An American Jew in Europe

New York, at times the center of the modern universe, seems to have a unique disconnect from the rest of the world, as if crossing the Brooklyn Bridge or the Midtown Tunnel changes the laws of science, or more topically, Halacha.

Since my very Hungarian family and I travel to our old Motherland an average of once a year to visit relatives and get reacquainted, I have front row seats to watch the disconnect. Most of the time it consists of my sister and I joking about how our spoiled American butts can’t handle European toilet paper (but this is okay, because we present-day Americans aren’t the most pampered people history has seen). 

The more fascinating, and sometimes deeply frustrating, version of the disconnect, though, is this strange Halachic language barrier between New York Jews and their foreign brethren.

You see, there is one system of Halacha, but many social standards based on it. These vary in practice and strictness depending on where you come from. Take, for example, Shomer Negiyah. I certainly see the reasoning behind keeping repressed and twitchy pubescent boys and girls from touching, whether or not I agree with it in every situation.  The kicker is that while we Relig-Jews in New York have been trained obsessively in this rule, we don’t realize that it is by no means standard globally, even among the Orthodox.

In Hungary, for example, even our most observant friends aren’t Shomer. I grew up getting polite cheek-kiss greetings from a family friend who wears a black hat. And sure, New York versus Europe is clearly a case of "Potato, Po-tah-to" (with a rolled ‘r’ or two), but it isn’t the difference that bothers me. Sometimes those who were brought up with the rule are not prepared to deal with those who weren't. My problem comes when the emphasis on keeping the rules (or our inability to deal with those who don’t) gets in the way of us acting like human beings, when it causes us to degrade and embarrass people on the other end.

A friend of mine who arrived “fresh off the boat,” so to speak, a few years ago (who grew up and remains Orthodox) told me about the first time he was introduced to a few religious, good, American, college girls.

Yes. They actually ran away.

What these tactless and clearly confused girls failed to realize is that they’d effectively tainted his view of American Jewry for a long time to come. Before I’d heard this story, I’d been surprised at what I saw as my friend’s unnecessarily careful way of tiptoeing around every movement and word when meeting new people. Nobody likes to be judged and made a fool, especially not the new guy. The girls were lucky he’s secure enough in his faith not to let their behavior turn him off from it. 

But the New York/Europe detachment stretches far beyond the borders of social standards, into the realm of serious, unarguable Halacha: Kashrut.

We New Yorkers may complain that more things aren’t available Kosher, or when Starbucks arbitrarily changes its drink base to apparently include slugs, but the truth is that we are incredibly lucky to even have those little OU and OK symbols to guide us, to have our pick of good (if insanely expensive) restaurants at our disposal. Most countries don’t have a system of Kashrut certification at all, or if they do, it is used on only a fraction of food items, due to lack of either demand or cooperation from food factory owners.

These countries handle Kashrut by their own methods. In Hungary, Kashrut “certification” goes by word of mouth. True, Budapest boasts three (really good) Kosher restaurants, an un-freaking-believable Kosher Café, and two or three grocery stores/butcher shops, but the selection of staple items are severely limited. And that’s in the biggest city in a country with one of the largest Jewish communities in Europe. Forget the little towns in countries like Luxembourg.

If you want to keep kosher in Budapest (and few Hungarians do), you’re going to have to cough up an arm and a leg for a package of salami, and travel to the former Ghetto to pick it up. There’s simply no way to only eat certified-kosher products.  Many European countries work the same way, if they have any Kosher restaurants at all. Going back to Europe means I get to live this interesting sort of double-life, relying on unofficial lists and friends’ recommendations instead of a convenient label for two or three weeks a year. It also means I get to see many variations on this discussion once I get back:

What truly cracks me up is when those products which are available Kosher in Europe and Israel, which are made in one factory and distributed globally, are denied in only one place, and that’s the one with the largest Jewish population in the world: the USA. The perfect example of such an item is the old favorite: Bailey’s Irish Cream Liquor.

Bailey’s is “not recommended” as Kosher by the Orthodox Authorities in the United States. It is, however, used in such delicious food items as Ben & Jerry’s Dublin Mudslide ice-cream and Bailey's-Flavored Haagen Dazs, which bear Kashrut certification. It is also certified Kosher in places such as England, Australia, and Israel. The mysterious case of Bailey’s has confused me for years, and I’ve heard every answer from “it’s actually perfectly alright” to “there’s a separate bottling plant in the US which is not Halachically acceptable.”  I’ve asked around and researched online, discovering along the way that yes, there is just one recipe and one bottling plant, and yes, the stuff I get in Budapest is fine. But it’s not fine here. I truly don’t get how this works.

Anyone who has known me for about five minutes knows of my interest in the varying standards of social and Halachic law across the globe. I enjoy my chance to see both worlds. I adore the Hungarian Kosher Café and love my time in Budapest (which I highly recommend as a beautiful and culturally rich travel option). I often complain about how closed-minded and cliquey New York Jews are.

But of course, there’s a reason my parents left the place, the same reason all of my European friends left their hometowns, and it isn’t because they were bored. This summer, I finally got to see it firsthand.

Things in Hungary (and Europe in general) are not great for Jews right now. With the economy the way it is and with an ultra-right wing party in parliament, it’s becoming increasingly acceptable to be a full-blown xenophobe, Gypsy-hater, and anti-Semite. I’ve been told about graffiti in France and rocks through windows in Greece. I know my parents’ stories of hiding their religion during communism and of their escape to the US. I remember when my sister got called “a dirty Jew.”  But a week ago (finally, it seems), I got to see it myself.

My parents took me to the south of Hungary, to a beautiful little city where cobblestones line the streets and porcelain fountains make the town square interesting. We had an awesome time touring, and at the end of the day, we sat down in the town square for a snack, and my father realized he had to daven Mincha.

He walked to the edge of the square and stood behind a tree, as any davener might do in public, and started to pray while my mom and I dug into the sandwiches we’d brought from our Budapest apartment.

As we ate, we began to notice the huge, apparently steroid-popping guys sitting near us, joking amongst themselves. I thought amusingly about how one of them bore an uncanny resemblance to a character from my neighbor’s old Street Fighter 2 video game (the other one looked like a fat hobo). But the farther along we got in our sandwiches, the more my mom, and then I, began to hear what they were laughing about.

  

Eventually, my dad finished praying and joined us. And the Street-Fighter guys got louder.

That was about as far as they got before my mom said “That’s it!” and told my dad (who hadn’t heard or noticed anything) that she needed to find a bathroom in a building across town NOW. She ushered us out of the town square before telling my dad what happened. He shrugged and said, “We’re here. What do you expect?”

The truth is, I love going to Hungary anyway, and this little incident wouldn’t keep me from it. After all, I’ve been travelling back and forth since I was born, and this is the first time I ever got “Jewed” (in Europe, anyway). But at that moment, I couldn’t help my sudden longing for New York, for my friends, for Kosher-Certified pizza, even for speeches on sleeve length technicalities to roll my eyes at.  

We New York kids, who grew up in the States, who have never been beaten up for wearing a kippah, who have clicked our tongues at the awful anti-Semitic things they do somewhere else… we are so lucky that we can complain about Bailey’s lack of a label. As we sped-walked away from the town square, all I could think was man, am I spoiled. Am I lucky to live where I do, when I do. Well, that and Steroid Man, someone really ought to kick your butt. 

A Greatly Exaggerated Explanation for Starbucks’ Kosher Issues

Note: For reasons of writer's boredom, the following blog post blows the political importance of Starbucks Frappuccinos completely out of all proportion. It probably does the same thing with pretty much everything else while we're at it.

A little while ago, when Starbucks had just released a new holiday flavor, I decided I wanted to try this new drink and made my way to one of the many coffee shops in Manhattan. I had no idea whether this drink was Kosher or not, and the handy-dandy informative website hadn’t yet formed an opinion either way on this particular flavor. So, left to my devices, I chose my remaining option and asked to see the syrup bottle.

I didn't actually say that, but I did want to. I don't think he would have gotten the joke, anyway. But it seems simple, almost comically so, for the barista to bring over the bottle of artificial flavoring for inspection. Sometimes this will happen. This time, it didn’t.

Instead, the barista thought this was something a higher power had to decide and left the counter to get the manager, who (thank you, merciful Hashem) not only knew what I was talking about but also knew the answer to my query. In this particular case, the flavor WAS Kosher, as I was able to determine when the barista at long last let me see the label.

Now was that so difficult?

I’m sure others have endured similar experiences. This type of soul-sucking exchange with underpaid baristas has the added bonus of almost always happening during Starbucks’ busiest hours, so that all the impatient caffeine junkies on line now know for certain that they are being held up by some Jew who insists on seeing a little mark on a label. And why, dear caffeine junkies, are we holding you up with such a trivial request? Not because we want to, believe it. This time, it’s not our fault. It is a long and sad tale.

Once upon a time, not so long ago (I think I was starting college), Frappuccinos were in every New Yorker’s hand, no matter their background, no matter their level of conspiracy theorism. Remember that?

The blended 5,000 calorie slurp/dessert/beverage was the great uniter of the nations. The creamy, cold, over-caffeinated, occasionally chunky treat we were all ashamed to pay four dollars to drink (not that this ever stopped anyone).

And then last winter the news came from the Rabbis of Kosher Land, “We can no longer recommend Frappuccinos as Kosher”. The base, apparently, had been changed to include lard, animal rennet, and chicken blood. Or it must have been, because I don’t know why else it should randomly have joined the Religious Jew’s “Dead to me” list.

Naturally, not a month later Starbucks launched its “make your own Frappuccino” campaign, and caffeine-starved Jews everywhere could only look on with their noses pressed to the window of their nearest Starbucks until they were chased away by broom-wielding baristas.

Going back further, Pumpkin Spice Lattes were all the rage come autumn. As a certified fall-flavor nut, I also clambered to the green- and –white marked watering hole the moment I heard this flavor was back in production. And then that too was treif-listed. The same story goes with White Chocolate Mocha, my sister’s personal favorite, and Java Chip, and many other Starbucks Staples.

Every time this occurs, you can hear a thousand Jewish college students scream. And after the collective cry of anguish, there comes a lull, followed by one delayed-reaction screech when Mr. Last-To-Hear walks in with a steaming cup of flavored Joe, only to be told by everyone in the room, “Dude, that stuff’s treif”. Heartbreak and the embarrassment which comes with having just committed a Kashrut snafu in front of everyone ensue.

This has happened at least once to I’m pretty sure everyone, myself included. And it is just awful.

So why does Starbucks seem to possess the insatiable need to take away our favorite treats?For the sake of humor and making myself feel better, I have devised a thoroughly nonsensical but nonetheless borderline amusing reason for Starbucks’ sudden change in Kashrut stance. If this somehow turned out to be something other than total fiction, I would laugh and laugh and tell everyone I called it, then call animal control. Oh big coffee giants, do not be offended by my little joke. It’s called a consolation quip.

I am told I can look at this one of two ways: either the company is sadistic and just hates us (but enough people are like that and this is not the view I choose to follow), or the universe is trying to teach us something.

And on that note, Starbucks’ cruel removal of my Kosher latte flavor made me, for the first time, appreciate something I had until then taken for granted and resented often: college.

You see, the Starbucks on my campus seems to have not gotten the memo. Its ingredients are generic brand, and I’m not entirely sure why they’re considered a Starbucks at all, but they are, and their pumpkin spice flavor syrup by generic company A is KOSHER! So for the first time, I have grown to appreciate the existence of my particular college (not college in general, which I acknowledge is a good thing).

So there we have it. By depriving and frustrating us, this large and caffeine-pumped franchise is really trying to teach us a lesson.

Fellow Kosher-keepers, enjoy life. Never take anything for granted, and take pleasure in the little things while you can, because someday, Starbucks is going to get bored and take it away from you.

Adventures in Food! Or, My First Week in Kosher Culinary School

My relationship to Kosher food is sort of like my relationship to water. It’s essential, I need it to survive, and I would never deny its importance or necessity. But I hate swimming in it, and sometimes I feel like it doesn’t quite let me breathe.

That’s not to say I would stop following its laws. I am, after all, Orthodox and Jewish and all those lovely titles that imply everything from Rabbi Akiva to denim skirts. But more interestingly than that (for the purposes of this article, at least), I have also just begun Culinary School. And by that, read KOSHER culinary school.

I chose to try the path of the kitchen sink for several reasons: first, because I thought it would be fun and useful, even though I have no plans to become a chef or a caterer. Second, because when else will I ever have the chance to take a three month program focusing only on food? Certainly not once I’ve started Graduate School, and definitely not when I’m old. It’s now or never (at 22, I seem to be thinking that about a lot of things). And third, because I wanted to see if correctly-made Kosher food could ever live up to the standards of gourmet boasted by non-Kosher chefs (for my thoughts on that subject, click here).

So far it's been interesting and fun and exhausting, and much harder than I thought it would be. The first two days consisted of knife skills. How to hold it, slice this way, chop that way...between all the juliennes at school and my papercut art at home, one of my friends started joking that I had officially enrolled to become a ninja. There's a visual I shamelessly enjoyed.

(FYI, that was supposed to be to the tune of the Spider-Man theme song. I know. Jack Kirby is plugging his ears up in Heaven right now.)

So last week on my first day of THE CULINARY EXPERIENCE, I took the two hour commute to Brooklyn for the first time since high school (this itself a step toward delegitimizing the whole process) and stumbled in one minute late to my first impression of what it would be like.

Imagine my relief when I discovered that there were three other girls in the program, even if one hadn't arrived yet and the other two were obscured from view by the six-foot-plus Rambo impersonator standing in front of them. Uniforms and aprons were promptly distributed.

The pants (despite being the smallest size available) were about a foot too long for me, as were the sleeves. The shoulders hung off me like an overcoat on a wall hook, while the chest and waist were so tight the buttons wouldn't stay closed. Clearly, this was not made to fit me, or any female for that matter (or any guy lacking Superman shoulders, really). I was beginning to notice a pattern, and suddenly recalled the stereotype I had heard repeatedly about the world of culinary professionalism (apologies to Mel Brooks):

I don't know what it is about culinary school that makes dumb parodies of already silly songs pop into my head, but both Men in Whites and Ninja Chef came to me suddenly in the middle of class. I shudder to think how many of these I'll have by the end of the program.

Anyway, after all this Chef went around the table and asked about our backgrounds, and about our favorite cuisine, which renewed my sense of purpose and excitement by bringing up my favorite sensitive issue: Food Nationalism, the unspoken race card.

Man, I love Food Nationalism; that ingrained instinct of every human to KNOW FOR A FACT that their own background’s cuisine is better than all the others, and to take offense at any suggestion to the contrary. I myself have had many a spirited debate on the subject, being both a food snob and Hungarian.

I confess: there are few things I find funnier than two people with wonderful culinary backgrounds going at it over whose is the slightly more prestigious of the two:

At other times, like in Culinary School, the tendency of people to get insulted over other people’s food tastes can be taken to almost laughable extremes:

Oh boy, do I have culinary school cut out for me. I'm short, I'm female, and I’m Ashkenazi. I don’t eat veal, and I’ve discovered that I hate cilantro. This is going to be fun.