First, a confession: I am not, nor have I ever been, a Talmudist of any significant repute. And for most of my life I didn’t consider myself less fortunate because of it. But as I turned on to East 33rd Street, I found myself a mess, searching for answers to questions that only the wisdom of my forefathers could tackle. Does Judaism allow for rebirth? Is it merely the neshama, the soul, that persists, or does the body remain intact? Does the same principle apply to a corned beef sandwich?
And if so, will the rye be seedless?
For me, Abe Lebewohl’s famous Second Avenue Deli hadn’t lost its institutional stature in the nearly two years since it closed its hallowed doors. Indeed, the memory was overpowering, even painful, and never more so than when I went back to the original location on 10th Street and found a Chase Bank. The memory was all that was left—only six weeks after the closing, my loved ones were forced to intervene to make me part with the decaying take-out container from which I had been inhaling daily whiffs of the remnants of Second Avenue schnitzel. But I and the thousands of others in mourning had learned to be patient, like our ancestors before us awaiting the restoration of the Temple.
But could that restoration permissibly take place in Murray Hill? Were the name and spirit of the institution enough to override the change of temporal location? In the lead up to the re-opening I had been kept up for several nights wondering what I would do if the answer were no. Surely it was an issue only to be solved by the most venerable of rebbes.
Fortunately, I recalled an old Yiddish fable:
A shtetl butcher, having learned a new slaughtering method on a trip to a neighboring town, had begun to use it on his own animals. As news of this development spread among the townspeople, so did their anxiety about the kashrut of the butcher’s products. One anxious young tailor went to visit the spiritual leader, Reb Beltzya, for advice:
“Rabbi,” asked the tailor, “I need to feed my family, and to tell you the truth, I have a soft spot for the butcher’s beef, but I’m worried it no longer meets our sacred dietary ordinances. Can I still eat his food? Can I trust him?”
“Why do you come to me for answers?” replied the sage. “The answer to such an important question must be found deep within your heart. Only there will you find God’s true will.”
The tailor was instantly relieved: “Of course, you’re right, Rabbi. Well, I’ve known all along that the butcher could be trusted.”
An approving smile crept across the Rabbi’s face, as he replied: “Good. In that case, would you mind picking me up a half pound of brisket?”
As it turned out, most of my landsmen seemed to have remembered the same story. Or perhaps they were more concerned with securing a decent table than a clear conscience. Approaching the deli, I found the masses waiting with an enthusiasm matched only by their impatience. With each shove, glare, or snide remark exchanged between customers, my concern grew for the fracturing of the crowd. Would we feud at the moment of our reconstitution as a people, standing before our rebuilt spiritual capital? Worse yet, would our lust for immediate satiation force us to embrace a false prophet or idol? To avoid such a disaster, we needed a symbol of piety around which to rally.
What we got was a cultural relic, although we didn’t know it when the nondescript black sedan pulled up to the curb. The car’s occupant was Fyvush Finkel, the scion of Yiddish theater—turned television star. We would soon be dining with tribal royalty.
He strutted out of the vehicle wearing a hat I’d previously seen only in my grandfather’s closet and a Soviet history textbook. With a few nods of the head he was on his way in, the crowd stepping aside for him to enter the restaurant unmolested. If I were permitted a cliché I would liken his parting of the crowd to Moses at the Red Sea, albeit with a greater sense of purpose. After all, the Israelites had manna waiting for them on the other side; Fyvush had pastrami.
Most of the older customers in line called their friends and family to describe their fleeting encounter with this icon of American Judaism. But the younger ones—and it is with a heavy heart that I concede this embarrassment for my own generation—stood befuddled, collectively wondering: Wasn’t that the old guy from Boston Public?
The general euphoria surrounding Fyvush’s arrival distracted the mob from an outrage that followed: A religious passerby popped her head in the doorway to ask if the food was glatt kosher. How presumptuous of her, I thought, to question Second Avenue’s credentials. Had she tasted the matzoh ball? Shouldn’t that have been enough? The restaurant’s greeter confessed his ignorance—“I’m from the Midwest,” he responded. He then added, as if reading my mind: “I know it’s good, though.” Clearly unsatisfied, the would-be patron turned and left.
I was staying. When my party was finally admitted to the restaurant, my eyes immediately began to dart about the dining room in search of the resident royalty. I hoped to find Fyvush seated in a VIP booth in the rear, surrounded by admirers bellowing with laughter at the jokes he told in between puffs of a pickle cigar (half-sour) and bites of coleslaw. Instead, he was planted in a stool near the doorway flashing his authoritative smile at emerging patrons, like a sort of mascot—a spokesman to assuage our anxieties, to assure us that we could trust the new establishment.
Customers filed by his perch, usually with a benevolent nod, never with a kiss of the hand. The only people who successfully received his audience were two young girls, who could not possibly have known who Boris Thomdash;efsky was, let alone that the luminary whose leg they were tugging had shared the stage (and more than one piece of herring) with him.
One patron was sufficiently credentialed to make it through the screening process. By virtue of the efforts of an in-house power broker with a mustard-stained face, Fyvush was introduced to a man who might have rivaled him in cultural contribution, if not in public recognition:
“Fyvush, do you know Sid? This is Sid.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” replied Fyvush, seeming unconvinced that this fellow had earned the honor of his acquaintance.
“Sid. Bernstein. The producer. He brought The Beatles over.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah”. . . big deal. . .rdquo; I guess,” muttered Mr. Bernstein. “I had grandkids though, so”. . . ”
Fyvush nodded approvingly.
As this brief but extraordinary meeting of notables ended, I marveled that I was privileged to have witnessed one of the great Jewish dialogues of the modern period. Here were two pioneers of American culture, who could have hit it off knocking back a few Dr. Brown’s and congratulating each other on their exploits in the world of show business. They might have even considered a creative collaboration—imagine the potential for a Sid Bernstein production of A Yar on Copliks (translation: A Year Without Coupons) with Fyvush in the leading role. But instead, their discussion amounted to a humble affirmation of the enduring sanctity of the Abrahamic covenant.
The bliss afforded me by my naïve moment of imagination was shattered by my unnerving subsequent visit to the bathroom. The room was something out of a world’s fair exhibition, featuring the latest advances in hygiene, from a fountain-like faucet jutting from the wall to the over powering hand dryer—the “XLerator.” The centerpiece of the facilities—the triumph and validation of evacuative technological progress—was a thin sheet of plastic wrapped tightly around the toilet seat, carrying a placard explaining its function:
Press button once (DO NOT HOLD) for new seat cover
I imagined this bit of machinery to be the result of extensive psychoanalytic research into the Jew’s relation to his toilet. Myself a bit unconventional in my conception of the mores of the water closet, I could appreciate the existence of a connection between the ethnic psyche and expectations of comfort in the lavatory (a gem of a dissertation topic if I ever heard one).
Curious, I went along with the gimmick cautiously—from a philosophical point of view, I have never been partial to the idea of the seat cover—only to have my trust quickly betrayed. To my horror, a single push of the button yielded only a ¼ revolution of the plastic cover, decidedly not the level of protection promised. Then and there I decided not to patronize a toilet seat so dishonest and morally corrupt as to use modern technology to lull its occupants into a false sense of security.
Suffice to say, my seat in the dining room booth was more trustworthy. As I sat in it, chatting with my friends and trying to summon the wait staff, Fyvush strode by and delivered a cryptic message: “Big Appetite.”
That was it. Before we had a chance to engage him, he walked away smiling. I wondered if his statement had carried a question mark. Was it a challenge, or merely a comment on the virility of youth, the lament of a man who once contended with the big dogs but now must be content with a doggie bag?
Like a particularly rich passage of Maimonides, I knew it might take years for me to divine the meaning of those words. Still, I found comfort in their mere offering; for the time being, they freed me from my spiritual crisis. At that moment it occurred to me that I didn’t need the Talmud, the sages, or the birthright. I had Fyvush to tell me I was among friends and, deep in my memory, good advice on how to order: my late great aunt’s admonition, never to be missed at a Kosher restaurant, to “Take something good!”
ALLON BRANN is a Columbia College sophomore majoring in History