THE PRICE ON FOODISH FAME
From the outset, where to tape my new TV show has posed a problem. The first issue is finding a kitchen that is well equipped and accommodating to the cameras and audience.
But, the overarching concern is the ambiance we want to create. What is the concept behind the show? What persona do they want me to project? Not too intellectual, they tell me. They want the Sarah Palin crowd, not the Dalai Lama.
Most of all, what kind of food should I cook and yak about?
It should be a no-brainer. A rabbi should have a kitchen that looks like a tenement. And the food? Duh. Chicken soup. Brisket. Kugel. “Not so easy,” the producer says. “We’re in the South. We still need Jewish, but with a Southern spin.”
So, the program then puts me in jeans, tee-shirt, and Braves cap, cooking matzo-meal fried chicken, kneidlach-cum-hush-puppies, tzimmes-cum-sweet-potato-pie, cholent-cum-Brunswick stews. We’ll tape the show in an old barn cooking on a wood-burning stove.
“OK,” I thought. “This is the price I pay for stardom. Maybe the producers know best.”
Iterations of the show come and go. One day the producer announces that he has the perfect venue – a fitness club. This is so weird. No denying that the facility is superb. But, what does an obese rabbi-cook of the old school have to do with a fitness club?
“Not to worry,” the producer says. “A new concept. Shorts and a hoody. Fifteen minutes exercising with a personal trainer. A challenge to lose 20 pounds. Then, you’ll spend the rest of the show cooking healthy food – like vegetarian chopped liver.”
“I make REAL kosher food,” I belch. “REAL liver. REAL schmaltz. I thought this was supposed to be about REAL kosher food.”
“No worry,” the producer calms me. “We’ll have a dietician evaluate each dish on camera. What if you were to make a bowl of chopped liver, and she says that it will clog your arteries? What would you answer?”
“I’d rip open my shirt and point to the scar from my pacemaker.” I’d shout, “There’s nothing about chopped liver that I don’t already know!”
“Perfect!” the producer shouts. “Now, let’s get ready to shoot!”
Emes, I have not made up a word of this story.
OK, so I’ll live only to 118. The Food Network calls and, dammit, I’m going to answer.
December 24, 2008
December 09, 2008
THINGS GO BETTER WITH COKE . . . OR ELSE
Which character do we most closely associate with Coca-Cola? Santa Claus. This was a sharp marketer’s idea to keep kids drinking ice-cold Coke even in the depths of winter. Nowhere will you see a billboard, magazine, or commercial without Santa chugging down a Coke.
But, Coke can also be magnanimous at Christmas time. They pay to dispatch Santa Claus’s to bring cheer to disadvantaged children. Despite my religious inclinations, I play Santa six times each holiday season.
Deprived children tug at me and will not let me go. They kiss and hug me. I give them candy and presents. “Santa, Santa!” they cry. If they ask whether I am the “real Santa,” I let them pull my white beard, and they know that I am the one and only.
But then there was one time . . . Twenty or so kids abandoned by their parents. Most of them were three or four years old, still full of wonderment. They, too, would tug at my beard, and knew that I was real.
But one seven-year-old already knew better. He looked at me cynically from across the room. He finally sidled up to me and gave me such a swift kick in the shins that I cursed at him before I could regain my composure. Now he had all the evidence that he needed and shouted over and again, “That’s not really Santa! He’s a fake! He cursed at me! He’s a fake!”
What should I do? Quick as I could, I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him into a corner. “Look, kid,” I growled at him. “If you don’t tell them you were joking, I’m going to make sure you never have another Coca-Cola for the rest of your life!”
His eyes widened. “You could really do that?” “Just try me,” I growled back. In a moment, a shout emerged. “I was just kidding! That is the real Santa!”
Even a Jewish Santa, I guess, is worth the benefit of the doubt when a life without Coke is as stake. After all, even the surliest kid isn’t willing to drink seltzer for the rest of his life on a bet with Santa Claus.
Which character do we most closely associate with Coca-Cola? Santa Claus. This was a sharp marketer’s idea to keep kids drinking ice-cold Coke even in the depths of winter. Nowhere will you see a billboard, magazine, or commercial without Santa chugging down a Coke.
But, Coke can also be magnanimous at Christmas time. They pay to dispatch Santa Claus’s to bring cheer to disadvantaged children. Despite my religious inclinations, I play Santa six times each holiday season.
Deprived children tug at me and will not let me go. They kiss and hug me. I give them candy and presents. “Santa, Santa!” they cry. If they ask whether I am the “real Santa,” I let them pull my white beard, and they know that I am the one and only.
But then there was one time . . . Twenty or so kids abandoned by their parents. Most of them were three or four years old, still full of wonderment. They, too, would tug at my beard, and knew that I was real.
But one seven-year-old already knew better. He looked at me cynically from across the room. He finally sidled up to me and gave me such a swift kick in the shins that I cursed at him before I could regain my composure. Now he had all the evidence that he needed and shouted over and again, “That’s not really Santa! He’s a fake! He cursed at me! He’s a fake!”
What should I do? Quick as I could, I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him into a corner. “Look, kid,” I growled at him. “If you don’t tell them you were joking, I’m going to make sure you never have another Coca-Cola for the rest of your life!”
His eyes widened. “You could really do that?” “Just try me,” I growled back. In a moment, a shout emerged. “I was just kidding! That is the real Santa!”
Even a Jewish Santa, I guess, is worth the benefit of the doubt when a life without Coke is as stake. After all, even the surliest kid isn’t willing to drink seltzer for the rest of his life on a bet with Santa Claus.
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