It’s 3 P.M. on a Wednesday in August. Tel Aviv is melting in 33-degree heat, but there isn’t a single free table inside Keton. I’m sent to sit outside, in front of a white fan that succeeds mainly in pushing the hot air from side to side. A moment later, Orna Raskin emerges from the kitchen carrying a steaming plate of cholent and a glass of apricot soda.
