THE METROKOSHER UNDERGROUND

Folks say that if I wore a baseball cap and let myself get real grubby, I could be a body-double for Michael Moore. Well, I am about to blow the lid off a cabal that may rival the sensationalism of Fahrenheit 9/11. If you are a strictly by-the-book kosher-observant Jew, I am warning you: You probably want to stop reading this now and shift your attention to one of those kashrut apologia tracts issued by the Orthodox Union.

We owe Mark Simpson a debt of linguistic gratitude for introducing us to the prefix “metro,“ which he loosely used to mean “really not, but maybe really, but then again, maybe really not.” His original context was “metrosexual,” a sexually ambiguous, narcissistic guy who preens just a little too much over the style of his clothing, hair, cuisine, wine, a little “too in touch with his feminine side.”

My dagger-witted friend Binyomin Cohen coined the term “metrodox” to describe the young “kinda orthodox” singles of the Upper West Side. This is the crowd that asks “your place or mine?” after the midnight Service of Penitence and is as likely to do shooters on Thursday night as it is to recite Kiddush on Friday night.

And now it’s finally time for guys like me to ‘fess up in the name of another cadre of metros, an underground of demi-sinners, the “metrokosher.” How many in the cabal? Huge, in my estimation. Most of the metrokosher cabal lives outside Jerusalem-on-the-Hudson, where kosher restaurants – many tolerable and some even pretty damned good – are abundant. Our core transgression is that we have chosen to find our fortune beyond Teaneck. Thus, we are still pretty self-conscious about putting a name to our level of kosher commitment and the perceived hypocrisy of “strict at home and loose at our favorite dining establishments.” So we would stop short of considering this an “outing.”

Many of us metrokosher still travel in, or on the periphery of, the orthodox Jewish world. The most kindly of our by-the-book kashrut-observant coreligionists wistfully tolerate us, or simply ignore our foibles. We are roundly condemned, excoriated by the less tolerant among them, no credit for effort that falls short of perfect, just the denunciation that “You might as well be eating traife.”

And technically they are probably right. So, from an icky-picky legalistic perspective, let me not dwell on the minutiae that we metrokosher do not observe, because they are mindboggling and probably condemn us all to same hell as . . . David Rosengarten and Al Franken.

By its very nature, metrokosher plays fairly fast and loose with the rules. Clearly, we will not eat pork, shellfish, beef and poultry that has not been ritually slaughtered and prepared, and milk and meat in combination. After that, “what we do” and “what we don’t” eat out is pretty much the oxymoronic free-for-all of conscience.

Some metrokosher borderliners stay away from anything in restaurants beyond cold foods like salads. Culinary snobs thumb your noses, but salad bars for these folks can be a welcome metrokosher respite from the daily same-old same-old at home. And, if the cold-only folks push the envelope just a little further and go for sushi, upscale places like Minado (in the New York/New Jersey area, Boston and Atlanta) present an endless variety of ocean-fresh rolls and nigiri and the most beautifully displayed oriental salads.

Speaking of sushi, whoever brought the genre to the USA, should be blessed by an eternity in the radiance of heaven, as my sainted mother would say. A little abstinence from shellfish here and there, and otherwise a metrokosher feast for the eye and palate. And, as Atlanta’s Ludlow Porch used to say, “If you take the leftovers home and warm them up, they taste just like fish!”

Ah, the Sunday brunch, another gift to the metrokosher. The more elaborate the better. Platters of smoked fish more abundant than Zabar’s . . . well, maybe not, but you know what I mean. Whole poached salmon. Permutations of salads that make you marvel at the Embassy Suite chef’s infinite creativity with artichoke hearts. Pastries, don’t get me started. Am I the first one to ask to substitute smoked salmon (not lox) for Canadian bacon on eggs benedict?

And then, fish as the culinary centerpiece of a lovely night out on the town. Now the tour de force of the finest restaurants. Every imaginable variety. Fresh. Meticulously prepared. Simplicity. Clean, delicate flavor, nuances and textures to which neither beef nor poultry could ever attain. The culinary psalm and lyre of the metrokosher. I have been to classical and avant-garde seafood restaurants from coast to coast, and if I could give them six stars, I would. Yet, I would chuck them all for a simple filet of broiled Lake Superior whitefish at the Mother Church of seafood restaurants, the now nostalgically dilapidated Cape Cod Room at Chicago’s Drake Hotel, where I lost my metrokosher virginity some three decades ago.

A final word on fish: If you are a metrokosher carnivore, as I am, and you have had more than your share of finest filet, I issue this challenge. Ask them to sear a tuna loin for you at Prime in Atlanta, and let me know, honestly, if you can tell the difference.

Ethnic cuisine and metrokosher? Remember that most oriental cuisines use meat as a seasoning, not a mainstay. They do otherwise only to satisfy the American flesh-lust. So, simple off-the-menu adaptations of Chinese, Korean, Japanese and Thai should pose no problem. And, regarding Indian, a personal favorite, vegetarian is a Hindu virtue. Italian, too, should be a no-brainer. Cajun is a little tricky, but not impossible.

Take note of something here, if you haven’t already: The more upscale the cuisine, the more likely you are to find metrokosher satisfaction. Aside from a cranky, arrogant chef here and there, finer restaurants are intent on accommodating their patrons, making substitutions, working with you outside the menu, and using market-fresh surprise ingredients. We have even occasionally had wonderful experiences with fine table d’hote establishments by calling a day or two in advance to discuss menu variations. And, we just won’t deal with crabby chefs.

What about metrokosher lower end and fast foods? For those who are so inclined, this is still a tough call. Fish filet and fries at McDonalds? Maybe lard, maybe not. Likewise Long John Silver’s and the rest. Red Lobster, perhaps a better bet. Coming from the South, particularly Greenville, what about the venerated meat-and-three? Again, pretty dicey. I will tell you off the record, though, that the fried flounder at McBee’s is virtually grease free and there are enough varieties of salad that you need not dabble in veggies cooked in mystery meat.

Please indulge me in one more tad of apologia about strictly kosher at home and metrokosher out: Ones home may not be ones castle, but it is the epicenter of the sanctity of family life. It deserves a level of holiness that transcends the foibles that might become our modus operandi out on the streets of the secular city. Hypocrisy? That’s a judgment call that each one of us must make individually and then one day answer up to God.

I resist submitting this commentary to any Jewish periodical or discussing it with my rabbinical colleagues. No matter how many “but’s,” “however’s” and caveats I place upon it, the Cuisinart of self-righteousness would likely grind me into a rustic paté. Somehow, though, in a culinary forum, a few of my metrokosher comrades might step out of the shadows, not for justification or catharsis, but simply for a little of the empathy that comes from an at-ease, “Yeah. Me too.”

So, to you, my partners in the metrokosher cabal: Maybe if we aren’t ready to do kosher strictly by the book, we ought to at least double up on our charity, compassion, kindness, generosity and love of neighbor. Then, we can leave it up to God to figure out how the right and wrong in our lives measure up.