Are You Kosher? (13 page)

Chapter 24

Vampires Don’t Eat Human Food

A lot has been said over the years regarding the myth that my kind do not eat food or actually need to eat food to sustain their life. This dreck has usually been spewed by those who claim to be experts on my race but know nothing about us. See the aforementioned Anne Rice. How these hacks came up with this stuff is beyond me. Maybe it is just a way to sell books, but I can tell you that there is nothing further from the truth.

We need to drink the blood of mortals, or as I like to call it, “feast,” to sustain our immortality. But when it comes to the daily dietary needs of a vampire, real food always hits the spot. I challenge any of you to not succumb to the pleasures of a pastrami sandwich with a side order of chopped liver from Katz’s deli. Great Chinese food from a real Chinatown, not the crap that they serve in the south or New Jersey. A hot bowl of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich on a snowy winter’s day, or some of Bubbe’s matzo ball soup. I could go on forever. When it comes to good food, I am a real whore.

The fact of the matter regarding feasting is that we only need to do it about once every two to three weeks before we start feeling adverse effects on our bodies, and those are usually just limited to fatigue and depression. I once went a month and a half and was so listless that I thought that I had contracted a bad case of mono. I tend to go out to feast about three or four times a week. This is what I am comfortable with, and to be perfectly honest, I enjoy the hunt. I love walking the neighborhood, or if I am in an adventurous mood, going into the city to find the perfect, unwitting target. Many people believe, due to the irresponsible depictions of my kind by others, that vampires are no more than blood thirsty monsters, and we have no control over our desires. The fact is, the only craving I ever get that must always be satisfied is a really good dish of chow mein from my favorite kosher Chinese restaurant.

The vampire love affair with food was actually responsible for perhaps the most integral moment in our history. Many vampires were so adamant about their love of food that they were willing to fight for the right to continue to eat. Tensions mounted, tempers flared, and the Great War was about to begin. It was to be the war to end all wars: “The Gefilte Fish War.” I know that I mentioned this earlier, and now it is time that you knew the truth behind it.

Let me take you back once again through time, to just about twenty years before the great flood. Noah’s flood. Ironically, I had just returned home from a wonderful night of feasting and had settled down to enjoy the rest of my evening when I heard a knock on the door. I lifted myself off the sofa and opened the door to see, standing in front of me, the shmendrik I have referred to on numerous occasions, the man who, when you see him walking toward you in a bar, you pretend to be on the cell phone, the man who could make Jesus yell, “Nail me to the tree, already!”

Tsvi the Dominant.

Before I go any further, I feel I need to give you a brief history of this shmendrik. He is a vampire, a very powerful one, which only means that he comes from a privileged background. It also means that he is excessively neurotic and likes to impose his will on others. Tsvi wanted the vampires to subjugate, and eventually convert, all mortals. If he had his way, it would be easier to become a vampire than to gain admittance in a for-profit school. He is even more eccentric then Noah was, and that is saying something. Tsvi had this goal of starting his own country where only his true followers would be allowed, but being Jewish, he was also interested in turning a profit. He wanted to create a resort and call that place Puerto Rico. He had taken this concept so far that he even began to talk with this ridiculous accent. It made Al Pacino’s in
Scarface
seem authentic. He had a love of large-bottomed women and the color metallic purple. He even believed that he could disguise his vampire identity by making the national dish roasted pork. I’m telling you, the man had no shame. He also always hated me. Anyway, back to his visit.

“Hello, Izzy,” he said with that condescending tone in his voice, “Is
jour
bubbe home?” He asked as he pushed his way passed me.

I looked at him and replied, “She’s in her room. I think she’s lying down.”

“Get her for me, will
joo mang
?” I did mention the stupid accent, right?

I turned to go to Bubbe’s room, but she had already been alerted to his presence. It’s like when someone flatulates in a room; you know that you are not the one that did it, but someone is responsible.

I turned to see her standing in front of me in her bathrobe. “What do you want, Tsvi?” she asked shortly.

“Hello, Zena,” he replied, “
Joo
look as beautiful as ever.” He licked the tips of his pinky fingers and brushed his eyebrows.

“What’s with that stupid accent?” Bubbe asked. “Are you trying to convince people that you are a complete and total shmuck?”

“I told
joo
, I am a
Bariqua
!” he shouted back

“Well, if that’s Puerto Rican for moron, I can’t argue with you,” she replied.

He slowly turned his gaze toward me and said, “I would like to talk alone, without the golden boy around.”

“What do I need him here for? He has to clean his room anyway.” She turned to me and instructed me to clean my room and said she could handle this
putz
on her own, making no attempt to whisper. I left the two of them alone and went to my room, where I listened intently by the door to hear the conversation. The voices were a little muffled, but this is what I was able to make out.

“I have spoken to the council and we decided that
joo
and all of
jour
friends have to stop eating human food now, or we will have to impose sanctions. Maybe even make an example out of you.” The council, this was nothing more than a collection of Tsvi’s friends who thought that it was their divine right to make laws regarding the behavior of vampires.

There was Feivel the
Fecchadahed
, one of Bubbe’s nicknames, And Sam the Shmendrik, another one of hers. Nathan the
Nisht Gut
—I know what you’re thinking; she has a gift—and Jim. I can’t remember her nickname for him.

They were an unelected bunch that enjoyed imposing their will on everyone around them, making laws as they went along, like no human food, or that you had to completely drain your “victim” in order to feast properly. With the exception of a few, no vampire in his or her right mind listened to him. The only reason he was respected in the least was that he was a doctor and what Jew doesn’t respect a doctor? Plus, because of his status in the medical field, he had easy access to blood. Some people are easily impressed. Bubbe is not one of them.

They argued for about an hour and I was able to hear her yell at him, “If you ever touch me again, I’ll tear you apart!” I heard a slam against the wall and knew that she’d thrown him across the room. “You have three seconds to leave my house!” I heard her shout.

He walked out and she yelled after him, “I’ll meet you in the field of battle.”

She called for me to come back to the living room and gave me very strict instructions that I was to gather all of the like-minded vampires who opposed Tsvi and the council and have them meet at our house in two weeks. She also gave me a shopping list; she loves to cook when she is angry. When my mother got home, I informed her that the two us had our work cut out for us and that Bubbe was in the kitchen and did not want to be disturbed. I actually was quite excited about the concept of going to war with this shmuck; he had been asking for it for a long time and he was about to get it.

I woke the morning of the battle to find my mother already awake and surprisingly sober. Bubbe was nowhere to be found. Outside were all of the friends we had contacted, many of them carrying makeshift weapons like wooden spoons, pots, and ladles. Behind the mob I saw a large wagon covered with a tarp that was being hitched to four large horses.

The door to our house opened behind me and Bubbe emerged with the infamous wooden spoon in one hand, accompanied by a man I had never seen before. She raised her arms in the air and yelled, “Let’s end this mishegas today!” A roar erupted from all of the vampires in attendance and we began our trek across the plains to where the agreed rendezvous point was. The sun was hot on that morning and I knew that this fight was going to come down to numbers and stamina. I actually felt very confident in our chances. In the distance, I could make out the silhouette of Noah sitting on his rock trying to see the back of his own head. He noticed us and yelled down, “On to glory!” as he toasted us with his wine. “Hey, Zena, show me your boobs!” He laughed.

“Don’t make me come up there!” Bubbe yelled back.

“As long as you bring your boobs,” Noah replied.

The trip took about an hour and we all were shvitzed. We arrived at the site of what was going to be the great battle and Tsvi was already there with about fifty followers. They were ridiculously outnumbered. In between the two groups stood a lone figure. I was able to see that it was Bernie the Benevolent. That is not a Bubbe nickname; he is just a really nice guy so the name stuck. I was wondering what he was doing here.

Bubbe quickly signaled for the stranger who had accompanied us and me to escort her to where Bernie stood. I still had no idea who he was, but the two of us led the horses to where Bubbe wanted us. Tsvi and his four nudniks approached with a stranger of their own. By my math, counting Tsvi, there was six of them and only three of us. What was the point in gathering all of our friends if we were not even going to use them, I wondered. We reached Bernie and he spoke in that slightly whining tone that he had. “We are here to settle this mishegas once and for all.” He turned to Tsvi and asked, “Do you have representation?”
What the hell does that mean?
I asked myself.

“
Jes, jour
honor,” he replied with that insufferable accent. He nodded to the little man next to him and identified him as Jeffrey Richman, Attorney-at-Law. Bernie welcomed him and asked Bubbe the same question; she introduced the man who had accompanied us as Myron Katzenberg, also an attorney. What the hell was this? I could not keep my mouth shut any longer.

“Wait!” I shouted, “What is this? I thought that we came to end this dispute.”

Bubbe turned to me and said, “We are, Izzy. This is a hearing.”

“A hearing?” I was totally exasperated at this point. “What do you mean, a hearing? I thought that we were going to war to settle this! To fight for our rights to eat human food without scrutiny, to shed blood and oust this dictator.” I pointed at Tsvi.

Bubbe smiled and said, “That’s some imagination you have.” She walked over to the wagon and pulled the tarp off, revealing jars of gefilte fish and other homemade delicacies. She looked back at me and added, “We’re Jews. We don’t fight, we sue.” She let out a little chuckle.

“
Jeah
,” Tsvi chimed in, “What do
joo
think we are? Goyem?”

This whole thing was nothing more than an ancient times version of
The People’s Court
. I threw my hands in the air and rejoined the group that had followed us to this colossal waste of time. We all watched as Bernie asked questions, heard arguments, and tasted the evidence that Bubbe had brought along in her defense. The entire process took about four hours; we could have used Bernie during the O.J. trial.

Finally we saw the parties shake hands and go off in their separate directions. Bubbe informed us all that Bernie had ruled that there was nothing wrong with continuing to eat human food and that in the case of her cooking, it should be law. He also ruled that for wasting everyone’s time and being such a shmendrik, Tsvi would lose his medical license and would no longer be allowed to be a practicing physician. From that point on, if he wanted to still be considered a doctor, he would have to be a podiatrist, and that’s no way of life.

So the next time that you are sitting down in some fancy restaurant ordering your expensive meal, I want you to realize that Bubbe had a major part to do with that. If Tsvi had not been challenged, you might all have been vampires and not allowed to eat food at all. Bubbe went through a lot to make the wonderful world of cuisine accessible to all of you. The alternative would have been Tsvi the Shmendrik. I wish sometimes that we had actually had a violent altercation, but I guess that some things are just not worth it. Besides, Bubbe’s solution to the problem worked out a whole lot better for everyone concerned.

So go on and say it. You know that you want to. You’re sitting there eating your “dirty water dog,” or perhaps having dinner alone in a nice neighborhood bistro, or your mom is making your favorite dish and you just feel like thanking someone. Don’t thank G-d for the meal; thank Zena Glassman. My bubbe. The
Emma
of cuisine.

Chapter 25

Cravings

As I am sure that you have realized by now, I am quite passionate about food. Almost six thousand years of sampling divine cuisine, some mediocre fare, and a lot of dreck has made me quite the accomplished food critic. I have eaten in some of the world’s best restaurants and been amazed. Some were little hole-in-the-wall places that proved you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, and some places I’d just as soon never go back to.

Some of the worst places I’ve dined in were, in no particular order, Kentucky, a place where I believe the universal secret ingredient is fingernail dirt; Chicago, we go back to that whole hot dog and “pizza” debate; and of all places, Norway. I visited that beautiful country about four years ago with D.J. and loved the feasting, but the cuisine left something to be desired. I remember him telling me that we were going out for whale blubber. I thought he meant we were going to feast on a couple of fat Scandinavians, but no, he actually meant whale blubber. Are you kidding me? Why don’t I just spit in your mouth and charge you for dinner?

Among the best places to eat are, without a doubt, France—even though I can’t stand the French, they still know how to cook; Rome, the best of rustic Italian food it has ever been my pleasure to sample, and they have quite the Jewish community there, so after-dinner feasting is always good; and should it be any surprise that I say New York? The best place in the world to eat.

The three of us moved to this city in the early 1800s as a temporary stay, but the city grew on us. And grew and grew. The diversity that I mentioned before, the excitement, the fact that you can get a falafel at any time of night. Whatever you are in the mood for, you can find it here. This also applies to feasting. Where else in the world can you feast on a Jew, and two blocks later snack on an Oriental or a shvartze or, G-d forbid, Arab food anyone?

When I was living the strictly kosher life, I did not fully appreciate what I was missing. Thanks to D.J. and the infamous pork fiasco, my kosher cherry was broken and a new world of delights was opened up to me, even though I still can’t eat a hamburger with a milkshake. It’s that whole meat and dairy thing. I don’t want you to think that New York is the be all and end all, even though in many ways it is. Some things just don’t taste right when you’re eating them in Manhattan. Some things only taste right if you go to the source to get them. The same is true for cravings and feastings. New York is great in that it is authentic and accessible for the most part. If I am in the mood for truly great Italian, I head to Little Italy. Chinese—Chinatown, even though the one in San Francisco is better. Anything you want, it’s right here, except for proper barbeque and southern women. This was a craving for food and feasting that I knew I would have to go to the source for.

I recently returned from a road trip through the American South, and it was enlightening. I had no idea that southern food could be so amazing, that southern women tasted so good, or that the stereotypes were almost entirely true. D.J. had told me on numerous occasions how tantalizing southern women were and said I could not consider myself a true feaster until I sampled some of what they had to offer. I was sold. I packed some bags and rented a car, one of those fancy little German convertibles. Don’t tell Bubbe; she is still mad at me for giving her a Krups coffee maker for Chanukah. She hates all things German. I headed south.

The east coast of this country is actually quite beautiful when you take the time to look at it. I drove down the Jersey shore, stopping briefly to do some gambling in Atlantic City, buy some salt water taffy, and also do some feasting. I don’t know what those Jersey girls eat, but they sort of start off with an aftertaste. My trip south continued into the city of Baltimore, and I use the term “city” very lightly. The crab cakes are delicious, but the people seem like they all wish that they were somewhere, anywhere else. Having spent the night there, I can’t blame them. I traveled through Virginia and North Carolina, and eventually made it to my first real port of call, South Carolina. This is where D.J. said I would have a culinary epiphany. I must say that the food was amazing, especially the barbeque. It was smoky, vinegary, and fall-off-the-bone tender. The women tasted the same, except for the fall-off-the-bone part. It was a beautiful state, except for all the damn crosses littering the side of the highway. Down there it seems that if you can pronounce the word religion, you have your own church. That must be confusing to G-d. I stayed a couple of days and headed even further south—next stop Georgia.

North Georgia is lovely in a
Deliverance
sort of way. Lush forests, rivers, and lakes, and one thing that I have never seen before: posted minimum-speed-limit signs. They actually tell you that you can’t drive slower than a certain speed; so much for common sense. All of the signs on the road don’t seem to help, anyway, since these people can’t drive worth a shit. Everyone likes to criticize New York cab drivers, but they are not left incapacitated by a few drops of rain or the occasional snow storm. These shmucks down here drive like a blind “Chinaman” with no headlights.

I finally reached Atlanta. At first, I was mildly excited to be in the capital of the south; then I got out of my car. What a shit hole. Don’t get me wrong. They have some nice attractions like that aquarium, and the World of Coke is pretty cool, even though I saw some Columbians leaving disappointed—I guess that they thought it was something else. But for the most part, the city is full of transplanted northerners, Mexican immigrants, Jews, and faygelahs. It is like a poorly written musical. If I wanted to see this, I could have visited Queens. And while we’re talking about faygelahs, I thought that this was the Bible Belt; isn’t that illegal down here? Go figure.

Anyway, Atlanta was obviously not what I was looking for in my southern experience. There was no way that I was about to put a little of this south in my mouth. I stayed just the one day and decided that I would head deeper into the South. I traveled one of the major highways and made a couple of turn-offs and eventually found myself in a cute little den of inbreeding called Pine Mountain. If you ever have the chance to visit this place, don’t sneeze, you may miss it. The only thing that they have going for them is a resort and a twenty-four-hour, eat at your own risk, fried chicken joint. I stayed at the resort. It was nice—not thrilling, but nice. Worrying that my trip was failing miserably, I decided to walk the street of the town on my second day. That was not a typo by the way; I meant “street.” Not a whole lot to report on until I caught sight of what D.J. must have been referring to. She stood by a peach stand and looked like a vision. The closer I got, the better she looked. She was nearly perfect. As I approached, my eyes were drawn to those perfect breasts.

“Nice peaches,” I said.

She smiled at me and in the wonderful little southern twang said, “Thank you. It’s a lot of work but I think they came out well, don’t you?”

“Oh, indeed they did.” I was almost giddy.

“Would you like to sample?” she asked innocently.

Mazel tov, Izzy
, I thought. “Absolutely.” I replied and extended my hands in a cupping manner. She leaned closer and put a peach in my hand. That’s funny, she thought I was talking about fruit. This was like
Gan Eden
; anyone this naïve just had to be feasted on. The peach was good, though.

I went back to my modest room—two hundred dollars a night, a rip-off—and freshened up. Later that evening, I struck. She never saw it coming. Now I am sure that you more sensitive liberal types are wondering how I could traumatize this poor girl, but before you call Gloria Allred, let me explain to you that when a vampire feasts properly, the victim does not even know that it has happened. When it’s done right, they simply wake up and think that they’ve fainted. The only sign that anything at all has happened is that they are left with two marks that can easily be mistaken for mosquito bites. Of course in her case, she woke up with mosquito bites on her neck, breasts, tuchas, and thighs. Her
tizzelahs
were especially tasty, kind of like peaches.

My time in Pine Mountain was over, and I decided to go even further into the belly of the southern beast. I traveled just about as far as you can without hitting Florida. I had no desire to visit Florida. It was nice when we were with the Shmeggegycocks, but it has since turned into the world’s largest trailer park. The town I wound up stopping at was a place called Valdosta. For those of you who just groaned, you’ve obviously been there.

Valdosta: population 43,724; total teeth, 50,000. The stink of incest was in the air, I’m here to tell you. Incest poses a rather tricky situation for a vampire. If you feast on an incest victim, it could really mess you up. It’s worse than taking a prescription cocktail. A friend of mine, Walter Katz, once feasted on person born from an incestual relationship and for almost two weeks, he thought that he was Julie Andrews.

Back to Valdosta. I’ve never seen in my entire life so many dirty John Deere and Georgia Bulldogs hats. You must need a permit in this town to bathe. The sign at the city limits reads: Valdosta, we’re all related. No shit.

It took a couple of days, but I eventually found what I was looking for: a gorgeous little southern gal with that great accent and the physical attributes to make me want to sing ‘Hava Nagilah.” Her name was Dani, she spells it with an “i,” how delightfully primitive.

It took a couple of days, but I was able to persuade her to have dinner with me. I took her to the finest establishment in all of Valdosta. This place was something else; it had real sawdust on the floor. Two, not one but two, pool tables, color television, air conditioning, and tables handsomely appointed with paper plates, plastic utensils, and a wine list of some of the great American classics like Coke, in original and diet, and the unforgettable Mr. Pibbs, all served in a squeaky clean mason jar. I know what you’re thinking: Michelin voters, book me a trip to Valdosta.

We sat talking a bit and ordered from our laminated, grease-streaked menus. I subtly tried to insure that she was free from all forms of incest.

“So do you date your brother?” I asked quickly.

“What did you say?” she asked in that wonderful southern twang.

“I said can I meet your mother?”
Good side step, Izzy
, I thought. “Are your parents twins?” I said before taking a sip of my beverage.

“Are they what?” she asked again; this one was smarter than I’d thought.

“I said, do your parents like ribs?”

“Oh, my daddy makes the best ribs,” she said proudly. Well maybe not as smart as I thought.

The conversation progressed with the usual banter, and it was clear to me that all systems were go for a great night of feasting. Things really were going well until I saw her eyes open wide and she said under her breath, “What’s he doing here?” Before I could even turn around, I smelled and then heard the voice of her brother yell “
Lookhere!
” That’s right, one word. “What y’all think you doin’ with my sister?”

Dani stood and shouted, “Danny Bob, I hate when you do this to me!”

“Your brother’s name is Danny, too?” I asked.

He approached the table and stood over me and asked, “What’s yo name, Yankee?” He had a bushy mustache and what looked like no more than five teeth. One of the local business leaders, no doubt.

“This is Izzy Glassman,” his sister answered for me.

His eyes went red. “Izzy? What kinda Jew name is that?” he asked, obviously a returning
Jeopardy
champion.

“A Jewish one,” I responded.

His jaw dropped and he muttered, “Well, fuck my sister.”
That’s what I was trying to do, you ignorant redneck!
I thought.

“Get outta here now, Jew boy, before someone gets hurt! My sister is spoken for!”

“By whom?” I asked.

“By me,” he replied. I quickly turned to her and said, “I thought you said that you don’t date your relatives.”

“I don’t,” she said. “He’s just prejudiced against Jewish people.” Back to that theme; what has this world come to?

“You got till the count of three before I open a can of whoop ass!” he declared. I turned and asked him if that was a local beer.

He didn’t get the joke; he grabbed a mason jar off another table and shattered it across my head. Fortunately, it was after sunset. I stood slowly and said to him, “Look, Danny Bob, why don’t you go and find some of your little friends and tip a cow or something before this night ends badly for you?” Then I realized that he had stained my silk shirt. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get stains out of silk?

I grabbed him by his nostrils and proceeded to lead him outside, grabbing a cue ball while passing one of the tables. We went outside, I smacked him around a bit and for a vampire, that pretty much means that I beat the shit out of him. He lay on the ground in front of me and I pulled his pants down, stood him up, and shoved the cue ball right up his tuchas. I heard moans and groans from the crowd of people who had gathered, undoubtedly to watch a Jew get beaten up. I think I even heard someone say through a thick accent, “Shit, I bet that hurts.”

I went back into the restaurant, washed my hands, and went on with my dinner. Dani must have really disliked her brother, because she did not protest one bit about the way I’d manhandled him, and the community didn’t seem too put off by it, either, since the local constabularies never showed up. I will say this, the food was actually really good and the feasting afterwards was even better. The best of my trip to the South.