MY NOCTURNAL ADMISSION: MIDNIGHT AT THE SOFT-SERVE OASIS

Regardless of prudent Midwesterner misgivings and lingering 60’s-radical snobbery, I discovered that I really am cut out for life at sea. Having never ventured beyond a Wendella river tour of the Chicago cityscape, the image of Thurston Howell III bobbing aimlessly on the Caribbean was daunting. And then, it was so goddamned bourgeoisie . . . not that I don’t drive a Volvo, wear a bowtie and have a quintessentially bourgeoisie closet full of custom tailored suits.

But, the in-laws, God bless ‘em, loaded up the entire family on the Zuiderdam, and a captain whose name sounded dangerously close to Claus von Bulow (we diabetics kept our distance from the bridge) set sail from Ft. Lauderdale southward. No streamers. No popping corks. No Isaac, Gopher, Doc. I would have sacrificed two bottles of duty-free island rum to swap out our cruise director, former Australian soap star, Dane Butcher, for the perky Julie.

This kind of cruising could be my thing. I discovered that I do not get seasick. It conformed to my highest shipboard aspiration: to spend a week at sea that best replicated seven days on dry land. If I didn’t look out the window, I would have never known. Linda splurged on a piece of bling-bling, and I matched her dollar for dollar with Internet connectivity, a friggin’ $55 an hour.

Better yet, besides not sinking, this was not the Titanic or my vision of the Queen Mary II or even my expectation of any cruise ship whatsoever. The Zuiderdam was strictly middle class, maybe even poking its toe over the line to lower middle class. And I say, God bless them for it. Families together from small towns in Nebraska, Ohio, Montana, and they were having fun, clean fun, no schmootz. No, not hot games of “Guess the Martyred Apostle.” Plenty of bikinis and liquor and a casino. But also round-the-clock bingo, and pools, and a day camp, and art auctions resplendent with borax, and servers cued to entertain the kiddies, and 24-hour-a-day kiosks dispensing abundant, mediocre pizza, hotdogs and soft-serve.

Not to mention ingratiatingly cheesy entertainment each night: an Elton John impersonator, juggler, magician, resident song-and-dance troupe regaled in sequined 70’s costumes and a disco version of “Here Comes the Sun,” even a washed-up Borscht Belt comedian whom none of the goyim seemed to get.

Two-and-a-half days into the cruise, after I shook off my pretentiousness, I realized that we fit right in. For, when all is said and done, the Ribeye family is not to the manor born, but just like the rest of the hoi polloi, Bud Light, not Dom Perignon, Bialystok, not Newport.

I am assiduously trying to stay away from a snooty nitpick of the Zuiderdam’s food, lest I betray my newly reclaimed membership among the unwashed masses. Had everyone not pumped me up on the grandiosity of cruise cuisine, I would have felt no disappointment in the Zuiderdam’s less-than-elegant set-‘em-up-move-‘em-out three squares a day.

As it was, the folks at Holland America know their audience, match their menus to their tastes, and even show genuine flair here and there: One evening, an appetizer of pate de foie gras, a mini-blob of sevruga, a non-traditional presentation of escargot. A dessert tray each night featuring a quite acceptable international variety of cheeses. Otherwise, though, Applebee’s . . . but for a largely Applebee’s crowd.

But, the midnight buffet extravaganza turned out to be a myth. No buffets. No midnights. No extravaganzas. The food was doled out by stingy servers in niggardly portions. On this everyone agreed, not merely us Henry VIII wannabes. The good news was that one could go back and ask for more, limited only by ones self-consciousness and that Dutch smirk that silently announced, “You again, fatso?” Indeed, my initial serving of sevruga was a teeny eighth of a teaspoon. But, with the complicity of our Indonesian waiter, who insisted on being called “Mister P,” I finished an aggregate of a quarter-pound. Likewise, when four scrawny grapes arrived with my cheese tray, P repaired to the kitchen and produced a cluster that would have made the Israelites drool.

Given even the most understanding soul, though, some of the culinary gaffes were still inexcusable: The cellophane-wrapped saltines accompanying the cheese tray. The stale Wonder Bread, crust still in situ, pretending to be toast points for the caviar. The hillock of grayish-pink scrapings and shards that appeared on my plate when I ordered the gravlax appetizer. The salmon and tuna sushi-hubs that were cooked . . . well done.

And then, the iced tea: Forgive me. I have lived in the South more than half my life, and I love a tall glass of freshly brewed, spine-chilling iced tea. Those damned tulip-pickers did not take the time to brew their tea, but used that same chemical pish that shut down Lake Erie. I must have looked like some kind of a jerk seated in the Lido Dining Room with cups of genuine tea steeping and ice-filled glasses waiting for me to pour over the steaming tea that would carry me back to ol’ Virginny.

Clear-cut cases of culinary anti-Semitism, or minor indignities that a suffering people must simply learn to bear? I will let you decide: Every morning, one had access to lox and bagels. I emphasize, “access.” Why? Because the lox was port. The bagels were starboard, and you had to ask one of the windmill-spinners to go in the back to toast it for you, which was always greeted with a shrug of imposition. The cream cheese was fore. The onions were aft. Hmmmf . . . Jews.

And you want a corned beef sandwich? Abe Lebewohl, God rest his saintly soul, spins in his Second Avenue grave. I don’t even know where to find “rump corned beef,” but that’s all they carry in the Zuiderdam’s draconian commissary. Rye bread? “We do not know this kind of bread.” You ask for a thick sandwich? Four slices instead of two. Hold the mayo? Uh, too late. Tomatoes? Forget it. Just make me a tuna.

Now, being RABBI Ribeye and a confirmed Metrokosher on vacation, I will leave to your imagination how many of the non-kosher foodstuffs were personal indulgences and how many were vicarious assessments of my dinner partners. Suffice it to say that “What happens on the Zuiderdam stays . . . “ Living in two worlds, I do not know how much more content I would be on a strictly kosher cruise, swapping a midnight bacchanalian of faux shrimp and salmon roe for the dulcet sounds of Schlock Rock and midday lectures on “The Maimonidean Censorship Controversy and its Implications for Upper West Side Mating Patterns.”

Ah, the Ribeyes are at last back on terra firma, no longer spooked by the sight of lifeboats just outside our cabin window. Inspiration at sea? I have finally perfected my kosher-chicken-liver-faux-pate-de-foie-gras. Now, on to convincing Linda to taste it and my snooty clients on Augusta Road to believe that it ain’t just chopped liver.