During my 22 years as a San Franciscan, I’ve visited two temples, Sherith Israel and Emanu-El, five times. Two were for the bar mitzvahs of friends’ kids, and two were for regular temple biz (i.e., prayer and repenting sin). The other visit was a long-ago singles event that my roommate nudged — nay, forced — me to attend.
In other words, religious, I am not.
The thing is, when you’re born in Manhattan, grow up in the suburbs of Central Jersey, head to Brandeis University for college, and then go back to New York City to start adulting, your Jewishness is nothing out of the ordinary. After all, virtually everyone around those parts is culturally Jewish — or at least culturally Jewish aware (CJA).
New York City is home to the largest Jewish community (about 1.1 million people) on the planet except for Israel. The early 20th century saw the largest growth of Jewish immigrants landing in Gotham, which explains why the faith made and continues to make a significant impact on the overall culture of New York City.
And is it really Hanukkah if you don’t devour a plate of potato latkes before or after lighting the menorah? I think not.
Indeed, New Yorkers of all religions — and non-religions — know Jew-y things. They know to greet members of the tribe with “Shana Tova” on Rosh Hashanah; they know the difference between potato and kasha knishes (not to mention square and round ones); and they know that it’s never a good idea to go ring-shopping in the Diamond District on a Saturday. (Because all the shops are owned by religious Jews who don’t work on the Jewish sabbath, Saturday.)
I never thought much about any of this stuff until I moved to California. Rather quickly, I came to realize that being Jewish felt a lot different without the comfort of a larger CJA community.
The first sign that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore? Bagels, obviously.
One day in 1998, I walked into Noah’s New York Bagels on Fillmore Street and ordered my usual: a lightly toasted poppy-seed bagel with scallion cream cheese, cucumber, and tomato. After taking a couple of bites, I thought that what I was eating was absolutely not a “New York bagel.” It wasn’t a bagel at all — it was, like, a roll. At least the vanilla-hazelnut-y Chelsea coffee was delish.
Bad bagels, meh, no problem. I was head-over-hills in love with my newly adopted city, so I decided to look on the bright (foggy?) side. Surely, I would drop a few pounds on a bagel-less diet. (Needless to say, my carb intake plummeted further after I tried a slice of pizza, but I digress.)
Besides, San Francisco has significantly upped its bagel game over the years, with Wise Sons Bagels, Daily Driver Bagels, 20th Century Cafe, and Beauty’s Bagel Shop in Oakland. As a result, my intake has increased manifold. Still, no bread-like item will ever make me as happy as the hot-out-of-the-oven H&H cinnamon-raisin bagels I used to scarf back in the day when I was living in a teensy Upper West Side studio.
Food, after all, is a huge part of Jewish life. Passover is incomplete sans matzo ball soup. Purim, the Mardi Gras of Jewish holidays, is a certifiable bust without hamantaschen. And is it really Hanukkah if you don’t devour a plate of potato latkes before or after lighting the menorah? I think not.
My hunt for a nice Jewish deli (NJD) to procure said foods in San Francisco is a never-ending one (if only I could cook). When I first moved here, my friends and I were directed to a Richmond District institution called Shenson’s. It was authentic, delicious, and — simply — perfect. But by the time the next Jewish holiday rolled around, it was gone. The 67-year-old business had closed its doors forever (circa 2000). This story is not unique.
Sure, there are several places around town where you can grab a decent pastrami on rye. It’s just that they don’t have the same no-frills look or smell (a mishmash of pickles, hot dogs, and fresh rye bread) as the dime-a-dozen East Coast Jewish delis I grew up loving. Nor do they ever have cans of Dr. Brown’s soda—an absolute essential for washing down a chopped-liver sando, sour pickles, steak-cut fries, and a black-and-white cookie.
Plus, SF delis are filled with people ordering things like corned beef with mayo on white bread. Mayo with corned beef, pastrami, etc., is a total turnoff for most Jewish people, probably due to the basic kosher rule of eating no meat with dairy. Plus, it’s universally accepted for Semitic folk and most New Yorkers that the only real way to eat a deli sandwich is with mustard on Jewish rye.
Speaking of SF people, I am continually surprised by my own surprise every time I encounter someone who doesn’t know much, or anything, about what being Jewish means. Didn’t you ever watch Seinfeld, I wonder?
I will forever find it funny when someone asks me if I know — or am related to — Bill Goldberg the wrestler.
“Um, no,” I say through a smile I can’t contain. There are a lot of us Goldbergs. “Just consider us the Jewish Smith or Jones.”
Another source of curiosity from non-Jews is my dietary habits. Usually, it surfaces at a restaurant after I’ve ordered bacon or a dish with pork. “I didn’t think you ate that,” my dining companion will declare. Yep, I do; nope, I don’t keep kosher.
There’s really only one question that gets me every time: “Did you have a happy holiday?” It comes from a well-meaning office mate or a friend after I’ve taken a vacation day for Yom Kippur. The conversation inside my head: “No, it wasn’t happy. I didn’t eat all day. I was atoning for a year’s worth of sins, and my unknown fate for the coming year was sealed in the Book of Life.”
My out-loud words, however, go something like this: “Thanks for asking. Actually, Yom Kippur is the most solemn day of the year for Jewish people. It’s the end of the High Holy Days, which began 10 days ago with the celebration of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. That was a happy day.”
I do see it as my responsibility to educate people who are interested in learning about Judaism — or anything else I know about. Naturally, this works the other way around as well. God knows (see what I did there?) that there are way too many religions/subjects I am not knowledgeable about to list here.
Another thing that initially surprised me about life on the West Coast? Even the Jewish people didn’t seem like the Jewish people I knew growing up. Or at least sound like them. Generally speaking, the tribe in San Francisco seems more reserved, quieter, and almost WASP-y, and their conversations aren’t peppered with the many Yiddish-isms routinely heard in New York City. I’m a word person, so yeah, I still miss hearing fun and evocative terms like these on the regular: meshuggeneh (crazy), mispocheh (family) and punim (face…most often uttered by a kvelling [proud] grandparent squeezing a kid’s cheek).
All this being said, I do consider myself a California Jewess. (I mean I have been here for more than two decades.) No doubt, my East Coast roots will always live within, but I have truly come to appreciate my West Coast Jewish life. That’s because culture is really what I worship. And there’s plenty here: the Contemporary Jewish Museum, the San Francisco Jewish Film Festival, and the Jewish Community Center (JCC) of San Francisco, to name a few. The JCC is always a welcoming place where I can do all sorts of fun things, such as go to a Hanukkah party, enjoy an author reading on Jewish and not-Jewish topics, and take a ceramics — or Hebrew — class. Bottom line: the Jewish community is here when I want it, and that’s just fine.
One thing my life as an SF and NYC Jew will forever share: plans for a movie and Chinese food on Christmas Eve. It doesn’t matter that one coast’s cuisine leans Cantonese and the other Szechuan. I heart them both.
L’chaim!
