Editor’s note
This article originally was published in The Cavalier Daily on March 2, 2004. In retrospect, we realize that the decision to print this was a poor one, and have since issued an apology in the newspaper, reprinted below. In the interest of remaining candid and open, Iâm leaving the original article online for interested parties. All I ask is that this column not be reproduced or posted elsewhere on the Web without my permission.
I can be reached at cavdaily@cavalierdaily.com with any questions.
Chris Wilson, Editor-in-Chief
Apology:
On the Life page of yesterdayâs paper we printed a column, titled âReal Jews get to the front of the buffet line,â which in retrospect falls outside the standards of good taste. Although the intention of the author was simply to provide a humorous account based on personal experiences, we understand how many of our readers could see the column as reinforcing stereotypes of the Jewish faith. We apologize for any offense taken and will hold all content to higher scrutiny in the future.
“Real Jews get to the front of the buffet line”
By A-J Aronstein
Real Jews get to the front of the buffet line because there is nothing worse than cold chicken marsala. They don’t drink cocktails before eating the first course. Alcohol slows their reaction time and kills their appetite for a second helping, which in turn defeats the purpose of “All You Can Eat.”
Real Jews eat fast, talking with their mouths full and one elbow on the table. They don’t get indigestion — they get heartburn. To get rid of it, they drink milk and belch, clutching their sternum until they fall asleep watching Letterman. They never take Mylanta or Pepcid AC. Medicine — even the CVS kind — reminds them of doctors and doctors remind them of hospitals. Hospitals remind them of Uncle Max or Bernie or Larry who died when they were kids in the way that all real Jews do: massive coronary.
Real Jews like to argue about politics, Israel, the politics of Israel and which deli has better corned beef: Second Avenue (Kosher), or Katz’s (non-Kosher, the very idea). They gesture like Italians and speak like New Yorkers, the two groups who most influenced their grandparents when they stepped off the boat at Ellis Island 90 years ago.
They put their hands on your shoulder when they are trying to convince you of their point, and raise their voices and squint, shaking their heads when they back themselves into a corner. No real Jew ever concedes in a debate, unless there is either lox and bagels or good red wine on the table in front of them. Real Jews will always agree to disagree when arguing prevents the consumption of good food.
On Passover, they drink Manichewiz wine and give their children checks with memos that read “L’chayim!” During the High Holidays, real Jews fast and go to temple for six hours at a time, sitting as close to the bema as possible. The men wear suits with ties tied in Windsor knots and the yarmulke they got at Harvey Berskowitz’s bar mitzvah in 1974. The women ignore their husbands, who forgot to buy challah for the family dinner that evening.
Real Jews sing the prayers they remember from Hebrew School, mumbling the words of the ones they forget. They hold songbooks for aesthetic purposes only; no one actually reads them. Prayers worth reciting are only those that survive 30 years without Hebrew School.
Real Jews of the older generation refuse to buy German cars, but drive Toyotas and Acuras without a second thought. They still use the word schvartze with gusto, much to the chagrin of their politically correct grandchildren, who are always reminded of the time when $6 could buy you a seven course meal at the Four Seasons, a suit from Moe Ginsburg and a subway ride home to Brooklyn. Real Jews don’t trust the stock market, but put their money in mutual funds. They love to play the lottery.
In the morning, real Jews read the New York Post for sports and gossip, saving the Times for an after-dinner dose of world events, which leads to falling asleep on the couch. Books are for airplane rides, beaches and solo trips to the coffee shop where they pretend to be reading while they are actually people watching.
They send soup back and like it so hot that it would melt Teflon. Exotic restaurants don’t appeal to them unless you can order entrees in appetizer size so that they can “just have a taste.” They eat Chinese food at least once a week and delight in finding leftovers in the fridge at midnight.
Real Jews spoil their children. In the summer they send them to sleep-away camp, or sign them up for tennis lessons at the beach club, bragging to their friends how little Joshie is going to be the next Pete Sampras. On camp visiting days, they hate it that their kids are having so much fun without them and count the days until they come home.
And of course, real Jews have a sense of their past and their history, sometimes a comedy of errors, other times a litany of tragedies. They love Jewish jokes, and love to tell the story of their people to those who do not know it. They will call you on holidays and make sure that you got the card they sent. Real Jews remember birthdays, favors and kindness. They forget the times that you hurt them, as long as you are willing to apologize, and always know a good lawyer if you need one. The one sin they never forgive is cutting. After all, real Jews always get to the front of the buffet line.
People have always heard my name and asked, “Aronstein, so you’re Jewish?” They wonder why I don’t wear “the little hat,” and ask if I celebrate Chanukah and Christmas. I have always explained that my mother is Catholic, my father is Jewish (but he gave it up for Lent — thirty years ago), and though I celebrate both Jewish and Catholic holidays, I was raised Catholic.
This column is based on an opinion piece that originally appeared (I believe) in the Wall Street Journal. Google searches failed to produce the name of the author of the original article, but in any case it is called “Real Vermonters Don’t Wear Sunglasses.” Love, A-J.
A-J Aronstein can be reached at aronstein@cavalierdaily.com
