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.
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