When you practice ashtanga yoga in the sticky Tel Aviv summer, you sweat a lot. After a long day of sitting in front of the computer, weeding out other people's grammatical and factual errors (grr), I was ready for a good workout at my regular hardcore yoga hangout. But after 30 minutes of rapid sun salutations I literally slipped on my own sweat and landed very unelegantly on my behind. (Luckily, it is well padded.)

The upside is that the heat made my muscles feel like elastic, and as a result I am delighted to report that I was able to hold this asana (position) for a glorious 10 long breaths.

(okay, I know it's very un-yogic to take pride in one's practice, but let me enjoy the moment - just for tonight!)

After two hours of physical activity, and with the measly avocado sandwich I bolted down at lunch a good 8 hours behind me, I was starving. So I headed over to the sandwich bar across the street (Ben Gurion, corner of Reines) and ordered a virtuous Greek salad, with a side of toasted rye bread. And a lot of olive oil.

I was perched on a high stool in front of the counter, chatting with a fellow yogi between bites (actually, mostly through a mouthful of food), when I saw a rather gorgeous guy (who can resist sculpted triceps and eyes the colour of robin's eggs?) order the weirdest sandwich ever. Picture this, if you can: smoked salmon with butter and mustard on rye bread, with white onion, basil and fried eggplant.

Butter with smoked salmon? And eggplant? What the hell is that?!

This is what separates Israelis from non-Israeli Jews of the Ashkenazi variety: no matter how far Sheldon Goldberg of New York, Toronto or Manchester may have strayed from his roots, he was born knowing that there is only one way to eat smoked salmon - on a bagel, with cream cheese and possibly - if you're feeling a bit adventurous - a garnish of purple onion and/or capers. This, he will assure you, is Jewish food.

Except Israel is a melting pot, with more Jews of Middle Eastern extraction than Eastern European. So Rafi Ben David, whose grandparents were born in Rabat, doesn't know from bagels. He does, however, know all you ever wanted to know about hummous (everyone has a favourite place to eat it: mine's Abu Hassan in Jaffa), sabich (which takes about 5 days to digest, if you're lucky) and where to get the best couscous (at his grandmother's, on Friday afternoon - after a day at the beach).

Actually, it's pretty common to make fun of Ashkenazi food here - especially gefilte fish, the mention of which is usually accompanied by a mock retch. (obviously, they haven't tried my mother's).

So there you go, another perception turned "on its face": in the Jewish homeland, you can't even find a decent bagel.

Oh, by the way, here's a photo of my first niece, in her father's arms.