WOULD YA PASS THE GRAPES?

When has a rabbi ever had the nachas of exceeding the stature of an aristocratic goy? The instances are rare, but so it happened.

Recently, I was invited to deliver the invocation at a dinner, an organization that raises money for worthy causes. At the dais were seated celebrities, magnates of business, aristocracy. All them and me.

Shortly after being seated, the waiter placed before me the fruit-plate I had ordered. Next to me was an aristocratic woman wearing a gown that once belonged to Princess Margaret.
I saw the glint of her fork from the corner of my eye. A moment later, she announced, “That honeydew melon looks delicious. May I try some?” Before I could answer, she stabbed the fruit, and ate it with gusto. “Simply delicious,” she pronounced. “May I have another?”

The ravenous dowager was Mrs. Ben Heinemann, who owned the largest railroad from Mexico to Canada. I told her that my dad had commuted on her train. “Forget the trains,” she stopped me. “I see you aren’t eating your grapes. How about passing them over?”

By then, the waiter brought her dinner. She cut into it, discovering that it was pork, dry and stringy. “You can’t expect me to eat this,” she prated, calling over the waiter. “How can I get a plate like his?” pointing to my fruit. The waiter foolishly answered that he could not get another.

“Well, then,” she announced. “I’ll just have to share this one.” and reaching across me, partook in my apples, oranges, and more honeydew.

“How did you get so lucky?” she asked. “Are you a vegetarian?”

“No,” I’m Jewish,” I said, and briefly explained to her the rules of kashrut.

“Oh, and if I were Jewish I could get a fruit plate, too? What else do I need to do?

“You don’t need to anything else. Just tell them you’re Jewish.”

“And lie? What would God do to me?”

“Probably just laugh,” I told her.

She pondered for a moment and slipped me a $10 bill. “Here,” she said. “Go out and buy a bag of fruit, and the next time you want to go to Mexico, tell them that Mrs. Ben Heinemann sent you. Now pass me that last piece of peach.”

PARLEZ VOUS FRANCAIS?

I have yet to figure out what I really do for a living. This has led not only to ambiguity but poverty. Am I a rabbi? I am by virtue of my education, but as a vocation it turned out to be a dead-end four years ago when I was fired for being too uppity and manic. Would you care to share a few pills?

Am I writer? Only if I want to live on $100 a week. And the idea of holing up in a windy garret to write sad poetry holds little attraction for someone who occasionally likes to eat a juicy steak.

Well then, am I a chef? Sometimes I pretend to be and even have vague success. Who are my clients? Ironically, nearly all of them are upper-class goyim, of whom there are many in Greenville. Most of them have heard of me by word-of-mouth, after a cooking class I gave last year.

Yes, of course, my menus are kosher, prepared in my own kitchen. If I do not tell them, who would know the difference? My offerings might as well be classical treiferei, mostly quite continental and elite.

Then one day a local society-lady requested an elaborate menu, so very creative, she thought. It was comprised of pate de foie, potage aux champignon et orge, poitrine roti, soufflé pommes de terre, racine-rouge saumure, et pommes marmelade.

Remember the Midrash that says that all people, even goyim, stood at the foot of Mount Sinai? The menu she chose is proof-positive that the Midrash is right. Think about it: Unbeknownst to her, she ordered the perfect Shabbos dinner, right from oma’s kitchen: chopped liver, mushroom-barley soup, roast brisket, potato kugel, pickled beets, and compote.

She and her guests ate until they were stuffed. They, in turn, entertained other friends with precisely the same menu, and so on, and so on.

Funny, but time and again, Shabbos dinner has been celebrated in mansions where Jews have never been and likely never will be. My mission, however, will not be complete until I have convinced them that Kiddush is really a poem by Flaubert.