Hummus, Shakshuka, Sabich: How Israeli Cooking Uses Olive Oil at Every Layer

Olive Trees at the Eastern Edge of the Mediterranean

Israel is an ancient home of the olive tree. On the shores of the Dead Sea and across the hills of Galilee, trees several centuries old still bear fruit. According to data from the United Nations Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO), per-capita olive oil consumption in Mediterranean coastal countries runs more than ten times the global average, and the Levant region — Israel included — sits at the center of that figure. For thousands of years, olive oil in this land has functioned simultaneously as a medium for religious ritual, everyday cooking, and long-distance trade. It remains the most frequently appearing fat on the Israeli table today.

Israeli food culture formed through successive waves of Jewish immigration layered onto Arab and Ottoman inheritance, all drawing from the same Mediterranean pantry. Within that multi-stranded history, olive oil was never the property of a single community — it was a shared vocabulary across the entire Levant. Three dishes speak that language most clearly: hummus, shakshuka, and sabich.

Hummus — The Finishing Pour That Completes the Dish

Hummus is a creamed dip made by blending cooked chickpeas with tahini, lemon juice, and garlic. At long-established hummus shops in Tel Aviv — the kind that open before most of the city is awake — the preparation follows a consistent ritual: hummus is spread in a wide circle on the plate, a well is formed at the center, and olive oil is poured in generously before a dusting of paprika and parsley. That last step is not decorative.

The oil does more than add sheen. Between the nutty bitterness of tahini and the sharpness of lemon, the fruity character of a good extra virgin acts as a bridge. When the oil carries a higher polyphenol count — as oils from cultivars such as Picual or Hojiblanca tend to — a faint bitterness and a peppery finish enter the bowl, pulling the overall flavor out of monotony and extending it on the palate. According to food researcher Jill Lebovits in her book Israeli Soul Food, traditional hummus craftspeople prefer a freshly pressed fresco-grade oil as their finishing pour, and consider this choice decisive for what she calls the dish's "living taste."

Shakshuka — Oil Lays the Flavor Foundation

Shakshuka is eggs poached directly in a thick sauce of tomatoes, peppers, and spices. Its roots are widely attributed to Tunisian North Africa, but in Israel it has become a dish without a fixed meal time — eaten at breakfast, lunch, and well past midnight with equal conviction.

Shakshuka always begins with olive oil. Oil goes into the pan first; onions and garlic follow, coaxed slowly over moderate heat until their sharpness softens into sweetness. This opening stage builds the base that will receive the tomatoes and the complex of cumin, paprika, and coriander added later. The mechanism is straightforward: heat releases the fat-soluble aromatic compounds within the oil while simultaneously extracting the oil-soluble compounds from the spices. According to food science resources published by the Harvard T.H. Chan School of Public Health, fat-soluble carotenoids — a category that includes lycopene from tomatoes — have been reported to show improved bioavailability when cooked in the presence of fat.

As restaurants across Tel Aviv and Jerusalem each defend their own shakshuka recipe, the choice of oil varies too. Cooks after a gentler background reach for buttery, mild oils made from cultivars like Arbequina; those who want a more assertive, full-bodied result turn to Picual-style oils. Whatever the choice, one element is consistent: extra virgin rather than refined oil. The flavor contribution of a refined oil is too neutral to serve the role shakshuka asks of it.

Sabich — Oil at Every Layer of the Sandwich

Sabich is a pita sandwich that the Iraqi Jewish community brought to Israel. It is filled, in careful order, with fried eggplant, hard-boiled egg, hummus, Israeli salad (finely chopped tomato, cucumber, and parsley), amba (a pickled mango sauce), and tahini. Olive oil enters this construction at a minimum of three points.

The first is the eggplant. Eggplant absorbs oil the way a sponge absorbs water, which means the oil's character travels directly into the finished vegetable. Roasted in extra virgin olive oil in the traditional manner, the eggplant's inherent bitterness softens, and a moist, sweet quality develops beneath a slightly crisp exterior. The second point is the Israeli salad: finely cut vegetables are tossed with lemon juice and olive oil, which draws out just enough moisture to form a light, vivid dressing without swamping the other components. The third is a final drizzle added just before the tahini goes on — a step that functions as an adhesive, pulling the separate elements into a single coherent flavor.

At sabich street stalls in Tel Aviv's Florentin neighborhood, vendors will add extra oil on request. That gesture is partly cultural generosity and partly practical knowledge accumulated over generations: the oil is not optional garnish. It is the element that completes the sandwich.

The Lesson of the Levantine Table — Quality Changes the Context

What these three dishes say in unison is this: olive oil is an ingredient, not a tool. It is not a neutral cooking medium in the way that refined oil or butter can be. It brings its own aroma, flavor, and texture, and in Levantine cooking it is expected to contribute all three to the conclusion of the dish.

In this context, acidity and polyphenol content become practical rather than technical figures. According to International Olive Council (IOC) standards, extra virgin olive oil must have a free acidity of no more than 0.8%; lower acidity is generally associated with a fresher, more vivid fruit character. Polyphenols are the compounds responsible for the bitterness and peppery finish characteristic of high-quality extra virgin oils, and higher polyphenol levels have been reported to correlate with both greater flavor complexity and stronger resistance to oxidative degradation over time.

The philosophy of the Israeli kitchen is direct: do not be sparing with good oil. Pour it onto hummus not in a cautious trickle but in a generous pool. Let it coat the pan for shakshuka fully. Add it once more to sabich just before serving. That open-handed approach is both the hospitality of the Levantine table and the practical wisdom of people who have lived alongside olive trees long enough to understand what the oil is actually for.