TUNA SALAD: THE CHOSEN PEOPLE'S STARKIST LEVIATHAN (4/11/05)

Whenever I read Moses’ immortal words, “Man does not live by bread alone,” I want to add, “That’s right. He also needs a little tuna salad.”

I don’t know what it is with Jews and tuna, but let’s make the critical distinction first off: “tuna” and “tuna fish” share neither genetics nor kindred spirit. The former is ruby-red, velvety and seared rare, so that it is indistinguishable from filet mignon. Beyond rosy-pink, you might as well be gagging on Astroturf. Most of my coreligionists do not display extraordinary passion for ahi au naturel.

Tuna fish, on the other hand, is spineless, tubular and about three inches in diameter, so that it fits perfectly into an inch-high can. Its flesh is ecru, flaky, and stewed in brine. I have heard that lower species – brown, oil-muddled – inhabit some waters, but avoid major centers of Jewish population.

Tuna fish redeems itself from its humble origin only when it is chunked or flaked, combined with greenery and/or eggs, and napped in a savory dressing, ah . . . tuna salad.

American Jews have a love affair with tuna salad. It is my perennial breakfast and midnight snack, even though it is also my wellspring of unrelenting heartburn. I have found no precedent for its virtue in the Bible or Talmud. It was not known to our Eastern European ancestors, and in fact, for the first few years, my grandfather the grocer could barely give the stuff away. And mayonnaise? Feh. What was it? Lard? Kosher? Dairy? Don’t go telling me it’s pareve and traif up my kitchen.

Somehow, though, tuna fish and mayo weathered the tsunami and morphed into the darling of the Jewish kitchen. It became so integral to the American balabosteh’s repertoire that it turned into the subject of bragging rights, family traditions, secret recipes, hypercriticism and regional variations, just as if it were gefilte fish or potato kugel.

My rabbinical interview in Greenville was built around a covered-dish dinner. But, forgetting to coordinate the menu, the table was laden with no less than twenty varieties of tuna salad, the more modest of them laced with celery, onion, bell pepper, pickle relish (feh) and eggs. The more garrulous bore every means of provender: olives, grapes, pecans, pistachios, corn, peas, bleu cheese and feta. Next to each artistic platter – some molded in the shape of turtles or Torah scrolls – stood a proud hausfrau, heaping my plate and smugly winking, “I can’t believe you’re even tasting that cat food Mrs. Schwartz made.”

Tuna salad is our trusty companion through the changes of seasons and the vicissitudes of life: There it is at Shabbos Kiddush. Don’t miss it at Shalashudes. It’s the staple of the nine meatless days before Tisha B’Av. Break your Yom Kippur fast with it. Take it to work on matzo for Pesach. The mainstay of bris, pidyon ha-ben, naming, bar mitzvah, aufruf. Bury the dead and come home to tuna salad.

My ever-pragmatic Linda says that the Jewish obsession with tuna fish is simply a function of convenience. Maybe.

My guess, though, is that the Jewish fascination with tuna fish is a portent of Messianic times. We know so very little of those days, but we have it on Talmudic authority that the righteous will be served a celebratory feast of leviathan, the primordial fish left over from the days of Creation. The problem is that no one knows what leviathan is. No one but me.

So, whether the Messiah turns out to be the Lubavitcher Rebbe, or a Litvak in a frockcoat, or a Conservative rabbi in a three-piece suit, I guarantee you one thing: The main course at that wondrous celebration will come from a can marked StarKist – a little onion, a little celery, a little mayo, hold the relish. Tuna fish . . . our omnipresent foretaste of the world-to-come. Ah, no wonder.