Patrons you want to kill, patrons you want to hug

BS”D

Israel’s weekend begins on Friday, in preparation for Shabbat (The Saturday Sabbath), which means that Thursday night is the Saturday night of Israel. Slow Moshe was packed when I arrived at 11. Ron, Moshe’s son, was manning the taps, and I quickly jumped in to help him ease the pressure on the bar. Glasses filled the sink, and others were scattered throughout the dimly-lit room, turning dish-washing into a Sisyphean act of cleaning and collecting. On one of my rounds of collection, the three cute American girls sitting at the mini-bar extended their pretzel bowl. With a smile I knew all too well, they asked for a refill. Every man knows and that look and tone of voice. It is one that says “I’m not actually interested in you, but I know that if I act like I am I’ll get what I want.” Cursing them in my head, my legs turned to jelly, and the optimist in me began his useless wrestle with his realist counterpart.

About a minute after I refilled their bowl (what would prove to be yet another Sisyphean bar task), the girls turned their eyes to a pair of guys who had just entered the bar. They pointed, laughed, and whispered, and I once again muttered a string of choice words to myself. Unphased, the two newcomers shot them a glance, spoke to them for a minute, and began looking for a table.

“Hey man, any room on the bar?”

I responded in the negative, and directed them to the upstairs gallery. Upon bringing them their beer and pretzels, I discovered that they were quick to surround themselves with another group of girls. This barman always seems to go barefoot.  

Glasses came in to be washed, and went back out filled with beer. Two bags of pretzels were finished by hungry customers. The American girls in the corner sat by their table with their empty glasses and sweetly asked for more pretzel refills before paying for a beer a piece. Two hours passed with barely a moment of calm. As the girls filed out leaving neither tip nor numbers, the gallery began to empty out as well. Patrons began a bar-table version of musical chairs, shuffling through the newly available spots. With seats open at the bar, the two guys from earlier on moved in and sat in front of me.

We chatted and exchanged information on life. Their names werer NZ and DZ, and though they were not blood brothers they went through the grind of both Elementary and High-School together in Jerusalem, and werepractically related. NZ had a tough week and came to the Slow to let off some steam. He began to tell both DZ and myself what he has been up to, taking advantage of the psychology major awarded to any fool who steps behind the bar.  For the most part I tossed my comments and answered their questions with my back to them, busy cleaning the steady stream of glasses that piled in as our conversation flowed. One of them passed me the bowl for a pretzel refill. Naturally, I complied, but with the pretzels running low I had to skimp a bit. He shot me a glance and said something about me not needing to be a miser. Shaking my head, I top off the bowl.

Thank G-d, business was good and there was not a dull moment. Aside from fetching glasses and lighting candles, I had plenty of order to fill as well. A loud cough sounded from behind my back. Turning around, I discovered an outstretched hand with an upgraded pretzel bowl- DZ had swapped the two person version for the three plus version. His grinning chuckle let me know that he expected it to be refilled to the brim.

This went on for a while. To their credit, DZ and NZ ordered a lot, and began racking up the biggest bill (at least per person) that I had yet to see at the Slow. They also managed to devour full bowls of pretzels within seconds. Every time I turned around they handed me the bowl. When I didn’t turn around, they cleared their throat to get my attention.  A few more drinks, and probably a full bag of pretzels later, they got up and began to do something that nobody should ever attempt- drunken dancing. DZ is a burly guy but had managed to get a few moves down, and NZ wanted to learn from him. Crammed between the bar stools and the stairwell wall, with just enough room for someone to push his/her way through to the bathroom, they began to hop, skip, and jump. After bumping into the dark red wall, each other, and the bar stools,  they fell over into their own seats, reached for the empty pretzel bowl, and asked me for more.

DZ and NZ ended up staying until closing time, sipping high-content cocktails, and of course, munching on pretzels.  At some point they remarked that I probably never wanted to see them again in the bar.

“Ha ha,” they laughed. “He’ll probably hang up a sign with our picture over a ‘Don’t Serve’ caption.”

As if. When our two most obnoxious customers happen to be two of your best friends, well, late shifts don’t get any better than that.

Sparks

Ayal was the only person in the bar. It was eight o'clock, way too early for anyone else to stop in for a beer. I had just finished slicing the lemons and was slightly bored, so I grabbed my glass of Goldstar and pulled up one the metal chairs to his table. He smiled, and looked me over, from my kippa (skullcap) to my tzitzit (ritual fringes). 

"What are you doing working here?" he asked.

I knew what he was getting at. His sad, brown, Yemenite eyes had focused on the fringes sticking out from my shirt. Standard response to my job description by a religious adult is to cock an eyebrow. My Hebrew teacher in the States explained to me that your social circle largely revolves around who you are with, and that rolling with a crew of bartenders looks bad on the shidduch-resume. Others have wondered if I am about to shake my skull loose from its cap, like others in my yeshiva have done since leaving. To me the answer was simple, and a genuine continuation of what I had been taught in yeshiva. 

"Somebody's gotta raise the sparks, no?" I replied. 

An explanation might be required: 

According to Chassidic belief, before Creation, the good of the soon-to-be world was held as a powerful light inside vessels of G-d's making. Like any container that holds an ever-growing energy, these eventually exploded, showering the universe with shards and sparks that fell to the baby world. Our job in the world is to search for the sparks amongst the glass, the beauty and holiness within the mundane and even profane, and to raise them to their deserved level. 

Ayal smiled, and raised his glass in a L'Chaim. 

"This is good," he responded. "A boy like you, with a kippa on his head mingling with people who are different, this is what we need. True love for your brethren. That's what's most important for us, especially with this being the beginning of a month of happiness that was derived from our unity as a people." (The Jewish month of Adar, the month of the Purim holiday as well as important victories of the Hasmoneans of Channukah). 

We sat there in silence for a minute, while I pondered the question that so many ask me, and analyzed my response. I was reminded of a story told by Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach, and decided to share it with Ayal.

"One year, as Yom Kippur approached, a little chassid named Moishele packed up his horse, kissed his wife and children goodbye, and set off to see his rabbi. This was the one time of the year that he had the chance to do so, and Moishele was eager to see his spiritual leader's holy face. He spurred his horse passed the Polish forests and countryside, arriving at the Rebbe's house before any of the other followers. Excitedly, he knocked on the door.

The door swung open to reveal the long bearded rabbi, who took one look at Moishele and ordered him away. 

'Leave Moishele. I don't want you here. The last thing that I want is to spend Yom Kippur with you. Get out of my house immediately!'

The words were spit out with such ferocity, that Moishele barely even realized that he has saddled up his horse. Dissapointed and downtrodden, he began his slow journey home. To ease his sorrow, he stopped at the kretchma, the local inn, and ordered himself a shot.  

Inside the kretchma, the chassidim who were on their way had congregated and were drinking, singing, and dancing with a passion. When they saw Moishele's face they had to ask what had happened. After he had unraveled his tale, one of his chassidic brothers clapped him on the shoulders and declared:

'Moishele, this is indeed a travesty, and therefore you must drink a L'Chaim with me.'

The others agreed, and soon Moishele found himself spinning around the room, rosy cheeked and optimistic, while his friends blessed him with rowdy "L'Chaims" ("To life").

"You know Moishele," the others said to him, "according to Jewish law, anything that the baal habayit (master of the house) says to a guest, the guest must do. Except if he tells him to leave. Come back to the rebbe with us. At the very least maybe he will give you an explanation as to his behavior. 

Clearly at this point Moishele was in no state to argue, so with a little help he re-saddled his horse and began the journey back to see his rabbi. As soon as he arrived on the doorstep Moshe began to tremble with fear.Suddenly,  the door threw itself open.

'Moishele!' the rebbe screamed with delight, enveloping him in a great bear hug, 'I'm so glad to see you!'

Stunned by the rabbi's spit-personality, Moishe stammered out a request for an explanation. 

'Ah, you see my dear Moishele," the rabbi began, "when you had first arrived, the malach hamavet, the angel of death, hovered above your head. I knew that you wouldn't make it through Neila (the closing prayer of Yom Kippur), and wanted you to spend your last hours with your family. But when your friends blessed you L'Chaim, they pushed Death away for years and years. With friends like these, you could live forever."

Chodesh tov! L’Chaim! May it be a month of unity and true living.

Live at the Slow

Recently I began tending bar once a week at “Slow Moshe,” the neighborhood pub in Nachlaot. A recount of the eventful, and retrospectively humorous, first shift in the works. Below is tonight’s experience. Enjoy!

Three in the morning and I’m finally beginning to close up the Slow Moshe. After a disastrous first shift a week ago, which ended with me releasing all of the gas from the taps, tonight was smooth (B”H). Nonetheless, it’s test season, and I’m ready to count out the tips and go to bed. Swiftly, I begin to peruse the bottles, lifting them to the light and feeling their weight, recording those whose time has come. As I begin to suds-up my hands for my next task, Chanan walks in.

Chanan is a Yemenite who was chozer b’sheala (left religious Judaism) and then chozer b’teshuva (returned to religious Judaism). We met the other night as I was re-training to ensure that no issues would occur in future shifts. Somewhere along the winding path of his religion, this Teimani learned to speak Yiddish and developed a taste for chazzanut (cantorial music). Although his favorite is Moshe Koussevitsky (who I have only heard on a few occasions) and mine is Yosseleh Rosenblatt, we were quick to bond over our love of religious music.

“Is it too late to have a beer?” he asks, and the look on his face tells me that I can answer in the negative, but that he would appreciate a cold bottle.

I tell him to have a seat. I have time before I finish closing up. Besides, this is a great opportunity to connect with a customer- an important tool in the world of service.

“Just a cigarette’s worth of time and I’ll be gone,” he assures me.

My hand slides open the fridge and pulls out one of the remaining Goldstars. Upon his request I hand him a glass as well.

Closing hours and clean up require music that gets you moving. As soon as I started moving chairs, I shuffled my iPod to the 120 song playlist of groove music- an eclectic combo of classic rock, blues, funk, emo, and punk. Seven minutes later, the length of a cigarette in legal army terms (for the record), Channan reappears with glass and bottle in hand.

“Tell me,” he says with a chuckle, “you don’t feel like cleaning with Koussevitsky?”

“To be honest, I don’t have any,” I reply, “but if you’d like Yosseleh, I have his whole collection with me.”

His face freezes.

“For real?”

“Sure. I’ll put it on.”

After reassuring him that Yosseleh could never be a bother a clean up session, or any other time of the day for that matter, I make the extreme transition from the Offspring to the greatest cantor the world has known. Ad Heno, taken from the Shabbat morning prayer-service and composed by Rosenblatt in an aria-esque style, is both a personal and family favorite. Rosenblatt’s versatile voice slowly fills the empty bar. He jumps from major to minor, all the while twilling the notes, rising and falling at will. Like a dove on blast of thermal air, he glides and maneuvers seamlessly through a swirling prayer of thanks that is an appropriate end to my successful night.

In between glances at the “to do” checklist, I look over at Chanan. His eyes are closed and his facial expression is one of depth, connection, and concentration.

“Could I have another beer?” he asks. “You put on music that was too good for me to leave.”

Gladly, I reach into the icy heaven of bottles and pop another one open for him.

Chanan’s “just a cigarette and beer” unfolds into six gorgeous tracks. Over the course of two brews and a few Marlboros, Yosseleh manages to wind us through various Sabbath and High Holiday prayers. Each track give off hints of vinyl crackle; cobwebs of a time that met a quick and painless digital ending, but like an old wine cask, always stays relevant and classy. While pushing a broom over the dirty floor, a surreal sensation overtakes me- peaceful and dreamlike. Monday night in a Jerusalem bar, in front of a diverse crowd of two, and over alcohol, tobacco, and cleaning products, the great Yosseleh Rosenblatt returned to life.