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November 19, 2004/Kislev 6 5765, Vol. 57, No. 12
Kosher bill of rights
MELANIE WINDERLICH
Special to Jewish News
What do you call a kosher girl in New Orleans? Hungry.
It might not be the most original joke in the book, but its message is certainly clear.
I moved to New Orleans from Scottsdale about one year ago. Of course, I'm sure you are thinking that the Jew-to-gentile ratio cannot be much greater there than in the Big Easy, and I definitely agree: Phoenix is not the Jerusalem of the Southwest. Devout Jews do not clog the sidewalks on Saturday afternoon because they dutifully observe Shab-bat. Yiddish and Hebrew take a backseat to Spanish and French in secular schools. And your chances of finding more than a handful of authentic kosher delis in the desert are about as good as finding a cactus growing in Brooklyn.
Then what's the big problem, you ask?
The big deal is that I am hungry and annoyed. Although Jewish residency in Arizona is not vast, Jews, and the needs of certain Jews, still exist and businesses recognize this fact. Large supermarket chains carry items that can produce an actual kosher dinner rather than questionable "ethnic" dishes consisting of Hebrew National hot dogs, Manischevitz wine and year-old matzo. In some large-scale Arizona supermarkets, you can pick up paper towels, a pound of apples and frozen Empire kosher chicken breasts all in the same place.
The frustrating element of being kosher in New Orleans is probably the same element that frustrates vegetarians in rural parts of the country; namely, one's personal dietary guidelines seeming a mystery to most restaurant owners and chefs. Sometimes we non-meat eaters don't always want to go to that trendy new "vegan-friendly" restaurant that is in the middle of nowhere, is much more expensive than its carnivore-serving counterparts and emanates the smell of one too many steamed broccoli florets.
I am not making fun of these restaurants. However, when you are a recent graduate like me who does not own a car, does not earn a huge income, and still wants to practice the religious customs she began as a child, these restaurants are really not an option. Plus, dating a non-kosher, Jewish boy who is king of the carnivores becomes a challenge when dining out.
When my boyfriend and I do go out to a regular restaurant in New Orleans, reading the menu is like a "Who's Who" list of what I cannot eat. Even options I like and can embrace, like salmon or trout, are stuffed with crabmeat, poached in crawfish butter or dripping with lobster sauce.
I implore kitchen staff and restaurant owners to hear my words: "I am sick of your dinner salads and bread baskets." Just as menus and recipes adapted to Atkins dieters and carbohydrate counters, so too recognize the demands we non-meat eaters face. I don't expect restaurants to address the needs of every kosher diner since the standards we observe vary between each person. But at least throw us a (figurative) bone and print on the menu whether a dish has a hidden animal-based ingredient.
A "tiny" amount of chicken in the sauce or a beef-based stock used "sparingly" is still not okay, no matter how sparse the amount.
I beseech all those who keep a kosher home and all those who empathize with the plight of the tired, the poor and the cheeseburger-less to follow my "Kosher Jew's Bill of Rights":
1. I will no longer accept the words "kosher-style." You, the deli owner, will not tease me with the salivating dream of a nice Reuben sandwich then destroy my fantasy with your cowardly "kosher-style" disclaimer because you couldn't commit to the laws of kashrut.
2. Being kosher does not make me your nearest knowledge base about the intricacies of Judaism and its nearly 4,000-year-old history. I am not a rabbi, a cantor or a sage just because I avoid the lobster bisque.
3. I demand local supermarkets stock kosher items so I don't have to drag myself down to the three local kosher restaurants. This stock should not include stale Passover matzo in September or those bagels you, the gentile supermarket manager, sometimes call Jewish doughnuts.
4. You will not ask me if I ever feel like I am missing out on some "delicious" foods, as you dangle a juicy crawfish near me. Do you feel like you are missing out on enacting an ancient mitzvah? No? Me neither.
5. I will not be made to feel like the group's joykill when we go to dinner and we must order "just" a cheese pizza or the house salad without chicken. Get over it. Your arteries will thank me and you can always return with your carnivorous friends another day.
Let this bill of rights serve as a testament and a reminder to the daily struggles of your kosher brothers and sisters.
Melanie Winderlich is a free-lance writer in New Orleans.
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