Introduction

Long ago and far away. That’s the where and when of my childhood, those multiple decades past in a very Jewish neighborhood in the northern part of The Bronx. (That’s right, ‘The Bronx,’ not ‘the Bronx,’ and certainly not ‘De Bronx.’ We were classier than that.) I could compile a list of some size about the special qualities of our neighborhood, but here are two things that I think are interesting. One, you never saw a cop on a beat anywhere near E. 208 St.; there was no compelling reason for any of police officer to be there. Second, there was a notable lack of watering holes in the area, at least where the Jews lived. And that absence of alcohol was true in our home and, I assume, in the homes of my friends. There may have been some ‘schnappes’ here and there in the neighborhood shuls, but who knew about such things?

Once we got to City College, that gap in our education disappeared in the twinkling of an eye. It wasn’t as if we went the traditional route and joined a fraternity. No, no, no. We had our own ways of entertaining ourselves. I, being the designated provider, would walk into any spirits emporium and, despite being underage, would walk out with something in a brown paper bag. It didn’t take us long to locate the storied twin meccas of Bohemia, the White Horse Tavern in the West Village and the Cedar Tavern on University Place. However, because of our limited resources, the bunch of us would spend quantity time in some of the rougher establishments in the area, making do with rot-gut whiskey and cheap gin. (Shudder!) That none of us died from alcohol poisoning or cirrhosis of the liver is a miracle in and of itself, and something to be noted.

Let’s move forward several decades. Barbara and I, happily married, were living in New Jersey, no longer DINKS (double income no kids). We were now sometimes-two-incomes-sometimes-not, with car payments and a serious mortgage, and later on, a child or two to worry about. Whiskey wasn’t on my mind, but there was always a need for a bottle of wine to put on the table Fri. night – especially now that kosher non-cough syrup-style wine was becoming available. We bought what we could afford, usually a bottle of Baron Herzog White Zinfandel, then retailing for under $4 a bottle. We had no funds for barhopping, but even if we had, there didn’t seem to be any friendly taverns to hop into. There would be drinkable ‘schnappes’ at shul kiddushes. But that didn’t carry over to our home (as in, we can barely afford an extra slice of pizza; let’s not think about anything more extravagant). 

Ultimately, we arrived in Teaneck, the holy city west of the Hudson. It was there that I had an epiphany. I was invited to join a select group of guys who would get together after the early minyan Shabbat morning and slowly work their way through a bit of Gemara. That’s when I came to appreciate the cumulative power of a glass of Scotch in one hand and a cup of coffee (even, God forbid, instant coffee) in the other.

When we arrived a little bit east of Jerusalem, the real holy city, I was determined to carry on the tradition, at least the fressing part of it. It was not too hard to attract a small coterie of friends to join me in making our own kiddush Shabbat morning away from the maddening crowd of shul-goers and their offspring, all lunging for some snacks. At some point, by popular demand, our group added various kinds of herring to the liquid part of our menu.

What more could we do? I decided to follow the example set by RCCs (Rosh Hodesh Clubs), enlightened feinschmeckers who would collectively celebrate the arrival of Rosh Hodesh by having a stellar meal and breaking out their best wines. What could I do instead? Make some cocktails!!! How about some White Russians???  Boy, did I get a response.

But why stop there? One of the fan club suggested a Moscow Mule. Can do. For myself, I could whip up a Manhattan in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.

Once I got started on the cocktail trail…… Plenty of free advice from Dr. Google and Professor YouTube to help me along the way. Negronis, Boulevardiers, Cosmopolitans, Aperol Spritzes, Rusty Nails, Old Pals, on and on. And then there is the Cocktail Festival in Jerusalem to give me encouragement. We were at the first iteration last year, and once I heard it was being reprised, I sure as hell wanted to show up. We planned to go the second night, Thurs. Aug. 31 – even though it meant heading back to Jerusalem a second time after my usual foray to the shuk earlier in the day.

Optional Middle Section

My usual morning routine – after davening and taking care of the cats is to sit down to breakfast and scan our local English language press.

Who’s killing whom; who’s protesting for or against what; what public officials are in trouble with the law, or should be; where are people being beset by earthquakes, floods, droughts, volcanic eruptions, hurricanes, or civil war? These are things I need to know before I leave the relative tranquility of our apartment. I already knew there would be articles that morning about the group of Haredi thugs in Beit Shemesh attacking the mayor while she was attending the opening of a new school. But I was woefully unprepared for another article in Haaretz: ‘Campaign to drive Arabs out heats up in Ma’aleh Adumim ahead of council elections.’

‘The deputy mayor of Ma’aleh Adumim, who is also a leading candidate for mayor, acted to close down a driving school run by an Arab woman, following residents’ demand to remove Arabs from the city’s public sphere.’ (Am I sure I want to keep reading this? I guess I’d better.) For context: Benny Kashriel, the current mayor, not running again after holding the office for 4.3 light years, is to be the new Israeli ambassador to Italy. His handpicked successor for mayor, the new Guy, is going to show how tough he is. Guy Yifrach is aided and abetted by Shiran Mirzai, who is the #2 on the Otzma Yehudit party, a/k/a, the Ben-Gvirites, who are, in theory, running against him.

Both of these worthies seem to be beset with a condition that I call ‘Arab under the bed syndrome.’ Mirzai and her followers have mounted a campaign on Facebook and Whatsapp to identify any Arab lurking in their vicinity. ‘Now in Katzefet.’and ‘Look at that in the bus; they left no place for the residents.’ Maybe they are afraid that the Arabs will insist on driving the bus. Oh, wait a minute…….

We are all painfully aware of the deterioration of bus service on any of the Muslim holidays. Anyone who walks into Supersol on a given day, looks around, and thinks for a moment, (admittedly a difficult task for some) will realize that if all the Arab employees decided to stay home one day, the store couldn’t function. Nor could the city itself if its Arab and Bedouin workers (the ones who clean the streets, collect the garbage, repair the infrastructure, and do all the gardening) were permanently unavailable for duty. So, given the number of Arabs hanging out in town every day of the year, why are these two worthies picking on the Arab lady with her driving school? When you have real problems – too much traffic in town and the potential for terrorism – and you have no realistic solutions, pick on the little guy. That sometimes works, even though it shouldn’t.

Back to the main topic

I mention the above for one reason only, to give you a sense that I was not in the best of moods when I left our apartment, heading to the shuk. I don’t do stupid; I am allergic to stupid. I could sure use a cocktail. It may seem preordained, but as we left Ma’ale Adummim, a middle-aged Arab woman in a red and white gingham outfit boarded the bus and sat down next to me. I guess she figured I wouldn’t bite or make derogatory remarks – neither of which I did.

By the time I arrived at Power Coffeeworks, I was a little calmer. I had a wonderful conversation (one of the perks of being there), this time with Chris, a tourist from Toronto about life in Israel, which relaxed me a little more. Still, I felt the need for a stiff drink – maybe several – which we could certainly obtain at the Cocktail Festival.

Last year, the festival was held at the First Station; this year, the event had moved to the Sergei Hotel in the Russian compound. It says the hotel is on Helena Hamalka St. Do we know where that is? (as opposed to Shlomzion Hamalka several blocks away). Barbara thought she knew. After all, the hotel is part of the Russian Compound, and we know where that is. With a little effort and a little wandering, we did locate the street, perpendicular to Yaffo, walked up from there, past several bistros doing a booming business, and found the hotel, only because there was a small throng of people milling outside.

We were required to demonstrate that we carried no weapons – strictly verboten in a venue serving alcohol – and from there waited our turn on the line to get tickets. We listened patiently as the young lady behind the table explained the details, which we already knew because they were the same as last year. To wit: you buy a block of three tickets, each of which entitles you to a drink from one of the participating taverns. You can get the regular (about 90NIS) or the premium (about 120NIS), which gives you a little higher quality drink with more heft. Being ‘premium’ types, we opted for the latter, getting one set apiece, meaning we could collectively sample six of the best cocktails on offer.

And then we walked into the courtyard of the hotel, which started off life as a hostel for Russian pilgrims, built at a time (mid-nineteenth century) when every major European power was building something outside but near the Old City as a way of establishing a foothold in the Holy Land. And that’s why the hotel is so imposing and the courtyard so charming, because in those days, architecture mattered.

What I do first when I go to any event like this is just walk around and see what’s what and who is offering it. There were ten taverns participating this year – up from five last year – each tavern in walking distance from the hotel, which gives you some idea of the vibrancy of the night life in this fusty metropolis. Each tavern was given an assignment: make something special for this occasion. In fact, make four or five cocktails based upon a specific spirit: gin, vodka, tequila, rum, Scotch, bourbon, Cointreau. Now you can’t get away with serving something run-of-the-mill, which is what happens at a certain wine festival (no names!), because your competition is watching, and you want to make a good impression.

After checking out each and every booth and making a mental note of what they were serving, we came up with a battle plan. I’ll get this and this and this; you’ll get that and that and that. Let’s get started: round one. Now, let’s find someplace to sit. Unlike the wine festival that we won’t mention by name, here there were plenty of places to park one’s weary bones, benches and low retaining walls. We found an unoccupied bench and stayed there for the duration. We would take turns getting our second and third rounds, while the other one zealously guarded our space. We could just sit and chill and watch the world go by. OK, not the whole world, but a nice sample of folks with cocktails on their mind. I was particularly interest in a troop of six American yeshiva bochurs, in their white shirts and black pants, trooping back and forth, each one trying to look ‘cool,’ because how else should you look at a cocktail festival?

I made an observation that Barbara readily agreed with. Every woman here (well, almost every woman), whatever she is wearing, how formal or casual, how much or how little (?) she has on, whatever it is, she carefully planned it for this outing; whereas, every guy, that’s just what he happened to put on today, with no thought whatsoever. When one is sitting, sipping multiple cocktails, that’s the kind of thought process that goes on, now that you’re relaxed enough to consider the important stuff. By the second round, I felt no pain. By the third round, I couldn’t imagine that I had ever felt any pain, or that I would ever do so in the future. Whatever was bothering, annoying, or confusing me before, it was gone. I have to go out on a limb and suggest that, if someone were to prepare a comprehensive list, complete with illustrations, of ‘100 of the World’s Greatest Inventions,’ along with the printing press and the safety pin, we’d have to include the humble cocktail with all its variations, using every possible alcoholic beverage, fruit juice, and syrup, possibly with coffee, tonic water, milk, or mint leaves thrown into the mix. Most of the well-known cocktails that have stood the test of time were created by legendary bartenders at fabled bistros over the decades, even the centuries. So we were not just sipping an alcoholic beverage, in our own way, we were reliving history, and who can object to that, I ask?  At one point, two young ladies sat down on the other end of our bench. They placed their two drinks on the ledge behind them and proceeded to take a picture of their beverages, no doubt to send it to friends and family far and wide, who would be duly impressed, for who can pooh-pooh a well-made cocktail, sipped slowly on a summer evening?

There are those times in life when you never want to leave, even though you know you have to, sooner or later. Finally, it was time for us reluctantly to head home. On the way out, I noticed a young Arab woman, one of the security guards on duty – appropriately armed, I might add. I wondered what she made of this scene, hundreds and possibly thousands of Jews showing the effects of an evening out on the town. I wonder if she would be welcome in our city, a little bit east of Jerusalem?

Epilogue

Despite the best efforts of the worthies in our community to discourage the driving schools from teaching Arab youth – some of them even plastering Israeli flags on the front of their vehicles to demonstrate to one and all that they would, under no circumstances, allow Arabs in their vehicles – most of the cars with the ‘lamed’ on top coming our way have chosen not to join the boycott. More power to them I say. So I’m a bit calmer. A good cocktail and some common sense go a long way.