Every city has its own set of established bars, each with a fiercely loyal band of patrons, the kind that scoffs at any semblance of change, and pay no mind to any person, whether client or employee, who hasn’t reached the minimum attendance record required for acknowledgement. The bar, its music, and its clientele appear as if frozen in time, as if someone had pressed pause just as the bartender finished pouring a pint.

While Tel Aviv may be too young to boast of pubs that hosted medieval kings or fallen dictators, Hashoftim bears the required aura of immutability. That elephant in the sign above the bar will always be there, signaling the way to the nearest Guinness draft. Hendrix and the Beatles will still serenade you as you munch through the small dish of green olives that somehow always appears on the wooden bar-top by your drink. And while you may not visit the HaShoftim enough times to actually join the coveted locals’ club, you will be able to take in the relaxed, careless atmosphere of a pub that knows it will still be around by the time you come back.