Homesick Hanukkah
WHEN PEOPLE ASK me why I live on the Upper West Side rather than downtown, my answer (if not a little defensive) is usually a combination of these factors: I like being near the park, the quality of living is good, I don't want to give up my big apartment. I am not being wholly honest, however. I chose the Upper West Side because of the early influence of my parents. They never lived in the city, and never expressed an opinion of where they thought I should live, but on our periodic trips from the Boston suburbs to Manhattan, one thing was constant. We always stopped at Zabar's.
On our rides home from New York, the car would inevitably smell of garlicky Hungarian salami-what our father liked to eat-and a variety of blooming cheeses-our mother's contribution-which we all munched contentedly on their bakery's bread. Upon leaving Manhattan, the waxy Zabar's bags with their signature orange letters were still crisp; by the time we crossed into Connecticut, they were veined with creases from constant opening and closing.
Not until recently did I realize that those brownstone-lined streets off of Central Park West held their appeal not because of beauty, but because of their proximity to Zabar's. Those seminal shopping trips informed my ideas of what was most desirable about city living: access to sophisticated eating.
The first Hanukkah I spent on the Upper West Side, my sister and I shared a small fourth-floor walkup on West End Ave. As I didn't realize it would be Hanukkah until nearly sundown the first night, going home wasn't an option. Besides, as many secular Jews will tell you, Hanukkah is not a holiday but a festival, i.e., not as significant as Yom Kippur or Rosh Hashanah. The importance of Hanukkah for my family came as a result of tradition. Every year, our mother made thin latkes with lacy, doily-fine edges, which we would eat with cinnamon sugar, applesauce and yogurt or sour cream. This is what I set out to replicate at the last minute during my first Hanukkah away from home.
At the time, I was working in Washington Heights. I hadn't made any plans to cook, nor did I feel like stinking up our poorly ventilated apartment with the smell of frying. I decided to stop at Zabar's and surprise my sister with an instant Hanukkah spread. I was certain that they would have everything I needed for a ready-made Hanukkah meal worthy of two single Jewish girls in New York.
Any night of the week at Zabar's is a festive one, but in the winter when it's cold and dark, the store glows with a particular vivacity. As I walked in and picked up the shopping basket, I felt camaraderie with my fellow Jews. Not so much for it being Hanukkah, but for the fact that at Zabar's, with its pickles, knishes and white fish, halvah, babka and chopped liver, I was among the traditions of my people, and among the people who appreciated them.
In that moment, I was infused with a sense of belonging. I traipsed happily through the store, smiling at absolutely nothing. A great lover of the single-girl-in-the-city model, I affected the romance of shopping for a pre-fab holiday meal that could only be pulled off by the truly young and gay. Although completely aware that I was acting out a saccharine fantasy, this bit of make-believe was necessary for putting some much-needed glamour into a task that could easily turn pathetic. With a flourish, I leaned over the dairy case, plucked up a pint of sour cream and dropped it, ever so blithely, into my basket. But in my hands the container didn't feel so cool, and the contents seemed to sludge around as though they had warmed up. No longer carefree, I began to grope the other containers for one that was sufficiently chilled, peeking at the expiration dates while I was at it.
When I chose one to my liking, I attempted to restore my happy-go-lucky air as I went in search of the applesauce. The only brand Zabar's carried was its own, some terribly overpriced "gourmet" apple sauce. Gone was the casual affluence I tried to assume to fit in with my fellow shoppers, established Upper West Siders for whom Zabar's was "the supermarket." Aghast, I gawked at the $6 price tag, thinking all the while that what I really wanted was the ordinary applesauce that came in a glass jar. Eventually I relented, placing it in the basket with the other items.
The sun had long since set when I arrived home, and my sister was seated at our chessboard-sized dinner table. Although I knew this wouldn't be the idyllic first holiday alone that I'd attempted to craft, in my contrived sort of way, I put on a happy face. "Guess what? I bought us latkes, smoked salmon, sour cream and applesauce!" This seemed to make my sister happy. While she prepared the candles and menorah on the windowsill, I placed the latkes on tin foil and into the toaster oven to warm up.
A few minutes passed after we said the barucha, and as I set the table with the accoutrements for the potato pancakes, my optimism returned. When I went to check on the latkes, the vision I unwittingly had in my mind of my mother's pristine pancakes was replaced with the reality of the soft, sluggish latkes oozing drops of oil onto the foil. My sister and I ate pancakes that neither of us really enjoyed, but we seemed to implicitly agree that it was better than doing nothing at all.