NO, I CAN'T DO THE SPLIT

Being a student in yeshiva was my first exposure to the personalities of young men from various regions of the States. New Yorkers were pushy. Californians had a more casual attitude. Kids from Boston were a little snobby.

Then there were the boys from the South. The southern United States had seceded from the Union over the inferiority and enslavement of blacks. The South lost, but many pundits would say that 150 years later they are still fighting the war.

Some bigotry still rears its ugly head, but more is focused on a deprecatory attitude toward “servants” – janitors, automobile attendants, ticket takers, waitresses – no “please” nor “thank you,” just, “Hurry up! Who do you think you are?”

Once upon a time, going to an ice cream parlor with Alan, a yeshiva bochur from the Deep South, was particularly embarrassing. The sweet young waitress approached our table. Alan ordered “a banana split . . . with no banana.” The waitress looked at him. “We don’t have that on the menu,” she said quizzically.

“Nonetheless,” Alan said, as though speaking to a recalcitrant kindergartener, “certainly the kitchen can make one up especially for me.” Again, a completely befuddled look from the waitress.

I tried to clarify the situation. “Just bring the man this banana split,” as I pointed to the menu, “and take off the banana.”

Alan of the South glared of me and chided, “I am perfectly capable of explaining to the servant precisely what I want, without your interference.”

Finally, I pretended to go to the bathroom, caught the waitress’s eye, handed her five dollars and asked her to bring out the “banana split without the banana,” just as I had explained to her.

The five dollars made up for Alan’s refusal to leave her a tip because “it would teach her not to be so uppity toward the upper class.”

I only pray that in his life to come Alan of the South would make the mistake of ordering “kirschtort . . . with no cherries” from a muscular waiter named Bruno.