag paneer, alu gobi, iddly, hot chappattis, steamed basmati rice and vegetable pakoras; for dessert, ras malai and gulab jamun accompanied by chai masala (no milk). Then we dragged our tummies to the little grocery store in back and purchased boxes of home-made Indian sweets, bags of spicy peanuts (imported from the Old Country) and ayurvedic soap to take home. I continued automatically to speak English to the man who boxed our sweets, but stopped when I saw his look of confusion and switched back to Hebrew – which he spoke with an Israeli accent.



Anyways, I'm still digesting that meal and do not think I will ever be hungry again.



Saturday night my friend Shira and I went to an outdoor concert – one of a series sponsored by the municipality of Tel Aviv-Jaffa – in Old Jaffa. The mother-daughter duo Alidin , who have gorgeous, sensual voices, sang a series of Balkan, Middle Eastern and Mediterranean folk songs to an enthusiastic audience. There was an absolutely adorable and pretty precocious 4 year old boy next to me who stood on his father's lap and danced, thrusting his hips out and pointing his fingers skyward; every so often he'd grin at me and then turn his attention back to the stage. His mother caught my eye over her son's head and rolled her eyes good-naturedly.



In addition to the concert there was a craft market just outside the Catholic church – where foreign workers can hear mass in several different languages (including Tagalog). There were also jugglers, food stands where kids could buy cotton candy and steamed corn on the cob, and mime artists. The whole atmosphere was happy and relaxed: everyone was having a good time, there was a lovely breeze from the sea, the palm fronds swayed and the restaurants were full.



The concert ended around 11:00 – early, by Tel Aviv standards. So we went to Shesek (after trying three other places where there was absolutely no standing room anywhere), a laid-back lounge bar where there's an excellent DJ and the crowd is very relaxed. We hung out until nearly 2:00 AM, but the place was still going full swing when we left – and bear in mind that Sunday is the first day of the work week.



Tel Aviv at night reminds me a lot of New York, in the sense that you're always left with the feeling that no-one has a regular job that makes it necessary to go to bed at a reasonable hour. But towards the end of my time in New York I got really sick of the “irony”. Not the posing – Tel Aviv has plenty of that, and I've never been one to be put off by posers – but the endless layers of cynicism. Here people take open pleasure in simply having a good time; it's not “fashionable” to be unhappy. Quite the opposite, in fact.