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.