Breakfasts and Blessings – Rituals and Spaces in Synagogues and the Regency Cafe

The exterior of the iconic Art Deco Regency Cafe in London.

 

Ko-ha-nim…

The cantor stands on the bimah, the raised platform in the centre of the synagogue, facing out towards the East, towards Jerusalem, towards where the Holy Temple once stood, before it was destroyed by the Babylonians, and then rebuilt, and then destroyed again, this time by the Romans, and yet whose legacy is such that it remains a spiritual lodestone, to where all synagogues are orientated, all the synagogues around the world.

The cantor now addresses the kohanim: the segment of the community who affiliate as descendants of the biblical priestly class. They shuffle in as one, cloaked in white tallis prayer shawls, setting themselves in a row at the front. Then, turning silently to face the congregation, they slowly raise their arms aloft, as is the tradition for this prayer.

And then they chant.

 

*

 

Set beans, set tomatoes, hash browns. Any sauce?..”

The Regency Cafe is an old-school caff in the heart of Westminster: an old cabbies’ haunt where the drivers take their early morning victuals before a long day crisscrossing the city streets and circumventing its dysfunctional ring roads.

Nowadays, you’ll find more international tourists than taxi drivers, lured by glowing reviews in guide books, or its many featured cameos in films aiming to portray a characterful slice of London. Still, there’s always a smattering of old-timers and greasy-spoon traditionalists, and the occasional gang of ravenous construction workers on a morning break. It does the best fry-ups in town.

But more than that, thanks to an operation that stretches for almost eight decades, and a proud management with nostalgic sensibilities, the place is awash with rituals and symbols. And that is why visits here, however obliquely, remind me of synagogue.

View Post

Article in Vittles Magazine

Drawing of a Jewish kiddush wine cup used for Shabbat

 

Not a blog-post this time, but just to mention an article I’m delighted to have published in Vittles magazine – I have been young, and now I am oldIt’s a special piece for me, for various reasons.

Firstly, it remembers my dear late grandparents – Beryl and Reuben – and especially how as a family we’d all sit around their dining table, singing together the Jewish blessings over food (‘Birchas Hamazon’).

Secondly, it’s a multimedia piece, and it’s been wonderful to have my family join me on this, with my uncle Harry’s illustrations (he drew the wine cup above), and cousin Abi’s beautiful singing. My sister Rachel, auntie Deborah and son Ben have all pitched in with some great writing too.

Massive thanks to the Vittles team for the opportunity, and all their brilliant support. Especially Sharanya Deepak, the lead editor on the piece, who wrote such a beautiful intro. And to Jonathan Nunn, for all his advice and editing along the way.

Finally thanks to my friend Dan Malakin for reviewing an early draft, and to my wife Sophie for all her suggestions and support on the piece.

The article is free to access, but you’ll need to register – which I’d recommend anyway, as Vittles is such a superb publication!

Hope you enjoy!
Aaron 

Kitchen Peeves

Kitchen utensils on a drying rack by the sink

I do love a kitchen. And if you’re reading this blog, I’m assuming you like a kitchen too. The room where everything happens. Where all the cooking goes on. The scene of a hundred smiles, occasional tears, and a fair few cracked eggs gone rogue over the counter.

I loved the kitchen when I was growing up too. I’d tail my mum like a duckling, hand clasped tight around her apron strings, eyes wide as buttons as she drew out a steaming tray of her famous fudgy brownies, or helping her flip my favourite lamb chops on our 1970s’ electric fryer.

Nowadays, it’s my own boys who love the kitchen. And it’s not them making a mess with those rogue eggs: they can crack them cleaner and truer than I. My youngest scrambles, my oldest poaches, and it makes me proud.

Ah, the kitchen. Special space, precious memories, the beating heart of the home. And, just sometimes, I really hate it…

View Post

Nutmeg Custard Tart at FENN – A Journey into Dairy-based Nostalgia

Nutmeg custard tart with slices of rhubarb served at Fenn restaurant in Fulham

“And could I interest you in some dessert?…” asks the waiter.

“Erm.. okay, go on then” I reply, feigning a momentary hesitation as though dessert hasn’t even crossed my mind when, to be honest, it’s the main reason I’m even here.

Of course, the waiter probably sees through my little charade, my phony tango of will-I-won’t-I; he’s seen it all before. In fact, of the two of us, it is I who ends up being deceived – for what I’m yet to realise is that I’m not really here for the pudding, but for the past…

View Post

“Picnic As…”

Even now I’m in two minds: is “picnic” really the right word here? Do I really wish to conjure up bucolic images of gallivanting about the countryside, all wicker baskets and gingham blankets, pink-stained fingers pinching the wet tops of strawberries, a knocked-over glass of bubbly fizzing over a clump of summer daisies?

The traditional British picnic has its roots in French pre-Revolution aristocracy. But when the posh pique-nique-ers feared for their heads, rather than lose a requisite piece of anatomy for a spot of outdoor munching, off they sailed for Blighty instead. And before you could say ‘rillettes de lapin à l’ancienne’, the craze was sweeping Georgian high society.

Picnics were then social affairs, events to see and be seen in. Their settings of countryside meadow or urban pleasure garden immersed the wealthy and privileged in a rural idyll, an escape from the bustle and grime of the city, bestowing them with an air of salubrity and restoration.

Nowadays, picnics are more democratic, but the word itself – if not the act of taking food outdoors – still seems entrenched in a genteel world of supermarket dips, served with a dash of whimsy and a sprinkling of kitsch.

View Post