Bubbie

Yesterday was the last day of shiva for my grandmother, Zelda Levinson Aleha Hashalom. I wanted to share some thoughts, both for those of you who met her and those who did not:

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To me, Bubbie Zelda was never a real person like any of us. She was a Bubbie – a species unto itself. No storybook could have conceived of a more grandmotherly grandmother than Bubbie herself. She had curly hair, rosy cheeks and round glasses. Her eyes sparkled. She was soft an huggable. She was always in the kitchen, wearing an apron and baking sweet desserts. To visit her we would drive through the countryside of Upstate New York and stay in her house (cottage, it seemed more like to me) where Concorde grapes grew in the backyard and snow piled up to our necks in the wintertime.

Looking back on old pictures of Bubbie only reinforced this belief. In the years that spanned my father’s childhood and my own she changed so little in physical appearance that, were it not for the context of the photographs, I’d probably have no idea if my grandmother was thirty or sixty five.

Just as her appearance neither waxed nor waned, Bubbie sailed through the sea of her life unfazed by the kinds of ups and downs that dominate so many of our lives. She never shouted in anger, nor shrieked in excitement. She was not the type to try new tricks, but in the things she did she was deliberate, meticulous and perfect. She was a rock.

The kitchen was her legacy. I used to love watching her cook. Perhaps there, more than anywhere was where I witnessed this aforementioned meticulous activity; cooking as a lesson for life. Flour was sifted gently. Apples were sliced carefully. Sugary crumbs were dotted onto a cake bit by bit – never rushed – until the whole thing was covered. Steps which I would sloppily rush through she performed patiently, and patience always yielded perfection – this I will never forget. When I cook and when I bake I can feel her in my blood.

Her voice was always stately and dignified. She’d take you back to her early childhood in Boston every time she asked you to pass the mahmalade or answered a phone call from my uncle Mahk. She kept up formal correspondence with her friends back in Syracuse until she could no longer use the electric typewriter in the dining room. She spent every morning reading the New York Times and the New Yorker magazine. She kept a Hertz chumash by her side to study the weekly portion. Though hearing was quite difficult for a long time, she was sharp as a tack until just before the end.

She came to live with us eight years ago after a fall left her in need of physical assistance. Since that time, though her faculties gradually faded, her unshakable nature never faltered. She would adapt, but never give up on her daily routine. Though she became increasingly dependent on others to take care of her, she was never demanding. She never sought attention, never fished for sympathy and never – not once – bemoaned her condition.

I think this heroic determination is the most important lesson I have learned from Bubbie and who she was. No one can avoid life’s disappointments, life’s unfair challenges, life’s sometimes dreary and repetitive drone or life’s unexplainable tragedies. But we all can choose to either ride life like a roller coaster and let us take it where it will, or we can march through it like a soldier. Bubbie marched until the end, and I can only hope to follow in her footsteps.

SeamlessWeb

A couple friends have pointed out the site seamlessweb to me. It's pretty simple - you order food online and it is promptly delivered to the place where you work.

Here's the kicker, though - you can order from half a dozen kosher restaurants, including Dougie's, Eden Wok and Mendy's.

The site is extremely user-friendly and simple to use. You just punch in your address, and you are quickly guided through integrated menus that let you click on the items you wish to order. The site even lets you specify, for example, exactly what toppings you want on your burger.

It's fast, it's accurate and they have a good reputation for service. It definitely beats letting the phone ring for 10 minutes, only to have someone mess up your order because they didn't hear you.

It's just a better way to order food.

Monday

[update - I am putting a "fuzzy patch" over all identifying features in this and future posts]

I had reserved a table for two at 8. But getting a chance to sample the cuisine was not my primary reason for visiting the restaurant that night. Truth is, I wanted a job. There are only a small handful of kosher restaurants in the city that live up to treif-world standards when it comes to service, décor and – of course – the food itself. This place is one of them.

Everyone had told me that Frank was a “nice guy”. He was well known for mingling through the dinner crowd, schmoozing with the customers and making personal recommendations and suggestions when it came to choice of food and drink. I knew that he had, on occasion, hired people like me – no formal training, only a passion for the kitchen.

But the stocky guy yakking away into a cell phone on the sidewalk wasn’t what I expected. He looked really young. And he sounded more like a vintage cab driver than a refined gourmet. Nonetheless, when my dinner counterpart arrived I waved him over. “Is that Frank?” I asked. My friend nodded, and went inside to hold the table while I waited for the chef.

Finally, the phone conversation ended and Frank walked over to me – he had seen me waiting. We shook hands and I introduced myself. Always the warm host, Frank recognized my name from the reservation list. Then, I took the leap and told him that I was really there because I wanted to work in his restaurant. After exposing my true desires, Frank began to laugh. Then he began to rip my dreams to tiny little pieces.

You don’t want to do this. You don’t want to get into this business. How much money do you think chefs make? (I don’t know) Ten dollars an hour! If you’re lucky!

Are you a frum guy? This is no job for a frum guy. You can’t start a family with this life. You can’t SUPPORT a family, that’s for sure.

You don’t know the first thing about cooking. If you went to culinary school, it would still take you 5 years until you really knew what you were doing. You’d be 29 years old before you’re even ready to do anything.

Do you have a girlfriend? (No.) How are you going to date? You realize my guys work until midnight every night?

If you really want to work in the restaurant business, be a mashgiach. They at least make decent money. Why don’t you do that? (Well, I really want to be a chef…)

Don’t be a chef! Go to law school. Go to grad school. Don’t get into this business, I’m telling you. You want to work in my kitchen? I guarantee you will cut yourself. You will slip, fall, crack your skull.

You think you can open your own restaurant? How much money do you think it costs to open a restaurant like this, huh? How much? (Uh, a couple hundred thousand dollars) Yeah, exactly how much – say how much! ($350,000) Ha! It costs at least 1.3 million to open a place like this. You got any rich relatives? (No) Well then, good luck.

You like to cook? What do you like to cook? (Well, that’s sort of a vague ques…) Do you like vegetables? Huh? Do you love nature? Do you have a fine appreciation of nature? Do you like hiking? Look at that sunset [grabs me by the shoulders and turns me to face the sunset]. Beautiful, isn’t it? If you want to be a chef, you need to love the natural world. You need to be willing to shell out $6 a pound for the freshest fruit straight from the farm.

You don’t know anything about food. And this isn’t the career for you.

This went on for about half an hour. I held my ground. I told him that I didn’t care and still wanted to work for him. I told him it wasn’t about the money, I understood all the cautionary advice, and still wanted to do it. He sighed, and he said that I could come in the next day if I wanted to. He’d put me at the mercy of Eddie, his sous chef.

I smiled in victory, and went off to enjoy my dinner. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” shouted Frank. I told him that’s the last thing I would say.

Dinner was great. The sweetbreads were a little salty, but it was a treat just to have them. My venison entrée was a little pricey, but I felt like ordering the venison was just another test from Frank to see if I really appreciate fine cuisine. Plus, it tasted phenomenal. For dessert, I sampled some of their homemade sorbets – if you go, I can tell you that the banana and passion fruit sorbet were the best sorbets I have ever tasted, hands down.

Wined, dined and lined (up for a trail), I left Frank’s happy as a clam, eager to start my first day.

They say

They say these are the best years of our lives. To be 20-something is the best age to be, right? As my friend's dad recently put it to me - "foot-loose and fancy-free".

I'm not so sure. Wherever I look, I see a generation fraught with doubt and indecision. I see people frustrated that they can't find their calling. I see people begging at their hands and knees to get jobs where they work 80 hours a week and never see the light of day. I see people borrowing sums of money they may never be able to repay - just so that they can become DOCTORS and help people (how ironic is that?). We have a lot to worry about, and a lot to be frustrated about.

There is another side to the coin, though. We know how to laugh. We know the meaning of friendship and community. At our age, we can be passionate without being irresponsible and educational without being boring. We can savor the sweet fruits of the world like no other. We are a generation of contradictions, of ups and downs.

Stay tuned, by the way. Last week's Mike's Bistro adventures are soon to be hot off the presses.

Bicycle Race

It was a great day for a bike ride through the neighborhood. I slowly climbed soft hills on the quiet back roads connecting Scarsdale and White Plains. I sailed down them, enjoying the breeze. The only sound on the deserted suburban streets was the chirping of birds. The only vehicles that passed me were construction vans (while the soccer moms themselves may rest during this time of day, their plumbers, carpenters, landscapers and gardeners clearly don't). After swinging by the pool I used to go to as a kid, I decided to bike home on the parkway...

Turns out, you're not allowed to bike on the parkway.

It was an honest mistake - that little shoulder on the side of the road looks like a bike lane! And it wasn't like I was getting in anyone's way. Usually when you do something wrong, every single driver on the road feels the need to honk at you, and you figure it out pretty quick. But no one was bothering me, so I assumed it was ok.

I knew it wasn't when I heard a siren go off, and a voice booming over a megaphone (honestly, it was cranked up so high you'd think I was on the set of some military action movie) "GET. OFF. THE. ROAD."

I got off the road. I dragged my bike onto the grass lining the side of the highway and turned around. It wasn't a cop, but rather some sort of emergency truck with the acronym H.E.L.P. emblazoned on it. How I.R.O.N.I.C. Then the voice spoke again.

"GET OFF THE ROAD"

I gestured with my arms to indicate that the turf upon which I was standing was not, in fact, the road. My captor rolled down his window and shouted his intruction.

"Get off the parkway at the next exit."

I told him I would walk my bike there over the grass if that was ok. He paused. "I'm giving you permission."

So, slowly, I began to walk my bike over the grass. He rolled along slowly behind me (blocking up the parkway in the process, I might add).

I didn't know what was going to happen. I knew that this guy clearly only had two things - a loud megaphone, and a deep-rooted desire to be a cop, which he wasn't. I didn't think he had the authority to punish me in any way, but nonetheless I was already planning my negotiation strategy.

At one point the grass shoulder ended, and the path dipped behind a row of trees and bushes. I indicated that I was going to take that way off the parkway and the cop-wannabe nodded. By the time I came out on the other side, he was gone.

I rode home with a newfound disrespect for authority.

Time of Your Life

All I want is decent battery life.

I don't need a flashy screen. I don't need a camera; I certainly don't need a video camera. I don't need access to email or web browsing. I don't need to listen to mp3's. I don't need a tip calculator.

All I want is to get a couple of hours between charges to speak to other humans. Yet I am finding this desire impossible to achieve.

At the end of May I decided that, after a long life which included an ill-fated freezer incident (see here for details), my Motorla e815 was ready for retirement, and an upgrade was in order. My only requirements were those listed above.

First Verizon hooked me up with the Samsung Gleam. Not only did this phone fail to last more than a day, but I didn't like the flat button panel which prevented me from feeling which button was which.

No problem. I turned it in and replaced it with the LG 8350. The phone wasn't much to look at, but it was supposed to get great talk time. I believed that it would given that it was stoutly shaped (indicating a more robust battery than its razor thin competitors) and frugal on the display.

Negatory. I actually clocked the time on this one, and found that I was getting just about half the rated talk time. Not very impressive for a brand new phone. But when I brought it back to try again, I was curtly informed that I was only allowed one exchange. Verizon could give me a new unit of the LG, but that was it. Fine. I took a new unit... same problem.

It was time for a new approach. I called up Verizon customer service and claimed that my battery was defective. The rep told me that I could bring my phone to a Verizon retailer (not the dinky little Circuit City kiosk I had been going to up till now) and get the battery tested. If it really was defective, I'd get a brand new one.

Phone in hand, I headed out to my nearest retailer. There, I found out that - surprise - no battery testing apparatus actually existed, they just charged up the phone for a while and see how much talk time they could get; something I had already done.

Luckily, though, there must have been some kind of policy disparity between Verizon stores, because these guys told me I could return the LG and try a new one. Happy Day! These guys were nice! I trusted them more than those mean folks at Circuit City. So when they recommended the Motorola v9m, I naturally took it. After all, my last phone was a Motorola, and it was great.

Suffice it to say that the Motorola v9m... sucks. I probably should have figured that out, given its extremely huge LCD screen, as someone pointed out to me (JM). But what can I say? I was vulnerable. I swallowed their story and got stuck with a juice guzzler. After a full charge over shabbos, I've gotten 1 hour 17 minutes and I am down to 1 bar.

I have been told that there are other factors that lead to bad battery life. When I open the phone to check the time, when I send text messages - those all contribute to the drainage. And I don't get the best reception, which may (although shouldn't, according to the people I spoke to in the store) contribute further to the problem.

But are these factors really enough? CNET conducted actual tests for tons of phones, and they rate mine at 5 hours. Half a dozen text messages, half a dozen times opening the phone, not full reception... this really turns 5 hours into barely 1.5? Something is wrong here. And I demand justice.

Even if Verizon let me pick yet another phone, I don't really trust their options. I'd rather buy a used older model off eBay and get it programmed with my account. The only company I have faith in is Nokia, and they don't even do Verizon phones. And I want to keep my number.

If anyone has any suggestions, I'm all ears.

Movie review: WALL-E

Like so many of the tales that have withstood the tests of time, WALL-E is a multilayered masterpiece.

On the surface, it is a cleverly choreographed and richly rendered visual delight. The movie's G rating makes it clear that its makers wanted to reach out to all ages, and its minimalistic use of dialogue perhaps suggests another desire - to reach out to other cultures. The aesthetic pleasure derived from simply watching the characters swoop and twirl appeals to any moviegoer on Earth.

Beneath this is a thinly veiled, albeit timely and heroic message - that of overconsumption, overdependence and the fragile nature of our environment. Set in the future, WALL-E is an obvious warning to today's children. Unlike other environmentalist-themed movies, though, such as Happy Feet (whose message, as far as I could tell, was "if everyone just sang, danced, was nice to penguins and stopped offshore drilling, the world would be a perfect place"), WALL-E makes its point with just the right mix of subtlety and gravity.

But even this is yet another veil. Beneath this statement about the environment, business and government is a poignant lesson about what it means to be human. As many critics have noted, the robots in the film display the most personality - curiosity, innocence, courage, compassion, duty, concern and - most notably - love. Indeed, the most triumphant part of the plot is when the humans finally begin to embrace these characteristics, dragging themselves out of their own robotic states.

It isn't just a cute role reversal, though. Like the prophets of the Tanach taught us, the best way to deliver a message and teach a lesson is through an external parable. People learn, not by being rebuked personally, but by watching their values and vices play themselves out through external devices. Come to think of it, WALL-E is positively bursting with Biblical symbols, from the name of the female robot (Eve) to the unquestionably ark-like nature of humanity's great spaceship.

By the way, I couldn't help but notice the irony of WALL-E - a movie about the perils of consumerist culture - being preceded by a preview for "WALL-E the video game". I'll have to assume that the folks behind the noble-minded elements did not make that call.

In short, go see this movie, and show it to your kids.