Growing up in New York in the 1960’s and 1970’s, my family did not exactly celebrate Thanksgiving. We weren’t part of a big family dinner and my mother did not shop days in advance for turkey, swap recipes for stuffing, or bake pies. As a Jewish child of European born parents, it was normal not to follow the traditions of an American holiday. But as can be expected, we unintentionally developed our own tradition.
When I asked my mother how we came to ignore the customary family feast, she said that my father thought it was a shame for my mother, who worked a full time job and did all that was expected for the many Jewish holidays, to spend a precious day off slaving in the kitchen. It was a rare day without any obligations, just relax.
And so it came to pass that we would go to a nice restaurant for dinner. “We” was the four of us: my parents, my grandmother and me. The only prep work involved was deciding which restaurant and then calling ahead to find out if they were open and serving fish on Thanksgiving and make a reservation. We kept kosher and we only ate fish in non-kosher restaurants.
On Thanksgiving afternoon, we would get dressed up, bundle up, and take a taxi to the restaurant. If we got lucky, it was a taxi with those little extra fold-down seats that were phased out by the mid ’70’s. These were 2 little stools between the rear bench and the driver’s front seat, that folded down onto the floor in the back of the cab. When you had more than 3 passengers, you popped up the stool and had a real adventure. The smallest passenger crouched on the little seat and as the taxi hit every pot hole and you got to bounce along like riding a bucking bronco. When the driver hit the brakes and you were propelled forward, the stool went into collapse mode and you could easily land on the floor. It took skill to keep yourself and the seat upright. It was as good as any amusement park ride but it lasted much longer!
When we arrived at the restaurant, we got the usual warm welcome, a huffy “Do you have a reservation” which was code for “You better have a reservation because we are completely full tonight and there’s no way you’re getting a table if you didn’t call ahead”. Then we performed the initial intake: did the first impression live up to the restaurant’s reputation? This set the mood for either a good experience or more disappointment.
We were never given menus. After a brisk walk to our table to get rid of us quickly, we were handed off to a waiter would rush to our table and verify, “You’re having the Thanksgiving special, right?”
Could we see the menu please?
That’s when the fun started.
Let me pause and say: For the first few years the I was young, I was embarrassed and secretly wished we could have the special like everyone else. The room smelled like the special. Those warm creamy mashed potatoes, gravy and whatever else was on the plate, looked really good. I had never had that. I had most of the dishes separately. We often had turkey, usually with a noodle kugel from Meal Mart’s kosher take-out. My mother made parve mashed potatoes with margarine on holidays (no dairy ingredients with our meat dish). We had cans of Ocean Spray jellied cranberry sauce all the time. We had Birdseye frozen green beans regularly. But I had never had it all on one plate at the same time, drowning in that magical brown gravy.
As I got older, I looked forward to the dramatic moment when we shocked the waiter. No one said “no” to the Thanksgiving special! We were the first! Rebels!
Could we see the menu please?
We have completely derailed the waiter. Now he has to fetch menus and then come back and take our order for four specials away…such a waste of time on a busy night.
The waiter returns and pencil poised, says, ”So…four specials?”
No. We’ll have the fish, please.
The fish?
Yes, the fish. For all four of us.
I don’t think we have the fish today. It’s Thanksgiving. We have a special menu. It has tur….
Yes, you have filet of sole.
I'm not sure. I have to ask.
I'm not sure. I have to ask.
I called ahead and asked.
You did? I’m not sure the chef can make the fish tonight.
I called this afternoon and spoke to Robert. He said we can have the fish.
Robert is not here for the dinner shift.
Robert said it won’t be a problem.
Are you sure you don’t want the special? It’s got our homemade…
No! We can’t eat that. We’d like the filet of sole.
At this point, the waiter is clearly thinking: Are you nuts? Who CAN’T eat turkey and mashed potatoes?
The wrangling sometimes dragged on, the waiter trying to persuade us to give in to temptation and make his evening easier, but in the end, we always got the fish. We also got an angry frazzled waiter, who sometimes, as he cleared our main course plates, sarcastically asked, “Ready for some pumpkin pie?” with a tone implying that for some crazy reason his difficult diners might be resistant to the special, but no one says no to pumpkin pie! A triumphant finale!
Of course not. Like most Europeans, we don’t like pumpkin pie at all. In fact, even if we did like it, we probably can’t eat that. Pie crust might be made with lard.
Do you have a nice seven layer cake?
