THE KOSHER OENOPHILE'S COMING OF AGE

Talk to an orthodox – or even right-leaning conservative – coreligionist, and s/he will tell you that wine, too, must be kosher. And you think, even ask, “Where’s the cheeseburger? Where’s the pork?” Fact is that if you want to be “strictly strictly,” must pass through the hands only of orthodox Jews, from juicing the grapes to double-sealing the bottles (or heating the wine to 165-190°, I know, picky-picky). This all has to do with wine’s potential for idolatrous libation or promoting unnecessary conviviality between Jews and their gentile neighbors. We are all well aware of the conviviality sparked by a shared bottle of Manischewitz.

I know what those of an upscale kosher palate would say: “That’s all yesterday’s news.” You would be right, Every Upper West Side Metrodox and Jewish gastro-journalist celebrates that one can now procure kosher dry wine with a cork (!) in the bottle.

It is true. It is true. Chateau de Fesles Bonnezeaux, Chateau Fonbadet Pauillac, Chateau Giscours Margaux, Chateau Leoville Poyferre Saint Julien ($134.99), Chateau Patris Filius (Isn’t that two-thirds of the Holy Trinity?). All kosher. All to be swirled and swizzled at equally trendy-dox kosher establishments. Not only do they come bearing corks and un-sugar-encrusted bottlenecks, but tales of international awards, too. It is a prism through which we may view the coming of age of American Jewry.

Being part of that schizoid bridge-generation, I do, however, owe a love song to those goopy, syrupy wines that were so long synonymous with kosher. Those were the wines that had an indelible influence on our earliest infancy, when the mohel administered pre-circumcision anesthesia, gauze soaked not in Bonny Doon, but in Schapiro’s Extra-Heavy Malaga. Primal nursing instinct and Chateau Schapiro soothed our castration trauma then, and we have owed it a debt of gratitude ever since.

Fond memories of childhood include eating brisket and kishke at Siegel’s, under the Lake Street El tracks in Chicago, and Mr. Siegel furtively bringing over shot glasses of Mogen David to the men of the party, a lagniappe to his “preferred” customers. I also remember the evening when I joined my folks at Siegel’s, and Mr. Siegel included me among the “preferred.” Garrison Keillor could not have written a more nostalgic coming-of-age story.

“Are you sure it was Mogen David?” you ask me. Nah. Essentially, all old-time kosher wines were interchangeable: Manischewitz, Kedem, Lipschutz, Mogen David, Schapiro’s
Each had a little edge of its own identity, to be sure. Manischewitz was first with the fruity, soda-poppy varieties – peach, strawberry, mango – quite a buzz, and cheap, too. The old Mogen David label had that loopy little picture of the Seder table, prompting the winos of bygone days to ask for “Morgan Davis, you know, the one with the guys playing poker on the label.”

The warmest spot in my heart, though, is left for Schapiro’s. There was an honest, proud wine, no apologies, no secrets. You want sweet or extra-sweet? They boldly led with their “so thick you can almost cut it with a knife” tag-line. Norman Schapiro to this day boasts that Schapiro’s is “aged for over six months” as though it were a century-old Balsamico di Modena. The taproot Shapiro’s is the musty, musky subterranean labyrinth, the cellars of Schapiro’s, a full square block right underneath the schmootz of the Lower East Side. Yes, the operation has moved Upstate, but on a Sunday, you can still meet one of the Schapiro’s at the ancestral entrance on Essex Street, enjoy a free tasting tour, and walk and inhale, the catacombs for yourself. Amazing, is it not, that even as the Lower East Side gentrifies, the vestal grotto keeps bearing its luscious fruit?

Now, our Jewish palates are more finely attuned. Our noses are better sensitized to inhale the bouquet. We know, and own, the right crystal for each Bordeaux and Merlot. We debate how “chilled” chilled should be, with Talmudic acuity. We Jews have arrived, and remarkably, our yarmulkes are still clipped to our heads. We are deservedly proud, as we have lived to witness “synthesis” become reality.

Sorry, though. I also pine for the other days. We were not so smug, nor so self-satisfied, nor so damned sure of ourselves. But, one thing was for sure: When someone raised a thimbleful of Mogen David at Siegel’s and bellowed “L’chayim!” we all knew what to answer . . . and we meant it.