SOMETIMES MORE THAN A LITTLE IS ALREADY TOO MUCH

You remember the old joke: “Where’s the best place to hide an elephant? Right out in the open.” I’ve visited New York at least 50 times since my teens, but just two weeks ago, I found the elephant right in Upper Manhattan, and it’s been there only 100 years.

Recently, Linda and I sought a breakfast place that served good smoked fish. There are plenty delis and diners in New York that serve smoked fish, but my son Googled and found only one at which smoked fish ruled by mandate. Barney Greengrass.

I felt like an idiot not knowing about the place, because Christopher Columbus dined on lox and bagels there immediately upon discovering America. Coke boasts that “It’s the real thing,” but it will not vie for Barney’s authenticity. Indeed, authenticity is the first thing that catches your eye: Roll-up windows with gilt lettering worn by decades of up-and-down. Bulk dairy products behind the counter, right from the cow, which only experienced countermen are allowed to touch.

The place is thoroughly Jewish, yet there is not one silly picture of Tevya or Yiddish admonition, "ess, ess mein kind," on the wall. Greengrass is still real after a century, not going for cheap nostalgia.

The variety of home-cured and smoked fish is exhaustive. Salmon is baked or broiled. It is smoked into lox, nova, gravlax. It is pickled with and without sour cream, fried and scrambled with eggs. Herring is pickled, schmaltz, matjes, creamed, fried. Trout. Sable. Whitefish. Kippers. Sprats. Sardines. Char. And this too: They know how to fry an egg. The bagels and bialys are superior.

Enough!

All right, they also serve Beluga caviar. But do you mean that Barney’s patrons would eat it on a bagel washed down with a glass of heise tai? At best, cruel satire.

Unlike other delis where portions are phantasmagoric, Barney’s are not huge, but appropriate. As Mama taught me, "You shouldn't see tooth-marks in the lox when you bite into a sandwich. Anything more is uberik (over the top).” Barney has taught four generations that smoked fish's virtue is in its moderation. It is a jewel from Tiffany, not the schlock you find on eBay.

THE SACRED TRADITION OF A L’CHAYIM AND CHEESEBURGER

I live within eyesight of Bob Jones University, an institution so conservative and fundamentalist Christian that it makes Presbyterians and Episcopalians look like Satmar Chasidim. Naturally, they want the rest of the world, including us, to be Christians like they are. So, my basic attitude toward them is that if they leave me alone, I will do the same for them. This I will tell you: Their integrity and ethical standards are unimpeachable, and all in all, they are the best sort of neighbors. That’s what recently led me to them.

You see, I recently catered a Kiddush-bacchanalia at my old schule. Bluntly, the regular workers in the kitchen detest me. I have my way of doing things, and they have theirs. I had a lot to do and little time to do it, so I could not afford to put up with their mishugas.

What to do? Ah, Bob Jones has a culinary arts program. In keeping with the school’s spirit, the students are neat, respectful, obedient, and their veneration of the Bible allows for no shortcuts in kashrut. I called over to the school, and what do I find? The Dean is Mark Moritz, an apostate member of our tribe from Queens.

Chef Moritz immediately dispatched four of his top students, who, by the way, worked for even less than we offered. They were wonderful, just as I had expected. They even asked to rush to the dorm to shower between cooking and serving, so they could look their best.

Well into the cooking it dawned on me that not only are Bob Jones kids not allowed to partake in alcohol; they are not even allowed to work in a place where alcohol is served. In complete honesty, I told the boys that we served thimble-sized cups of wine as part of the sacrament of Kiddush, not unlike Holy Communion (which, by the way, Bob Jones does not observe).

They were sure that it was all right, but they wanted to ask the Dean a shayleh, nonetheless. They quickly brought back the good news. It was a sacrament, so there would be no problem.

But then it dawned on me that we had a bigger problem: What about the l’chayim of schnapps that the old-timers poured each other in a corner of the social hall after the Motzi? Again, I told the boys the truth, albeit this time slightly shaded in my favor.

“Is it a sacrament?” they asked.

“Well, you might say that.” I invoked the principle of Minhag Yisrael din hu, a custom among Israel has the strength of the law. “You see,” I said, “the old-timers, especially the ones who came over from Eastern Europe, saluted each other with a little whiskey after Sabbath services to warm themselves for the long, frigid trek home. So, for the old-timers, it was a beloved sacrament, part of a consecrated heritage.

Again, the boys returned to campus to ask the shayleh. The Dean remembered from his days in Queens that the l’chayim was a venerated ritual. He quickly gave his approval.

On the morning of the Kiddush, though, the boys naturally saw a number of younger people, including yours truly, toasting a l’chayim over the ritual schnapps. They looked at me quizzically. I grinned sheepishly at them and said, “You’ve got to understand. These young men are merely carrying forth the custom ordained by their saintly elders, so that our sacred traditions will never be forgotten.”

The servers understood perfectly. When you think of it, I was probably telling the truth in spite of myself.

Now, if it were only that easy to get the Rabbonim to understand that a cheeseburger at McDonald’s is also a sacred tradition . . .