re: TulaneLSU's trip to Destin: A review of Taste of Jerusalem in Pensacola

The generosity in free appetizers attracts quite the diverse crowd. While there, I saw silver haired, Rolex-adorned retirees seated next to an old Vietnamese couple, who I overheard work at the Vietnamese grocer across the street. There was also a group of three Florida Panhandle hipsters. What an odd group of creatures. One wore khaki cargo shorts with flip flops. A button up red checkered lumberjack short sleeve shirt revealed a black arrow tattoo along the neck, topped with a tightly twisted handlebar mustache, black browline glasses, and a camo truck driver’s cap finished the ambiguous appearance. Across the way sat four All-American boys, the type who picked on me in high school, likely fresh from flight training and brimming with all the white male privilege of Billy Bob, Harbor, and Mox as they left a trail of dust in their Coyote Powered mid 80s Chevy Silverado. A family from the Near East, the husband apparently a doctor at a local hospital, sat next to the golden haired boys. Every few minutes, a group of golden toothed individuals in tank tops would enter. None stayed, and all were directed to Papa Ray’s next door. Then there was I, alone, enjoying the owner’s grace.

Arabic seems to be the vernacular of the kitchen and counter. And it seems to me that the owner is intent to show his respect to the world’s three great religions: Christianity, Judaism, and Islam. There are religious symbols of all three in the restaurant and signs that they cater for Bat Mitzahs and Christmas parties, and are a halal kitchen.



I was satiated with the appetizers, but it would be rude to eat there and not buy anything. In fact, the owner, Ray, came out to speak to me. He was a friendly and excited man, the type of man who makes America great. Born in eastern Jerusalem, he moved to Illinois where he ran a restaurant before moving to, of all places, Pensacola. He has run this restaurant for about 18 months, as well as the other two establishments in the complex. He has done quite well, such that he will be moving to a larger building down the street in a few months. He seems to be the type of guy that really did make America what it is. A guy who probably works 18 hour days each day. Yet, he smiles as a man who wakes with a purpose. He gives the appearance of one who is grateful to live and work in a land of opportunity, not like the entitled native born Americans who assume or expect wealth, health, and fun without effort. And then seek drugs, both legal and illegal, to help them through their anxiety and depression of unfilled expectations and entitlements. I sometimes wonder what the streets of the French Quarter looked like at the turn of the 19th century, with oodles of hopeful Italian immigrants pulsing through the port and setting up restaurants and grocers. I think I caught a glimpse of something similar to that time today.

I asked for a recommendation and he gave it. I ended up getting ribeye kabob, chicken kabobs, and a roast lamb chop on the side. Each of these three meats was delicious and each enough for an entire meat portion at many restaurants. The highlight was the lamb; it was the best lamb I’ve ever had, even better than that served at the Greek Fest on Bayou St. John and much better than Shaya. The meats were served on Basmati rice and came with two sides -- more hummus and a Jerusalem salad of tomatoes, cucumbers, parsley, and olive oil. The entree was $10 and the side of lamb chop another $4. I’m not sure how he turns a profit. Whereas most restauranteurs today open with the expectation that they will get rich and possibly famous from making food, Ray seems to do it because he loves people, freedom, and making people happy. That he can support his family is just the phyllo dough on his baklava.





Mother unexpectedly arrived two hours later and plucked me back into a privileged, sheltered, and uninteresting weekend I am now enduring. I will hold those two hours in Taste of Jerusalem close to sustain me through this weekend, where I will be mocked, teased, and ultimately, left alone. Uncle is now calling us in to eat his bland NY strips, baked potatoes, and some salad whose generic recipe he probably ripped off this website.