Like all educated Americans, I follow you on Instagram, and was taken with the photos you posted this weekend from your visit to the genocide museum in Yerevan, Armenia. And if it’s genocide you like, Mrs. West, have I got travel tips for you.
You’ve been in Israel for a few hours now, and had a chance to check out the Armenian Quarter of the Old City. I hope that your husband, having made Jesus walk, caught a glimpse of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. But neither you nor Kanye are what we call basic bitches, and so I assume you’ll run tired of all that uber-touristy stuff very soon. To which end, we at Tablet, true fans of both you Wests, are proud to offer a few unorthodox suggestions.
First of all, I happened to come across a photograph of you on the cover of Paper magazine a while back, from which I’ve deduced that you’re rather fond of oil. If you make it all the way up to the Golan Heights, check out Olea Essence, a company that, like you, is pioneering the use of nature’s sweet olive grease as a beauty product.
Heading back to Tel Aviv, you may be hungry, which begs the question: where do you eat when you’re Kanye? We wouldn’t dream sending Yeezus to any old restaurant, but a restaurant inside a cave sounds like the right ticket. This one was founded years ago by a renowned Lebanese chef who was stopped one night in Lebanon by two Syrian officers who threatened him and his wife and demanded their car. The chef reached for his gun and shot the Syrians; then, he fled to Israel, the only place where he knew he’d be able to ply his trade peacefully. He found a space in a gorgeous Galilee cave that, not long ago, was still a haven for local goats, and opened one of the most spectacular eateries in the neighborhood.
While on the subject of Mr. West, remember that great line from Graduation? “I’m like the fly Malcolm X / Buy any jeans necessary”? Well, there’s a fashion atelier in Tel Aviv called Not for Sale that sells jeans that smell like wild strawberries. If there has ever been a product better suited to Kanye’s sensibilities, I don’t know what it is.
Finally, I know you’re travelling with little North, and need something to keep her happy, too, while you dart from one place to another. Here’s a little local secret: get her a tub of Rising Sun chocolate spread. Imagine Nutella, but with none of the delicacy or sophisticated hazelnut undertone. Imagine a Crisco-like consistency that coats your entire mouth, trapping it shut with chocolatey goodness. Imagine a strange hint of sandpaper aftertaste that stuns you into submission. And imagine it’s very, very delicious: Put one dab in the toddler’s mouth, and you can buy yourself some quiet in those long car rides up and down the country.
That’s about it. Again, we’re fans. Go have some shawarma, buy cool clothes, and, on your 12-hour flight back, think about why you paid to produce a documentary on that anti-Semitic asshole Farrakhan.