For a brief moment in early March I had unlimited access (for a not unreasonable price) to one of the great, simple pleasures in this world: real Israeli hummus—anointed affectionately in olive oil, bolstered by briny plates of pickles, and smelling ever so garlicky of the old world (that perpetual 1981 of hummus establishments everywhere). Or at least it was close enough to real thing that my imagination could do the rest.
This hummus is made by a Georgian—not a big deal—but the place is owned by an Israeli (or an "organization" of Israelis; it's really hard to know who owns what here). Regardless, the menu is written entirely in Hebrew. Six people stand by at all times ready to translate it bucket brigade-style into any language you wish (Russian? English? Georgian? Turkish? Hummus? Falafel? Falafel khachapuri?) and then to watch you eat. When I lied and said I could read it myself, it was mostly bullshit but for the first time maybe ever, I felt a deep appreciation for the thirteen years of Hebrew class I'd been forced through in my childhood. "Choomoos. Shtayim. Please," I said, holding up two fingers. Christ! It really does all come back, I thought.
Truth is, I figured I'd never find hummus in Batumi. Earlier that week, we'd been sent on a wild garbanzo chase when a friendly Lebanese "investor," noticing me noticing his distinctly Levantine take-out lunch, offered a taste in a coffee shop near my apartment. "You like Batumi?" I asked him, hoping for another bite, maybe a seat at the table. "I love it," he said. "It's the 2nd best place for investments right now in Europe." "I thought 1st," the Ukrainian barista chimed in. "See? Now it's 1st place! So fast!"
Then he gave us an address for his Lebanese hummus guy. I half expected to find a buzzing Little Beirut hidden in one of the cockeyed courtyards that Georgians conceal so masterfully behind their classical facades. But in even truer Georgian fashion, we found nothing at all. The address simply didn't exist. Google put it in the middle of the street. We finally gave up, our tahini dreams (temporarily) deferred.
Not two days later, we stumbled on Haba-Eat three blocks from home. The pun alone was enough to make me cry; finding sabich on the menu nearly killed me. I made it back four times in the chaotic days that followed, each visit on slightly less of an appetite.
Now, of course, I wish I'd gone more. A sign on the door says they'll be back soon and I hope it's true, for my sake as much as theirs. When I walked by the other day, I had an urge to leave a message of my own, a reply, a small note folded up and tucked into a crack in the stone wall. But what would I say? What could I? I couldn't think of anything especially meaningful, but I figured I might donate a stupid slogan I'd come up with after my first visit: "Haba-Eat . . . " I'd write, "is where the hummus is." Use it in good health.