Upwardly mobile New Yorkers pride themselves on knowing just where to get the best of everything: the best dry cleaning, the most delicious rugelach, the most exclusive and natural-looking cosmetic dermatological procedures. So in a city so obsessed with A-list quality, not to mention authentically sourced and impeccably prepared semi-ethnic cuisine (has anyone tried to get a table at Mission Chinese lately? How’s the line?), is it really any surprise that there’s a currently a reigning hummus broker to the stars?
Oh, and did I mentioned he’s a hunk?
Hummus Joonam’s founder and Chickpea-puree-er-in-Chief is Ohad Fisherman, a handsome 30-year-old Israeli real estate broker (and he’s single, I think, for any interested parties out there!), who comes from a long line of hummus royalty: his father is the owner of the landmark Tel Aviv restaurant Mifgash Hasteak, purveyor of some of the city’s best since 1965. Fisherman, recently profiled by The New York Post, was apparently tired of subpar grocery store hummuses (your Tribe, your Sabra) that has dominated the American market for years, so he decided to show New York how its really supposed to be done. He began to make his family’s secret recipe (he imported sesame seeds from Israel), started to sell his hummus product to Manhattan’s better class of gourmands to the tune of $10 a tub. (This is important because, I mean, what else are you supposed to dip your baby carrots in after a workout to make yourself feel like you’re actually eating something? Mustard?)
When it comes to hummus, I have to admit to being something of—well, novice is the wrong word, so let’s just say, I’m not exactly a connoisseur. I don’t think any kind of Middle Eastern foods has washed up in the Nebraska culinary scene until at least the mid ‘90s, and the kind of Jewish foods I grew up with were more of the heartily salted noodles/apple kugel variety, although perhaps I just say that because those were literally the only two foods I was willing to eat for a large portion of the ’80s); I ate these over their more flavorful, colorful, and gastrointestinally positive Israeli cousins. When hummus did show up it was usually as a stodgy and immovable lump in the middle of a crudité platter at a boring grown-up party, presented as a slightly less fattening alternative to ranch dip, which is both terrible for you and tastes disguting. (In fact, I still usually pronounce the word as “HUMM—us,” to rhyme with “some pus,” which my husband loves to make fun of me for. I retaliate by parroting the typical South African pronunciation for “sushi” to rhyme with “tushy.”)
But over the past few years that I’ve come to know the glorious, gloppy, oozy, complexly flavored glory that fresh, warm, properly olive oil-drizzled and tahini-packed hummus can truly be, and I want it. I want Ohad Fisherman’s hummus. I used to only aspire to being rich enough to own a washer and dryer (an impossible New York dream) but now that I live in California, I have a higher ceiling of aspirational wealth.
I want tubs flown to me via private jet, as did Joe Nakash, the owner of Jordache Jeans, did on his Mexican vacation. Or I want to pay one of you to go to Holyland Market in the East Village and bring it out with you the next time you come. DM if you’re interested. Oh, and see if you can bring Ohad Fisherman along with you. There’s some nice girls out here I want him to meet.