We make it wrong. We serve it wrong. We eat it wrong.
In fact, the Israelis get hummus right in ways we hadn’t even considered we could mess it up. This dawned on me just after I stepped off the plane in Tel Aviv.
“Where will you eat hummus in the morning?” My taxi driver wanted to know.
In Israel, hummus is breakfast. Not a party dip served with “baby” carrots. Not adulterated with pesto or artichokes or — God help me — chocolate.
My education begins the next morning at Abu Hassan, the country’s premier hummus shop, around since the ’60s.