“THAT MAN CALLED ME ZIPPY”

When my little Chanaleh was a toddler, she was sweet as sugar. Biologically, she was only one-quarter Yekke, but she looked like a real Deutsche Madchen – sunflower hair, creamery-butter complexion. I recently asked her if she remembered the meaning of the German “golden Suppe.” When she said that she didn’t, I thanked God that one more child had dodged ten years on Dr. Freud’s couch.

Then again, the episode of “golden Suppe” was 34 years ago, and the trauma came by way of my cartoonish friend, Stanley. He was the only American-born Yekke I knew who actually acted like a stereotypical German faux-aristocrat. At age 21, he wore a tie and vest to do his laundry. When he was introduced to you, he would click his heels like a Prussian Hauptmann. He would show his disapproval to an etiquette gaffe by muttering a deferential “We don’t.”

The only flaw in Stanley’s Teutonic propriety was that he was an inveterate moocher. Suppertime Sundays he would appear at our door, looking particularly doleful, always knowing that Shabbos leftovers awaited. Little Chanaleh would sit tableside in her highchair, as the matzo ball soup would appear.

One evening, the soup was particularly delicious. Stanley, ever the gracious guest, exclaimed, “You know what they call that wonderful soup in German? Golden Suppe!” At that, Chanaleh started to scream inconsolably. Scream and scream. “What’s wrong, Chanaleh?”

At first, she was reluctant. Then, “That man with the beard called me Zippy!” – a reference to Zippy the Chimp, a television star du jour.

“No, no, no. Stanley said “Suppe. It means “soup.” No, never, Chanaleh would never believe it. “That man called me Zippy! That man called me a monkey!”

Meanwhile, Stanley scowled and refused to apologize. After all, you know, children and all that . . .

Never again did Stanley cross our threshold. At every attempt, no matter how well rehearsed Chanaleh was, screams of “That man called me Zippy!”

One consolation: From that Sunday onward, we ate our dinner undisturbed. As for Stanley, he would take his dinner at a kosher dive called Reb’s, where they deep-fried knockwurst in rancid oil and never once served golden Suppe.

FOIE GRAS FAUX PAS

When you stop to think of it, most of the food we eat is pretty funky. Beef – muscle fiber, connective tissue, blood (let’s not kid ourselves; even kashering gets rid of only some of it) – even from lamb and veal. Babies, mind you. Organs – who knows what kind of poison has made its way through those? Chickens roll around in barnyard shmootz. Fish swim around their own waste.

But, the most disgusting is foie gras, the fancy name for goose liver. A kosher species, you say? Just broil it up, grind with onions, eggs, and a little schmaltz, and good Shabbos, right? Only if you are a culinary ignoramus who thinks that Thousand Island dressing is haute cuisine.

Foie gras producers force-feed sweet little goslings, offspring of our beloved Mother Goose, by inserting a feeding tube and swelling their liver to the size of footballs. Our lovable goslings, who would otherwise have a life expectancy of 60 years are then slaughtered. Even the pictures give you the creeps, maybe more than watching a cow being shechted, another case for vegetarianism.

Kosher foie gras? Why not treife? A clear-cut case of tza’ar ba’alei chayyim, inflicting pain on an innocent animal, n’est pas? Not so easy. One of those black-hat high-rollers from Bnai Brak, who owns controlling interest in a foie gras operation, posed the question to rabbinical authorities from – you guessed it – Bnai Brak. One of them, age 90, pronounced foie gras permissible, opining that the rule of tza’ar ba’alei chayyim is suspended when “the suffering has some tangible benefit to man.” This, of course, is tantamount to the Medellin drug cartel claiming that it is selling cocaine “only for medicinal purposes.”

Ironically, the snooty Upper West/East Side kosher-chic consumer doesn’t get much Israeli foie gras. The primary supplier of kosher foie gras to the US is France. Who would have guessed it? The same country that thinks horsemeat is a delicacy and an Erector Set project gone wrong is a wonder of the world, has us believing that livers au hepatitis are haute cuisine.

My fellow Jews, arise! Don’t be hoodwinked! Just schmeer some honest-to-goodness gehakte leber on your challah. Paris will soon start looking like Calcutta.

TASTES GREAT, LESS FILLING

My little town of Greenville has two newspapers, which is remarkable for a city that has only seven policemen (or so it sometimes feels). One paper caters to everyone who isn’t illiterate. The other is directed to the well-heeled Upper Middle Class.

When the latter started, I applied to become its food editor. They rejected my application, telling me that they were afraid that my recipes would be “too Jewish,” despite my protests that I made an award-winning lobster bisque. Instead, they hired a shiksa (politically incorrect?) whose hair was so blonde that all she missed was a dirndl.

To reassure me that they weren’t being anti-Semitic, they promised that she would include a “Jewish style” recipe during every holiday season. And, so she did: Hamantaschen for Purim. Latkes for Chanukah. Honey cake for Rosh Hashanah.

Came Pesach, a recipe for Pesachdik brisket. Now, how many ways do you know to make a Pesachdik brisket? With potatoes, carrots and prunes, onions, tomato sauce, red wine? Of all the briskets that our shayneh shiksaleh could have chosen, she honored Yom Tov with her special recipe for “brisket in beer.”

Were we in Greenville or Chelm? I penned a respectful letter to the editor trying to set the record straight about beer being “leavened.” Oh, they printed it. But what did the headline read? “Chief Rabbi Denounces Recipe as Violation of Ancient Hebrew Law.”

The response was swift and ruthless. I received mail from three community members accusing me of “stirring up anti-Semitism.” Another wrote to remind me that kashrut was, indeed, “ancient Hebrew law.” One opined, “Well, that may be your opinion, Rabbi.” The columnist herself sent me an email accusing me of being “jealous,” saying that her Jewish friends declared the recipe “simply delicious.”

From that time on, I kept my big mouth shut. That was, until she ran a recipe for pork-stuffed wonton. She was quick to remind readers “Our Jewish friends call wonton kreplach.” Local Yehudim were quick to show me the column and praise the recognition of her “Jewish friends.”

“You know, Rabbi,” one of them said, “I never thought of it until the last time I had wonton soup at Chong Wah Express. It was even better than my bubbe’s!”