Jews & Catholics Agree On: Chocolate Babka

The two striking Catholic brothers and I have continued our culinary love affair. Last week, they invited me to --get this-- a sephardic wedding, near Brighton Beach. Neil Simon, eat your heart out.

The wedding was on a Thursday night, at a Jewish center. We arrived fashionably late (9:30 for a 7PM wedding), since the groom recommended we forego the ceremony. When we entered, the brothers looked to me, the sole Jew in our trio, for social guidance. They asked if they should wear those "little hats". Pshaw, I thought -- the service was finished long ago. Let's get to the whiskey, boys!

This Ashkenazi knows so little about Sephardim. We were ushered straight to the sanctuary (women on one side, men on the other). Apparently the ceremony starts after an hour or two of cocktails, so that everyone can yenta through the ceremony.

And when I say yenta -- even the cantor had to raise his voice to overcome the near-deafening yap. I've never seen people actively talk through a religious ceremony like this. Since my boys were on the other side, blackberrying with the men, I had no one to yammer with. Instead, I did what every other person does when they're bored in temple: count plastic surgeries.

After the ceremony, I found the Twin Towers of Consumption at the bar, plotting. The notion of a wedding buffet makes them excited and focused: they were scribbling down a map of the place to strategize their attack. Because I was merely a trainee, and could not depended upon to satisfy the appetites of these men, I was not allowed to forage. I supervised base camp, and was responsible for the occasional cocktail, which wasn't nearly as important as one would think it would be for two Catholic brothers at a wedding.

Truth be told, the Delicious Duo aren't entirely Catholic, technically. They were raised Catholic, and certainly consider themselves Catholic, but I found a little glitch, and their Jewish last name was a tip off. Turns out that 50% of their DNA carries have little chai's on their helixes. So even though they don't consider themselves Jewish, and no rabbi would consider them tribal, it wouldn't be enough to dissuade the Fuhrer.

We started with (several heaping plates of) sushi, moved on to middle eastern spreads (the hummous, the babaghanoush, a taramasalata, olives, pickles, pita, israeli salad, etc). For the mains, there was something wrapped in puff, the ceremonial dry chicken, and a fantastic corned beef, which I was proud to inform the boys was originally a Jewish dish. They didn't care; they just inhaled.

Weddings aren't typically where I satisfy my food cravings. Instead, I prefer the company of that dependable duo, Jack and Ginger. And since women's dresses aren't as forgiving as men's outfits, I didn't even attempt to keep up these two so intent on ingestion. Even going bite-for-every-fourth-bite was too much.

So by the time the (3 mile-high) dessert plates came, I threw up the white yarmulke. There was a chocolate molded piano filled with mousse, petitfores, cannolis, eclairs, tartlets, 7-layer cakes, halavah, and, and...through some grace of god, they were all dairy-free. I didn't have to go to the trouble of explaining why I simply couldn't eat these; I could honestly claim "margarine" and it was a satisfactory explanation to the food lovers. They love food, but most importantly, they love it done right.

I had to stop and wonder, perhaps there was a eency-weency purpose to the kashrut that put the diet in dietary guidelines? Maybe the rabbis had a second agenda when they had the prescience to proclaim, "You may not a top a steak with a nob of compound butter, or follow it with a 7-layer yellow cake with buttercream frosting." Keep those Jewish tucchuses firm. Amen!

But I digress. Between bites, they were complaining about how fast they had to get to the buffet for their seconds, and thirds -- the food was going fast. While their mouths were full of chocolate, I took the told them the old catering joke that at a Jewish wedding, you might run out of food but you'll never run out of booze.

They nodded, half listening, intent on their dairy-free desserts. You can take the boy out of the synagogue, but you can't take the babka away from the boy.


BABKA FOR THE BOYS
As I've come to learn more about the Digesting Duo, the elder of the two has admitted a deep passion for babka. So today's recipe is dedicated to him. Of course he won't make it, he'll buy it (until the right sephardic woman comes along, who will also buy it -- what, you think she cooks?).

I've made babka, and it's fine, but as I firmly believe, if you can buy it better (and cheaper), then why bother with the fuss of making it. Support your local artisan. Luckily for you, the two best babkas in New York can be ordered over the Internet:

Zabar's Babka
Broadway and 80th Street
Upper West Side
Manhattan

Russ and Daughter's Babka (scroll down)
Houston Street
Between Allan and Orchard
Lower East Side
Manhattan

The Vulnerable She-Crab: Softshell Sandwiches

For many Jewish men, the Sabbath begins on Friday at sundown with a series of prayers. The prayer say many things; among them, ‘thank god I am not a woman’.

Thank god I’m not a woman?! Oh you mean her, that woman, your WIFE, the one who is slaving over Chicken Marbella?

Today I’d officially like to say: Thank God I’m Not A Man. Because men, as it turns out, have to negotiate with women. And myself, as a representation of the species, has not been the easiest little puppy to deal with of late.

It’s not my fault, it’s the media! First, Sex in the City has been out for a week. This requires all women to chat with their friends, their mothers, their sisters & colleagues ad nauseum, dissecting the movie from Jimmy Choo (yay) to the unfortunate bird-hat (boo).

What did you think of Carrie revealing the post-weep look in the mirror (gasp! But yet, so brave, so honest…)? Is it fair to make midwesterners think it’s possible to live and shop *like that* on a writer’s $60K salary? Living in a 3-bedroom share in Flushing dressed in Forever 21 doesn’t make a hit series, now does it.

The New York Times' Manohla Dargis and the New Yorker's Anthony Lane both shredded the movie, when in truth it’s just a gosh-darn perky television show elongated to give us a bit of summer fun. SITC is cream-puffs and cotton candy, glitter and tulle, and anyone who analyzes it as they would an episode of The Wire is looking for depth in a kiddie pool. "Sir! You can't dive in; it's only 6-inches deep!" I am happy to take 2 hours and 15 minutes out of the city heat for a little levity.

That said, I’m not above picking the occasional PMS pimple until it takes over my face. When a recent writer/editor friend directed me to Marry Him!, the recent piece in the Atlantic about late-thirties singlehood, single motherhood, and settling, I couldn’t help myself. Unlike SITS, it was something I could dive into, so I forwarded it to my late-thirties single friends, all geared up for an intelligent sociological debate.

This was not appreciated.

Marry Him! posits that though you may think the brave and noble thing to do in your late 30s is to have a kid on your own, the braver, nobler and, let’s-face-it smarter thing to do is to take the plunge with whomever you’re dating at the time, happy though you may not be, and make a go of it. Suppress your disappointment at marrying a man you don't love! Settle, sooner than later! Putting up with his problems is a heck of a lot better than going it alone.

As author Lori Gottleib says, most women complain about their husbands non-stop anyway, so why even start with a partner you love? If you do, the love will fade fades away and you’ll be left with the disappointment of love lost in addition to all his irritating habits. If you pick someone you never loved, there's less of a down side!

Of course this sounds insane to me, but I can’t help but think of the weddings I’ve attended over the years when I knew my friend, the bride, was settling. She had had her passionate relationships, sure, but now she’s content to be with a man who’ll take great care of her.

And I gotta tell you – though it turned my stomach at the time; these couples are content in their marriages. As was told to me by one of these brides, “My mother always told me that if I had to marry someone I loved or someone who loved me, I'll be happier if pick the latter.”

Hey, I don't write the rules, I just retell them. As far as I’m concerned, you, not your situation, determines your happiness. It’s not about the circumstances in which you find yourself, but the attitude you bring to them.

You want to hate Sex In the City? Hate away. You want to rush into a relationship with a man you don't respect? Knock yourself out. Just don't come cryin' to me about how much your shrink charges for an hour of her time. ($375! Can you believe? And now I have to go three times a week!).

Either way you look at it, there's a vat of boiling water bubbling away under the perfectly pedicured feet of most women I know. I'd rather be that woman, negotiating that situation, then be the man, negotiating with us. My preference is to take on the challenge and not the fall out. For today, Thank God I'm A Woman.



Softshell Sandwiches

Last month, on my parents dock in North Carolina I caught blue crabs for the first time. I love eating soft shell crabs in their entiretly more than fighting for the measly meat of a hard shell, so I considered holding them in captivity until they molted. I thought it kinder to kill and eat them then keep them imprisoned for longer than necessary.

They were tough little things, aggressive claws snapping away. Heck, I’d be the same if I were fighting for my life. I killed them, threw them on the grill and enjoyed the sweetest crab meet I'd ever had.

A few weeks later, I found some softshells at Fairway (for $1.99 each in Red Hook!). Their personalities completely change when their shells come off: without defense, they're almost cuddly. The vulnerability of a crab can make her ever so much more of a pleasure to be around.

Shelled and mean, or soft and sweet, they're both the same to me: Dinner.

Click here for my article on thestreet.com with a recipe on Softshell Crab Sandwiches.