Uncategorized
How Arnold Horween, an unsung Jewish Harvard hero, changed American sports
(JTA) — Decades before Sandy Koufax sat out the first game of the 1965 World Series because it fell on Yom Kippur, and 18 years before Greenberg chased Babe Ruth’s single-season home run record in the late 1930s, a college athlete made some overlooked Jewish sports history.
Arnold Horween, a burly Chicagoan, became the first Jewish captain of the Harvard University football team in 1920 — an achievement that sent ripples through American culture.
Horween, who would later play and coach in the early years of what would become the NFL, was born to Jewish immigrants from Ukraine. He became a star player at Harvard, helping the Crimson go undefeated in both 1919 and 1920 after returning from serving in World War I. (His brother Ralph also played at Harvard and in the NFL, and they were the first and only Jewish brothers to play in the NFL until Geoff and Mitchell Schwartz.)
But it was Horween’s unanimous selection as the team’s captain, and more importantly, his appointment in 1926 as the team’s coach, that would prove unprecedented.
“In American Jewish culture, the only thing greater than being the captain of the Harvard Crimson, the only higher station in American culture might have been the president, or the coach of Harvard, which he eventually becomes,” said Zev Eleff, the president of Gratz College and a scholar of American Jewish history.
Eleff explores Horween’s story and its impact in his recent book, “Dyed in Crimson: Football, Faith, and Remaking Harvard’s America,” released earlier this year. He traces the history of Harvard athletics in the early 1900s, exploring how Horween, along with Harvard’s first athletic director, Bill Bingham, altered the landscape of America’s most prestigious college.
Horween’s ascendance came at a time when Harvard instituted quotas to limit the number of Jewish and other minority students it accepted — a practice the school would employ throughout the 1920s and 30s. His story also took place amid a political landscape that featured the rise of Father Charles Coughlin, the antisemitic “radio priest,” and the reemergence of the Ku Klux Klan.
As Eleff underscores in the book, Horween did not fit the model of a “Boston Brahmin,” the class of elite, Christian, aspirationally manly men whose supremacy was unquestioned at Harvard Yard. Horween broke that mold, instead instilling a team culture where a love of the sport was almost as important as winning — the Ted Lasso effect, if you will.
“Dyed in Crimson” also uses early 20th century Harvard as an allegory for the broader theme of how sports can change society.
“The theme of the book, something that’s uniquely American, is how the periphery can influence the mainstream,” said Eleff. “How people on the sidelines can really make an influence.”
Eleff spoke to the Jewish Telegraphic Agency about how Horween’s story fits into the pantheon of Jewish American sports legends and what it says about Jews’ ability to succeed in America.
This conversation has been edited for length and clarity.
Let’s dig into Horween’s story. I liked the idea of him as like an earlier version of Koufax or a Greenberg, but to be honest, I had never heard of him. Why do you think his story isn’t as well known as other Jewish athletes?
I think it has everything to do with the emergence of Major League Baseball. College football was America’s sport in the 1910s and 1920s. It was a big money sport, when there was very little money outside of the New York Yankees. And I think that Horween’s star started to sort of decline with Harvard football, but also the emergence of other sports.
The other reason is because the idea of the Jewish ballplayer loomed large. The New York Giants, for decades, tried to identify a Jewish superstar. They actually passed on Greenberg. There was a thought after Greenberg that there was Jewish DNA for baseball, and the signing of Koufax was directly linked to this notion. It was this eugenics-like link that you need a Jewish ballplayer. For the Giants, it was ticket sales. So the commotion about Greenberg and Koufax is more about Jewish identity. And baseball is, as a professional sport in New York, Queens, Brooklyn, the Bronx, different than college football, particularly in New England at this time. Frankly, Jews lived near the Polo Grounds, they didn’t live near Harvard Yard.
Arnold Horween shown in The Baltimore Sun on November 16, 1927. (Wikimedia Commons)
For Horween, obviously he’s not at the level of a Greenberg or Koufax talent-wise, but he also didn’t seem to care as much personally about his Jewish identity. You write in the book that there were some Jews who took issue with the fact that Horween was not practicing, but there were also many Jews who were simply proud he was Jewish. What do you think about that dynamic?
There becomes a sort of disconnect between lived religion and the perception and what they come to represent — the mantle that they wear almost towers above the practice. Horween eschewed the opportunity to claim the mantle of Jewish leadership, Jewish celebrity. But we do see in its moment that he is the topic of rabbinic sermons, that The American Hebrew and other Jewish press are reporting on him. They are elated. In American Jewish culture, the only thing greater than being the captain of the Harvard Crimson — it’s hard for people to realize, but in the moment when they were part of the big three [alongside Princeton and Yale] — the only higher station in American culture might have been the president, or the coach of Harvard, which he eventually becomes.
One of the parts of this book that I enjoyed learning about is the extent to which college football in the early 20th century was all about honor, masculinity, gentlemanliness. And at the time, that kind of stands in contrast to how Jews were viewed — that Jews were not masculine, Jews couldn’t fit into that mold of the “Harvard man.”
Being on the sports team, that was probably far beyond Jewish expectations. Not to say that Jews could not be athletic, but very often the varsity players weren’t picked for their talent but rather their surnames. What the sea change at Harvard is, [within] gentlemanly culture — in which “gentlemanly” is a Protestant, Christian masculinity — Horween is not Protestant. What allows him a pathway into that elite group is that drive to win. And as a player, he’s good luck. He never loses. He becomes a signature player for victory who even wins the Rose Bowl.
But as a coach, he subverts that. What he and Bill Bingham do is their campaign isn’t necessarily for winning, it’s for having fun, it’s for enjoying the game.
In the 1910s and 20s, college football was the peak of American sports, but that’s certainly not the case anymore. What do you think would be the modern comparison for someone like Horween?
Is Becky Hammon with the Spurs, the first woman [to act as] head coach in basketball, something like that? Or the very important discussions about people of color as coaches in the NFL? Sports and education are, for some reason or another, where change is made in American life. Brown v. Board of Education in 1954 ends, at least officially, segregation. Title IV, what is basically American law for anti-discrimination based on sex, is based on women’s college sports. You have the breaking down of color barriers and Jackie Robinson, Muhammad Ali and Vietnam. You have the first [openly] gay athletes, you have questions of breaking the glass ceiling for women and Serena Williams.
It’s absolutely 100% true that sports doesn’t matter. Who wins the World Series is of no great consequence to most people’s lives. Although it’s interesting, if you drive up I-95 on a Sunday, you will see that the bumper stickers and the flags change. There is some sort of passion, obviously, about sport. But it’s absolutely true that for some reason or another in the 20th century and 21st century in American sport, really important social and cultural decisions, and political decisions, are made in American sport.
Zev Eleff, president of Gratz College and author of “Dyed in Crimson.” (Courtesy)
Another main topic in the book is that the goal for immigrants, especially Jews, was Americanization, assimilation — that to become part of the mainstream was the marker of success. But that seems to be the case for Jews in a very different sense than it is for Catholics and for Blacks.
The major contribution of this book to American Jewish history beyond telling this story is to complicate notions of Americanization. Jews and Catholics in particular view Americanization very, very differently. The Catholic experience is to create parallel systems. If you’re a good Catholic boy with immense football talent, play for Notre Dame, play for Boston College. Don’t play for the Protestant mainstream. Cream them on the football field. Create parallel systems.
The Jewish experience is not so. Outside of Orthodox day schools in the early 20th century, it was anathema, it was considered almost heretical, for American Jews to [go] to private schools. To the contrary, the so-called golden citadels of the public schools — that is the agent of Americanization. Jews don’t establish their own educational systems. They somehow Americanize and acculturate into the mainstream. We don’t compete with Harvard, we get into Harvard.
Thinking about the antisemitism of that time — the quotas, Father Coughlin, all of that — how do you think that compares to what we’re seeing today?
Historians disagree about the 1920s. Was it a time of great prominence of American Jews? There was affluence in the roaring ’20s. There were institutions that were created, there was creativity, from the Orthodox and Mordecai Kaplan certainly, across the board, the Jewish Theological Seminary. American Judaism was at a certain high point in the 1920s. At the same time, there were quotas, and there was rising antisemitism. I think today we also have to deal with the tension of, on the one hand, there are great opportunities for Jews in the United States; at the same time, there is antisemitism. And so from the 1920s to the 2020s, 100 years later, you see a model for how to grapple with those tensions.
What do you hope, more than anything else, someone takes away or learns from your book?
It’s a book that begins like a punch line: a working class Protestant, a Catholic and a Jew walk into a football field. But it ends with something I think a lot more pronounced, which is, it’s a story about change. As a historian, I study change, particularly in American Judaism, broadly in American religion and Jewish Studies. Change is the best asset that a historian has to study. I wasn’t interested in just finding another Sandy Koufax story, replicating that story. This is a story that isn’t just about a Jew who happened for his moment to become quite successful and quite famous, or a Catholic or a former mill hand turned first athletic director in college history. It’s really about how people on the periphery influence the mainstream.
—
The post How Arnold Horween, an unsung Jewish Harvard hero, changed American sports appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
Uncategorized
Tidbits: A publishing firm for Jewish writers excluded by mainstream publishers
Tidbits is a Forverts feature of easy news briefs in Yiddish that you can listen to or read, or both! If you read the article and don’t know a word, just click on it and the translation appears. Listen to the report here:
אין ניו־יאָרק איז די וואָך געגרינדט געוואָרן אַ פֿאַרלאַג פֿאַר ייִדישע און ישׂראלדיקע שרײַבער וואָס זאָרגן זיך, אַז זייער אָפּשטאַם אָדער מיינונגען קאָנען שטערן צום פּובליקירן זייערע ביכער.
לויט אַ סטאַטיסטיק פֿונעם מחבר מעג קין, איז בײַ די הויפּט־פֿאַרלאַגן, צווישן 2023 און 2024, געפֿאַלן מיט 76% די צאָל בעלעטריסטישע ביכער, וואָס דערמאָנען ייִדן, ייִדישקייט אָדער ישׂראל.
„הײַלײַן פּאָבלישינג סטודיאָ“, וואָס האָט דעביוטיִרט אין ענגלאַנד מיט אַ חודש צוריק, האָט געעפֿנט אַן אַמעריקאַנער צווײַג אין מאַנהעטן בײַ „פּאָרט סאַיִד“, דעם רעסטאָראַן פֿונעם וועלטבאַרימטן קוכער איל שני (עיאַל שאַני).
„הײַלײַן“ איז לאַנצירט געוואָרן דורך ניל בלער, דעם לאַנגיאָריקן ליטעראַרישן אַגענט פֿון דזשיי קיי ראָלינגס — דער שרײַבערין פֿון די האַרי־פּאָטער ביכער.
„איך האָב שוין פֿון לאַנג באַמערקט, אַז אַ צאָל שרײַבער קענען נישט געפֿינען קיין פֿאַרלאַג,“ האָט בלער געזאָגט. „נישט צוליב דער קוואַליטעט פֿון זייער שרײַבן אָדער אַ דוחק פֿון אָריגינעלע געדאַנקען, נאָר ווײַל זייער וועלטבאַנעם שטימט נישט מיטן קוקווינקל פֿון די פֿאַרלאַגן — אָדער אפֿשר ווײַל זייער משפּחה־נאָמען איז אַ ייִדישער אָדער ישׂראלדיקער.“
די פּראָבלעם, זאָגט ער, איז געוואָרן נאָך ערגער נאָך די טעראָריסטישע אַטאַקן פֿונעם זיבעטן אָקטאָבער, האָט בלער געזאָגט. ער האָט למשל דערמאָנט די שוועריקייטן בײַם געפֿינען אַ הויפּטשטראָמיקן בריטישן פֿאַרלאַג פֿאַר אַ בוך פֿון אלי שרבי (עלי שאַראַבי) וועגן זײַנע איבערלעבונגען ווי אַן ערובֿניק אין עזה — נישט געקוקט אויף דעם וואָס אין אַמעריקע האָט מען שוין געהאַט פֿאַרקויפֿט הונדערטער טויזנטער עקזעמפּלאַרן דערפֿון. צום סוף האָט זײַן בוך אַרויסגעגעבן אַ קליינער בריטישער פֿאַרלאַג, „סוויפֿט בוקס“.
„הײַלײַן“ וועט באַשטיין פֿון צוויי אימפּרעזומס: „אָדעסאַ עדישאָנס“ און „אַנטידאָט בוקס“. „אָדעסאַ עדישאָנס“, אָנגעפֿירט פֿונעם רעדאַקטאָר דזשעקי קלײַן, וועט דרוקן ייִדישע און ישׂראלדיקע בעלעטריסטיק און פֿאַקטפּראָזע אויף טעמעס פֿאַרבונדן מיט דער ייִדישער געשיכטע, אַנטיסעמיטיזם, פֿילאָסאָפֿיע, עסן און קולטור.
„אַנטידאָט בוקס“ וועט דרוקן פֿאַקטפּראָזע מיט אַ שייכות צו טעכנאָלאָגיע, עטיק, דעמאָקראַטיע, אידענטיטעט און מאַכט.
קלײַן האָט געזאָגט, אַז מע וועט אויך באַטראַכטן מאַנוסקריפּטן פֿון אַראַביש־ישׂראלדיקע און נישט־ייִדישע שרײַבער, וואָס זייער אַרבעט פֿאַרנעמט זיך מיט דער ייִדישער קולטור, געשיכטע אָדער געדאַנקען.
צו לייענען וועגן דעם אויף ענגליש גיט אַ קוועטש דאָ.
To read about this in English click here.
The post Tidbits: A publishing firm for Jewish writers excluded by mainstream publishers appeared first on The Forward.
Uncategorized
In ‘Fatherland,’ Thomas Mann finds a Germany divided
Speaking at the Library of Congress, just before the end of World War II, Thomas Mann insisted “that there are not two Germanies, a bad and a good one, but only one whose best qualities were perverted by devilish cunning into evil.”
Two years later, in 1947, he would publish Doctor Faustus, a meditation on his homeland’s slide into fascism in the idiom of Germanic legend. Two years after that, accepting the prize named for Goethe, the Faust legend’s greatest chronicler, he would return to Germany, which, by then, had split in two.
Paweł Pawlikowski’s Fatherland, is about the 1949 trip Mann took with his daughter Erika from American-administered Frankfurt to East German Weimar, then in the grips of Soviet control. They glide through bombed-out streetscapes in a black, all-American Buick. During the tour, dignitaries try to win Mann over to one of two ideologies vying to replace the fascist model: that of the free market, or that of Communism.
By the time the film takes place, Mann was an American citizen who had lived outside of Germany for over a decade. He railed against the Nazis and appealed to the conscience of his countrymen in radio broadcasts from exile in California. He had married into a Jewish family, and his anti-Nazi credentials were beyond reproach. But at a press conference in Frankfurt, when an AP reporter asks “where is home,” he responds in English with a German word that English can only approximate.
“I am an American citizen,” Mann, played by Hanns Zischler, answers. “I am also a German writer. Where my heimat is, where I belong, is a much more difficult question.”
His country no longer exists.
Pawlikowski, a Polish director whose silken, black-and-white films excel in painting the surreality of the Iron Curtain, plucked this compelling episode from Colm Tóibín novel of Mann’s life, The Magician. Zeroing in on the 1949 tour, he’s crafted an intimate story of a father and daughter navigating a new political order where one’s allegiance, as summed up by Mann’s son Klaus, is either to “Stalin or Mickey Mouse.”
When Klaus (August Diehl) dies by suicide while Erika and Mann are in the middle of the excursion, and Mann insists on sticking to the itinerary, the Great Man’s faults are blown open: He believes his lecture tour, and the power of words, can improve conditions for a nation, but he had long ago declared his son a lost cause.
Zischler’s performance is at once understated and monumental. His response to Richard Wagner’s glad-handing grandchildren, who want him to put in a good word for reviving his festival in Bayreuth, is a punchy quotable: “The opera should be razed to the ground and your mother should be put on trial.” His mystified look when a Soviet colonel asks him to discuss “Mephistophelian dialectics,” is better than any bon mot.
Hüller is dependably excellent, glowering at the supposedly de-Nazified guests at a banquet and musing to a former war correspondent comrade about “what they were up four years ago.”
Mann’s controversial visit to Weimar is marked by a perfunctory pilgrimage to Goethe’s final home for a photo op. Among the effects are Goethe’s death mask, a blunt-force metaphor following Mann’s speeches, to East and West Germans, extolling how the great poet “rejected the German Romantic death cult.”
When Goethe’s dead, can the winner of his eponymous prize make the rejection last?
History has a verdict. While Mann rejects his own Faustian bargains — the invitation to put in a good word for Wagner or take a job as president of the Arts Academy in East Germany — his fate is teased when Erika sees a catalogue of “Fifth Columnists,” which has his headshot near Einstein and Arthur Miller.
Mann was a victim of McCarthyism, and left his adopted country in 1952 to settle — and die — in the neutral environs of Switzerland.
The film has enough restraint to spare us this epilogue. It ends with a father, a daughter and a sublime expression of grief and untainted German art. (Fitting for Pawlikowski, whose films so often center music, it is a Bach composition that delivers the final beat.)
Mann never did make his homecoming permanent, but on this score, he had a properly self-aggrandizing, if apt credo: “Where I am, there is Germany.”
The post In ‘Fatherland,’ Thomas Mann finds a Germany divided appeared first on The Forward.
Uncategorized
This deli serves ham and calls itself Jewish. New Jersey says it’s not kosher.
The Kibitz Room in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, just outside of Philadelphia, serves shrimp salad. It also has a ham sandwich, and its doors are open on Saturdays.
So the people who run it were surprised this month when a state investigator walked in carrying a notice saying a deli with a “Jewish cheesesteak” on the menu needs to tell customers, in writing, that it isn’t kosher.
The backstory and fallout involve a brisket-boosting talk radio host, a rock-and-roll dive bar in Los Angeles, a historian known as Dr. Pastrami, a famous rye bread ad, and a question Jewish diners have been fighting over for the better part of a century: Can a deli be Jewish if it isn’t kosher?
Here’s the beef. The New Jersey Division of Consumer Affairs, which, yes, has a kosher fraud enforcement unit, sent an investigator to the Kibitz Room with a simple message. If you call yourself a Jewish deli, state consumer-fraud rules say you also have to post a sign, or otherwise let customers know, that your food isn’t under kosher supervision. The state isn’t accusing the deli of passing itself off as kosher, and it isn’t banning the word “Jewish.” It just wants a disclaimer next to it.
Neil Parish, 62, who runs the Kibitz Room with his son, Brandon, wasn’t having it. He told the investigator, “You’re not going to come in here and dictate to me the verbiage that I’m going to put on my menu,” he said in an interview with the Forward.
Parish grew up working in delis, first as a dishwasher at 14, and then he was slicing meat by 16. Apart from a six-year stretch in a job with health insurance (“I wasn’t cut out for that,” he says), he’s been in delis ever since.
Which is why the notice struck him as absurd. In Parish’s telling, no observant customer has ever mistaken the Kibitz Room for a kosher deli.
The state is proposing a $1,000 penalty and wants a sign that’s visible to customers saying the deli isn’t kosher. For Parish, it’s the principle, and what he calls government overreach. He says he told the investigator, “I’ll see you in court. I hope the Supreme Court,” adding that “we’re taking this thing to the end. Period. I’m not stopping.”
The fraud squad
New Jersey’s kosher unit spends most of its time on businesses that say they’re kosher.
The biggest cases involve packaging. In 2014, ShopRite’s supplier cooperative agreed to pay a $35,000 penalty for putting a kosher symbol on private-label coffee bags without the certifying agency’s approval. The state leaves the definition of kosher to rabbis. Its job is to check that sellers are telling the truth.
Delis that call themselves Jewish without claiming to be kosher are a smaller slice of the caseload, but not an unheard-of one.
The spark seems to have been lit on Sept. 14, when NJ.com published “New Jersey’s 15 best Jewish delis, ranked for 2026.” The Kibitz Room came in eighth.
Shortly after, the state investigator walked into Radin’s Delicatessen, a mile down the road and ranked No. 7, to see whether it was passing itself off as kosher.
Radin’s owner is Russ Cowan, a fourth-generation deli man, and the original owner of the Cherry Hill Kibitz Room, which he opened in 2001. He was happy to schmooze with the inspector. “Jewish does not mean kosher, and kosher style does not mean kosher,” he said in an interview with the Forward. “But for me personally, I avoid saying either because I don’t want to confuse a customer that might think we are kosher.” His shop sells bacon, ham and cheeseburgers.
When people ask what line of work he’s in, he replies, “the corned beef and pastrami business.” He had replicas made of the neon signs from his family’s old Brooklyn delis, and he says he took the word “kosher” off them.
Rabbi Chaim Dovid Zwiebel, executive vice president of the Orthodox advocacy group Agudath Israel of America, has been watching these fights for more than 20 years. His group supported New York’s kosher fraud law back when it was battling for survival in court. He argues kosher claims should be policed like any other: “From a perspective of consumer fraud,” he said, “the fact that we happen to be speaking about religious items shouldn’t make a difference.”
He isn’t bothered by what New Jersey is asking of the Kibitz Room. “The least you can do is put the disclaimer,” he said, referring to a sign saying the deli isn’t under kosher supervision, posted where customers can see it.
But he sees another problem. The word “Jewish,” Zwiebel says, “kind of implies there are certain foods which are reserved exclusively for Jews.” The current controversy reminds him of an iconic ad campaign, he says.
Starting in 1961, subway posters around New York showed an Italian grandmother, a Black child, an Asian kid and a Native American man, each enjoying a sandwich on Levy’s Real Jewish Rye, with the tagline: “You don’t have to be Jewish to love Levy’s.” The Brooklyn bakery had been losing customers as Jewish families moved to the suburbs. The campaign made Levy’s the top-selling rye in the city.
But Zwiebel takes umbrage with the larger concept. “Forget about the misleading nature that a phrase of ‘kosher style’ might be,” he says. “Jewish style is not so much misleading; it’s just deeply offensive.”
Offensive to whom, and why, depends on who you ask. And whether a deli can call itself Jewish without being kosher has been a fight for a long time.
‘A secular synagogue’
Ask people who’ve spent their careers thinking about Jewish delis what they make of the New Jersey news, and the first response is surprise.
To Jeffrey Yoskowitz — host of the podcast Meet Me at the Deli and co-founder of Gefilteria, which reimagines Eastern European Jewish cooking — the notice “clearly comes from a place of ignorance or not understanding.”
To understand the fight, start with how the Jewish deli began. In the 1880s, a wave of Jewish immigrants from Eastern Europe began arriving on the Lower East Side. They borrowed the format of the German delicatessen to sell the foods they’d left behind. Pastrami came from Romanian Jews. But hot pastrami on rye, says Yoskowitz, “is an entirely American innovation.”
Then the deli became a place to sit. Yoskowitz says it turned into what’s sometimes called a “secular synagogue,” where immigrants could feel Jewish, speak Yiddish and become American at the same time.
Kosher was part of the story, never all of it. In 1915, New York amended its false-labeling law to punish fraud in the sale of kosher meat, but that didn’t solve the problem. According to “I’ll Have What She’s Having,” a traveling deli exhibit, an estimated 40 percent of the meat sold as kosher in New York in 1925 wasn’t. Meanwhile, delis multiplied. By the early 1930s, the city had roughly 5,000 of them.
Lara Rabinovitch, who was a co-curator of the exhibit, isn’t sure the question can be answered. To really answer it, she says, “you have to get to the question of what is a deli, what is Jewish? What do those two words even mean?”
Rabinovitch has a PhD in Jewish food history from New York University. Back in grad school, her husband got tired of her long academic answers about her work and told her to “just say you have a PhD in pastrami.” The nickname stuck. She’s now Dr. Pastrami, and has a Substack newsletter.
The only part of the story that really troubles Rabinovitch is “whether the deli pays explicit homage to its namesake, the original Kibitz Room attached to Canter’s Deli” in Los Angeles. Missing that, she said, “would be a shanda.”
That Kibitz Room is a legend. It opened in 1961 as a cocktail lounge next to the dining room at Canter’s Deli. It has a full bar and a small stage, with live music or comedy most nights that often turns into a jam session by midnight. Everyone from Joni Mitchell to members of Guns N’ Roses and the Red Hot Chili Peppers has passed through. (Cowan, who founded the Cherry Hill Kibitz Room, says he was inspired by the Kibitz Rooms at Canter’s and at Attman’s in Baltimore.)
David Sax, author of Save the Deli, has been in the middle of this argument for years. He heard it constantly after his book came out, he says: deeply kosher people insisting a deli can only be Jewish if it’s kosher, and everyone else saying it’s Jewish if it serves kosher-style food.
“The same fight, the same battle, has been going on for the better part of a century,” he says. Can a deli be Jewish without being kosher? “Yeah, 100 percent.” Ban the non-kosher ones, he says, and you lose Katz’s, Carnegie, Canter’s and Langer’s, “almost every single famous and well-known Jewish deli” in the U.S.
“Does it make it less Jewish? Sure, if that’s your definition of Jewish,” Sax says. “But how do you define Jew? Who is a Jew?”
Brisket boosterism
By the second week of October, the notice to the Kibitz Room had found its way onto New Jersey 101.5, the statewide talk radio station, where host Bill Spadea spent most of his show pontificating about it.
Spadea grew up in Cherry Hill. Friday nights meant pizza from a shopping center in the Woodcrest neighborhood, next to a Jewish deli where his dad ordered the chicken livers and chopped egg. He admitted on the air that he had never been to the Kibitz Room. He wanted his listeners to go anyway. “Get them sold out today,” he said. Then, in case that was too vague, he added: Buy the brisket.
His theory of the case was that nobody was fooled. “No consumer was harmed in the creation of a kosher-style Kibitz menu item,” he argued. No observant diner, he figured, would see pastrami with Swiss and think they were in a kosher kitchen. A listener texted in that Little Caesars isn’t Italian food, it’s Italian-style.
Parish agreed with that logic. “When I go into an Italian restaurant, it doesn’t say ‘not authentic Italian American,’” he says.
What really got to him was the adjective. “You want a Jew to change his menu to not use the word Jewish,” Parish says. (The state isn’t asking the Kibitz Room to drop the word. It wants a disclaimer next to it.)
Parish says he is not planning to pay the penalty and that “a very powerful Washington D.C. law firm” will represent him at a hearing scheduled in the coming weeks.
To Parish, the notice didn’t arrive in a vacuum. He says it landed at a moment when Jews feel under threat, around the world but “especially in this country and in my community.” He says he has customers in Cherry Hill who have taken the mezuzahs off their doors “because they’re scared.” His daughter and son-in-law live on the Upper East Side, and the stories he hears from them about rising antisemitism in New York City are worse, he says.
So when the state investigator — who is Jewish — showed up to talk about his menu, Parish says he lost his temper. Echoing a quote from Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin, Parish says, “I’m not the trembling Jew. I’m not going to take this anymore.”
Which may explain the Kibitz Room’s Instagram bio, which now reads: “Not kosher. Still Jewish.”
The post This deli serves ham and calls itself Jewish. New Jersey says it’s not kosher. appeared first on The Forward.
