my life Archives - 1Dish4TheRoad

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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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 old‘. It’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 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…

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Nigerian goats ayamase stew at Brixton restaurant Chishuru

Goats have a habit of finding themselves in stews and stories. It’s their fate, their destiny, and it’s been like that for over ten thousand years…

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According to a Nigerian folk tale, there was once a rich man, who went by the name of Abdullahi. He owned a considerable number of cattle, sheep and, most of all, goats. However, he was a lonely man, with no family or friends for company.

One day, he met the judge of the town, who advised that when he died, all his cattle, sheep and goats would pass to the chief.

‘I don’t want the chief getting all these things,’ replied Abdullahi disgruntledly. ‘I’d rather sell them and enjoy life while I still can.’

Now words have the habit of catching on the wind, and little did Abdullahi know that he’d been overheard by the town rascal, who was already hatching mischief with his gang.

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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

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

Article in Vittles Magazine

Kitchen Peeves

Goats, Stews and Stories; Ayamase at Chishuru

Bitter Herbs