SOME DAY I'LL BE A STAR

Have I told you that you that I might become a television star? No, really, it’s true. A group of producers heard about this rabbi who loves to cook and tell stories about food. It’s me. Don’t ask me how.

The producers are a bunch of goyim who think it’s hysterical that a rabbi in the most goyische part of the country is noteworthy for cooking kosher food. They believe that the public will find the premise so entertaining that they will watch me cook and chatter on their TV screens every week.
They have already engaged a publicist and found editors and investors. They have even hired an old blues musician to play a funky “Hava Nagila” for the show’s introduction. I’d say that this was a dream come true, but all I think is that they’re crazy.

They want me to cook traditional Jewish fare: chopped liver, gefilte fish, brisket, potato kugel, but with typical “Southern style” – peppery, greasy, overcooked – just like bubbe used to make.

But, they also want me to adapt classical Southern-style cooking to the kosher kitchen. Oy, what to do? They cook their vegetables with pork fat. I’ll do mine with pastrami. They sauté potatoes in lard. I’ll use schmaltz. They fry dough and call it “hush puppies.” I’ll make them latkes.

My producers have already entered me in a Southern-style cooking contest in Vienna (pronounced “VAH-ennah”), Georgia, a place where they used to shoot Jews for recreation.

One of the entries is to be grilled pork. I told them that I would use veal. Ah, wunderbar! The other is to be “Brunswick Stew, a thick soup made of beans, corn, potatoes, and . . . squirrel. I thought and thought. Then, I had an epiphany. I made up a pot of my Brunswick Stew for the producers. They loved it! The ideal consistency and flavor, and the meat fell off the bone.

I thanked my God for having such a Yiddishe kop. For, while they were lusting over my Brunswick Stew, you and I know that I was serving them a perfect pot of my cholent.

Now, who wants my autograph?

THE TOXIC BUFFET

Anthony Bourdain is a former junkie and shikker who went on to establish some of the finest restaurants in New York. He has become my mentor and idol.

Tony also writes bluntly about the realities of the restaurant kitchen. Among his observations: Don’t order fish on Monday. It’s probably left over from Thursday. And for God’s sake, don’t eat the Sunday brunch. It’s mostly last week’s remnants prepared by indifferent cooks. Where else would you find “sirloin salad”?

What are the anti-Semitic implications? Well, we, too, have our end-of-the-week brunch buffet. It’s called Shabbos Kiddush.

Do you know where that open jar of grey gefilte fish has been over the past month, the one soaking in the iridescent juice? What about its sister, the jar of fuzzy pickled herring? Don’t forget the accompanying horseradish, originally a deep red, now puce.

Beware, too, of the once-white albacore tuna, presently a salad ringed by a crust of yellow-brown mayonnaise. Likewise the plaster-of-Paris egg salad. Or is it Ecru Play-Doh? What about the Jewish innovation, the pizza-bagel? Wasn’t the tomato sauce just a little tinny? Why is that orange juice so hinky? What are those turquoise flecks in the bagels? Likewise the cream cheese. And, when did Entenmann’s stop making that kind of cake? And that generic de-fizzed soda?

The schnapps is rarely Glenlivet; it’s three-buck chuck. In order to save space, the remnants of scotch and bourbon are often combined in one bottle, on the premise that “They’re both the same color,” as old Mr. Alembik used to muse.

Yet, after years of persecution, we Jews are a hearty sort. Just keep in mind that the last Yehudim to die are always the ones who l’chayim down half a bottle of that rot-gut schnapps each Shabbos, smoke three packs of cigarettes a day, eat all that chazerai at Kiddush, and take the leftovers home.

On second thought, Tony Bourdain, keep your cursing to yourself and go back to frying your gaufrettes. You are and always will be one goyische kop!