My good friend Niva Eshed walked into a small café in Ein Hod, where I was working at the time, about 12 years ago. I was pouring cappuccinos and quietly wondering where I fit in the world. She was a chef who had just moved to my village from Tel Aviv and had worked for many years in the legendary Joz Ve Loz — a restaurant that was also considered a queer-safe space.

We were both, in our ways, looking for a place to land. Not just physically, but emotionally. It didn’t take more than a few minutes before we clicked in that instant, magical way, like we’d known each other forever.

Since then, we’ve lived through so much: moves, motherhood, quiet seasons and loud ones, creativity, grief, growth. As I write about queer and pride culture in Israel, it felt natural to start with her. Not just because she’s my friend and her journey has always fascinated me, but because she’s a voice. A woman who has lived, loved, cooked, and mothered. Her voice speaks to the deeper human need to belong: to ourselves, to each other, and to something bigger.

At what point did you know that cooking was your passion and that you wanted to pursue it professionally?

At 14, I lived in Zikhron Ya’akov. A café opened, run by a special man who had returned from Belgium and brought with him something new — something that hardly existed in Israel at the time. My cousin was looking for a job and took me along for support. The owner turned to me and asked, “What about you? Maybe you’d like to start working as a dishwasher?”

So I started as a dishwasher. It was hard work and long hours. Slowly, I started learning how to make sauces, soups, hold a knife, chop, everything. After the army I traveled, and I always found myself back in kitchens, always drawn to special places.

At 21, I ended up again in a small café, creating unique dishes. The chef was a lesbian woman. There were regulars — it was a kind of home, a community. At 23, I moved to an Italian restaurant in Herzliya. There, I learned to work the hot line: pans, ovens, a wood-fired stone pizza oven. I worked holidays and weekends. That was life.

After a trip to India, I decided to study in Italy at the school of the Slow Food movement. There, I learned the secrets of Italian cuisine: wines, cheeses, mushrooms, fresh pasta — everything handmade. The knowledge was passed down from father to son, from grandmother to granddaughter. I fell in love.

What led you to work at Joz Ve Loz? And how did you end up living in Tel Aviv?

When I returned to Israel, I moved to Tel Aviv. A gay couple told me I had to see a place — Joz Ve Loz. They took me there to eat, and I’ll never forget that visit: mismatched tables and tablecloths, fresh food that changed daily depending on the market. Each plate was a different color and shape. Almost everything was second-hand.

There was also alcohol, of course, artists, writers, intellectuals, musicians, it was a whole world. Open only for dinner, closed on weekends. Perfect for me. The menus were typed each evening on a typewriter, and there was no sign at the entrance. If you didn’t know it existed, you’d never find it. A door to another world opened — and there was a garden. In Tel Aviv, that’s rare. I fell in love with the place.

What was your experience working there? Did you feel Tel Aviv offered space for the LGBTQ+ community? Was Joz Ve Loz a safer space in that regard?

The owners, Alma and Orit, were a couple. In the kitchen, we were mostly women — lesbians. It felt natural. We were a strong team, giving everything we had, every night. Strong women supported by other strong women.

We didn’t think it was “different”; it just was. We were in the right environment. Customers came from all walks of life — to eat, to connect, to exchange ideas. Of course, most of the staff and customers were part of the LGBTQ+ community, but it wasn’t a “thing.” We didn’t define ourselves. It was home, a family.

How was it working in a profession that was, until recently, mostly male-dominated?

At Joz Ve Loz, we were mostly women, and the people who gave us space to create were women. Most of us loved women and were in relationships with women. It felt natural.

In other kitchens, I didn’t have equal opportunity. I wasn’t allowed to grow. It was a different vibe, more calculated, less sensitive. More managed and rigid. Less creative. Less free.

What led you to move from the city to the village?

I worked a lot, that restaurant was my life. After several years in Tel Aviv, where I lived with my partner at the time, I wanted a change. I was tired. We didn’t know where to go, but we wanted to leave the city. Of course, it was scary. A friend invited us to a party in Ofer, a village on the Carmel coast. There were children, women, men, music, nature, and freedom. It was a whole new experience. We decided to look for a home in that area and found one in Ein Hod. We were scared, but we knew we needed something different. Over time, we discovered how special the place was. Eventually, we realized we wanted a child. That also took time, but then Yarden was born, and today he’s 11.

I’m so lucky to have Niva as a friend, and to keep learning from her incredible journey. In the end, it’s not just about where we go, but about how we carry our identities, our friendships, and our sense of home.