This Israeli Restaurant Is Bringing Jews and Arabs Together Over a Love of Grilled Fish

The grilled Spanish mackerel's skin is crispy, having come off the grill just moments before. Its flesh is firm, but tender and bursting with flavor. The tiny, toothy jaws are slightly agape. On the wall above me, Arabic calligraphy reads: "Here even the fish are laughing."

The fish had been caught earlier in the day in the Mediterranean and lugged back ashore to the port of Acre in northern Israel. The hole-in-the-wall restaurant where it it's been cooked occupies a snug corner of the former stables of Ahmad Pasha al-Jazzar—a.k.a. "The Butcher," the Ottoman governor of Sidon who rebuilt the former Crusader capital and fought off Napoleon Bonaparte in 1799—but brings top-of-the-line cuisine to a fabled city that's fallen on hard times.

Acre is overshadowed by the much larger city of Haifa across the bay. The city's remoteness from Tel Aviv makes it an unlikely location to find culinary pioneers. And yet Savida, whose name is a Hebrew corruption of the Arabic word for cuttlefish, has found its home there.

"The idea was to do something simple, straight from the sea," Ohad Horvitz, one of the co-owners of Savida, says as he rolls a cigarette at a table in the cobbled alleyway outside. Mass commercial fishing and fish farming produce inferior flavors, he argues.

He and Dan Smulovitz, the chef, opened the restaurant three years ago. Grilled fish caught fresh daily are accompanied by local seasonal produce that expresses Mediterranean flavors. In-season, wild herbs such as cilantro, chicory and jarjir—a native variety of arugula—are brought in by a local forager.

Smulovitz says the experience should be "like coming to a family to eat"—it's about hospitality, not the money. Menus are a contract, which is why he doesn't bother with them.

Customers get only a drinks menu. For NIS 100 (about $25 US) diners are served an assortment of mezze and the day's fish.

Savida's kitchen is an exercise in simplicity. On my visit, zucchini topped with walnuts, carrots with nigella, babaganoush, wild rocket salad with pomegranate seeds, tahini and a grey mullet ceviche with mango and red onion are the day's fare, followed by grilled whole mackerel.

Frying, Horvitz says, is good for masking the taste of fish that's off. "On the grill, you can't ignore a fish that isn't fresh. If it's not fresh and you put it on the fire, it won't be any good."

Horvitz is the extroverted smooth-talker who manages the customers and makes sure everyone's drink is full. Smulovitz, who studied at Le Cordon Bleu in Pasadena, California, runs the kitchen and concocts the day's recipes.

The two grew up on a kibbutz and cooperative village just outside Acre and both fell in love with the city from a young age. In the western Galilee, where Jews and Arabs live cheek-by-jowl, relations between the two communities tend to be more amicable than flashpoints such as Jerusalem. Nonetheless, they had to work to gain the trust of their neighbors, as well as local fishermen.

"You know, fishermen aren't the easiest people to work with," he says. (That became all the more evident when I tried to arrange to go out with them one night. Anthony Bourdain has said he's done "20 fishing scenes in my life and I think I've had one good day out of all of them." I'll hedge my bets and cut my losses at 0-1.)

Horvitz says he buys from one fisherman regularly: "He's my quality control." Saado is an old grizzled Akkawi of few words whose shop faces the harbor. He distributes fish he and his cousins catch.

Savida's staff are all Arab women from the neighborhood. The city has suffered from poverty and tensions between Jews and Arabs for years. (Arabs are around a quarter of the city's population, but inside the Old City's walls they make up 95 percent.) But the guys are part of the family. Ohad flings the giggling granddaughter of Samira, the line cook and dishwasher, in the air as I pause for a moment to savor some pan-seared mullet served atop turmeric-tinted tahini and diced tomatoes.

The salads are Samira's creation, Horvitz says as I hoist another forkful of bitter jarjir and sweet pomegranate into my mouth.

"For me, it's all about creation," Smulovitz imparts after the kitchen closes for the day. "It's about creating something that makes you smile, and to keep it simple and add some element of surprise."

He adds: "Food is all about memories." Cooking is the most fleeting art. Once it's down the hatch, it looks and smells completely different. All that's left is memories. If he crafts a unique experience, "maybe five years from now you'll remember the fish you had in Acre."

Savida's small confines in the former stables also leave little room for picky eaters. "People who come here and tell me 'I don't like cilantro,' and maybe pick out the garlic, and [say,] 'I'm on this kind of diet'—I tell them, 'Dude, there are a lot of restaurants around here, maybe this one isn't for you. For real,'" Horvitz says.

Savida will soon be joined by a sandwich shop serving gourmet sandwiches and deli meats cured on site. The fish restaurant is moving to more spacious accommodations across the Old City, next to one of the old city's iconic green domed mosques. Despite offers to move the restaurant to the revitalized downtown Haifa, Horvitz and Smulovitz plan to stay in Acre.

"Acre has its uniqueness. We stayed here for the food and because we already got into something—with the people, with the community—that's a bit hard to break free from," Horvitz says.

"Something was created here that's beyond the food. There's also a sort of family-ness, whether it's with the workers—most of whom are from the Old City—or with the customers, who aren't the type who look for just any sea bream or trout."