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.

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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 

Bitter Herbs

Bitter herbs, the horseradish, on the Passover seder plate

It was a memorable view, out of my old bedroom window. I can picture it now, decades later, like a watercolour imprinted across my mind.

Behind the back fence, a hill climbed precipitously. It was a semi-wild space, basically scrubland, with trees and shrubs that doubled up as secret dens and climbing frames for curious limbs and bright-eyed explorers.

To the right, in the distance, loomed the cooling towers of Agecroft power station: a column of solemn sentinels belching white plumes of smoke that slowly rose and melded into clouds, before drifting beyond the window frame. I still remember how mysterious and brooding those chimneys seemed.

In the afternoon before the Passover seder, in anticipation of the long night of storytelling, singing and food, my family would always take a rest. It wasn’t a formal tradition, just what my family did. But what child likes to rest? I didn’t want to rest. So boring! Passover seder was far too exciting for that.

Still, I would try and lie quietly on my bed, and stare out the window, contemplating the hill outside: the dens to be built, the traps to lay for would-be invaders. Or imagine the smoke stacks as mighty stone giants, marauding the earth. Eventually though, my patience would wane, and I’d tiptoe downstairs – to the kitchen, where everything happened. View Post

Potato Latkes at BUBALA; Tackling the Climate Emergency

Potato latkes are the epitomy of Chanukah - and latkes at Bubala are the finest in London

“Adults keep saying we owe it to the young people to give them hope. But I don’t want your hope, I don’t want you to be hopeful. I want you to panic, I want you to feel the fear I feel every day. And then I want you to act, I want you to act as if you would in a crisis. I want you to act as if the house was on fire, because it is.”

Greta Thunberg, Davos World Economic Forum, 2019

 

*

The year is 160BC. The temple is on fire. The Seleucid Army is threatening to annihilate the Jewish community in ancient Judea, whose existence is poised on a knife-edge. But then come the small plucky band of Maccabees. Through their dedication and self-sacrifice, they manage to repel the might of the empire. Yet when they discover the temple all wrack and ruined, hearts turn from joy to sorrow: there’s barely a drop of oil to keep the sacred flame alive.

But this drop miraculously ends up lasting for a whole eight days. And so this story is celebrated – year after year, century after century – as Chanukah, the festival of lights. To remember how a community saved themselves against extinction. And how one little light fought against the dark for so long. View Post

Apples and Honey on Rosh Hashanah; Memories of Auntie Ruth

Apples and honey on Rosh Hashanah, Jewish New Year, symbolise the hope for a good and sweet year ahead.

On Rosh Hashanah it is inscribed,
How many will pass and how many are born,
Who shall live and who shall die..
Who shall rest and who shall wander..

(Unetaneh Tokef)

 

As you can probably tell from this ancient verse, the Jewish version of New Year ain’t some breezy rendition of Auld Lang Syne, cheeky kiss at midnight, and fleeting resolution to give up chocolate. No, Rosh Hashanah is a very different kettle of (gefilte) fish.

It’s Judaism’s annual Day of Judgment no less, when one’s deeds are scrutinised, divine judgement is meted out, and our fates become sealed for the year ahead. It’s like having an annual appraisal with God, but with more guilt and less biscuits.

And as such, Jewish New Year is less an excuse for a knees-up, and more a deeply solemn day of reflection: a day of scrupulously looking back over the year, dutifully recalling one’s past deeds, and endeavouring to make your next-year version an upgrade on the current one. Even for someone like me, whose Jewish identity is more cultural than religious, it can still have a strong resonance.

It can be particularly emotive as it’s also a time for remembering people no longer with us. And for me, that’s none other than my late, great Auntie Ruth..

(Oh, Auntie Ruth. How best to describe you? How best to conjure your spirit and your verve?..)

My association of Auntie Ruth with Rosh Hashanah goes back to the festive family gatherings she’d host each year. Immaculate spreads she put out too – big briny balls of homemade gefilte fish and sweet n’ sour slivers of home-pickled cucumbers being my perennial favourites.

That the same dishes appeared year after year didn’t detract at all – in fact it only served to instil the timelessness of the occasion. Meanwhile, Auntie Ruth would buzz about, an ebullient little honey bee dropping in from person to person, catching up with everybody’s news.

Auntie Ruth was undoubtedly a force of nature, a bundle of fizz, a pocket whirlwind. Even in her later years – and despite the deep loss of her husband many years before – she never lost her spirit, her strength of character, her warmth, her optimism, or the sheer love she had for those around her.

In her, such qualities were quite colossal. They were especially pronounced since they were packed into what was admittedly a rather tiny frame, something she herself would often jest about. Even when the tip of her thumb had to be removed to treat a growing tumour, she’d just shrug with a telling – “well, now I’m even tinier!” – and smile on.

I’m sure such events were actually incredibly tough for her – as a great nephew, I didn’t know her as intimately as her own immediate family or closest friends, so I rarely saw her that troubled or upset. But despite her own experience of grief and pain – or maybe in part because of it – she was also always deeply supportive to my own family, and particularly when we went through some tough times of our own.

Indeed, when I was growing up, she’d be a regular at our house. Even after I’d left home for university, she’d always make a point of dropping by every time I was up. She’d keenly ask how I was getting on, what I was up to, and gently scold my mum whenever she’d enquire into my (admittedly rather scant) love life – telling her it’s ‘none of her business’ and to ‘leave the poor boy alone’ – whilst then cheekily pry herself once my mum had left the room.

Well, you certainly could never accuse Auntie Ruth of beating around the bush. Instead, she’d torpedo said bush with a lash from her tongue and a mischievous glint in her eye. But as refreshingly blunt and cheeky as she often was, she was never discourteous or rude, and her humour was just wonderful. I was always deeply touched by her visits.

Auntie Ruth sadly died some years ago now. But despite this, every time I visit Manchester, especially around Rosh Hashanah time, she always comes to mind so vividly. In fact, her vivacious nature was just so strong, her presence so welcome, that I sometimes even forget she’s no longer around.

In these moments, she’s ringing on the doorbell, and we’re doing our customary bear-hug, laughing as her feet dangle unceremoniously in mid-air. And I ask if she’s made gefilte-fish this year, and she lets slip a little wink and a grin.

So yes, for me, Rosh Hashanah is about looking back. Feeling the past. Being reminded of Auntie Ruth. But – and it’s an important but – if there’s one thing about Auntie Ruth, it is that she wasn’t someone who overly lingered on the past, dwelling on this or that. No, she was one to get on with things, to look forward, to embrace life and the future with all the energy and optimism she could muster.

And it’s this same spirit of hope and positivity that’s also captured by the apples and honey on Rosh Hashanah that she’d serve year after year, a conspicuous ritual of the festive meal, and probably the most recognisable of all the symbolic foods of Judaism.

As a child, apples and honey effectively were Rosh Hashanah. Never mind all that long drawn-out prayer-mumbling in synagogue – the festival truly came alive at that first bite of fruit after it’s been dipped into thick syrupy nectar.

And it also awakened in me a fascination of how flavours and textures can combine to make something more than the sum of its parts. That marrying something crisp and tart with something sweet and syrupy somehow brings out the best of both.

And indeed, this is reflected in their symbolism too – the apples to remind us to aspire towards goodness, the honey to harbour hope of sweet things to come. One is about what we can do, what we can change, what we can work at; the other’s about what’s beyond our control, but how nevertheless we must never lose our hope.

It’s a bit like the much-quoted Serenity Prayer – “grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference” – except it’s a Jewish version, so it has to involve food.

Goodness and hope. Here is Judaism finally looking forward. At its most upbeat. Never mind the past, the fruit and nectar seem to say – look towards the future. Nay, embrace the future! Don’t forget who you are, but still strive to be the best you can be; work hard in all that you do and stand for; and never cease to love and care for those around you.

Just like my Auntie Ruth used to do.

 

If you liked this piece, you may be interested in my tribute to my late Grandma Beryl – and her incredible chicken soup. Meanwhile, for more on the significance of apples and honey on Rosh Hashanah, here’s a post you may enjoy from Poppy And Prune. And finally, whether you’re one to eat apples and honey on Rosh Hashanah or not, just wishing you a hearty ‘Shanah Tovah’ – a good and sweet year ahead!

 

Apples and Honey on Rosh Hashanah

Apples and honey on Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, symbolise the hope we harbour for a good and sweet year ahead.