Once upon a time there was a Kosher sushi chef prodigy Art Show USA who opened Kosher Klaus Sushi on Christmas Eve in 1994 before the Internet became mainstream and Asian elite Yelpers went hog wild. Kosher Klaus Sushi was located in the heart of Scarsdale Village, which earned immediate rave reviews in the Scarsdale Inquirer from local food critic Debbie Wasserman, who described Art Show’s mind blowing specialty roll creations as “Orgasmic before they reach the back of your throat good.” What made Art Show unique outside of his unmatched imaginative heft and juggling sushi knife work at the bar were his God given star powered looks, which commanded legions of groupie Yentas to schlep from the far reaches of Long Island to wait on line in the dead of winter to just catch a glance of the new age pretty boy bad ass Sushi Chef through the window, cranking out one swoon worthy, inhalatory Sushi specialty roll after the next, like his signature one, Living On The Edgemont Edge, which had smoked salmon, Cream Cheese, capers and caramelized shallots throughout to inject an extra special loaded lift.
Every day, Art Show USA would sharpen his Sushi Knives together made from Israeli steel used in bullet proof vests made for their special force’s unit Mossad, which would woo, with sparkly, dazzling delight as patrons at the Kosher Klaus Sushi Bar gave impromptu standing ovations throughout. Art Show USA was a 6 foot 4, spikey blond haired, blue eyed, lean, mean, Sushi slicing machine, who made Tom Cruise from the movie Cocktail look like a stumpy, homely hobbit hipster hack, in comparison, regardless if he kept his rolled up sleave button shirt, tucked in or not. But one day, a bunch of rowdy Irish wiggers, entered Kosher Klaus Sushi to track down a hot yenta breath from Syosset, Long Island Rachel Weinstein, who rocked swinging, booby beauties, 36 D’s to be exact, who was also a solid 5 foot 9, making her mountable from behind standing up, assuming you weren’t a stumpy Irishman, unlucky in the height department. Rachel was a full lipped, Sephardic Persian tan busty beauty, even Roger Waters from Pink Floyd would pulverize her fetching snatch until he was comfortably numb. The leader of the wigger Irish pack was Liam O’Reilly who sported a Newport cigarette tattoo on his esophagus, which scared off most, but not Art Show USA. Art Show USA was a black belt in Judo by the time he was 13 for his Bar Mitzvah. For Art Show’s Bar Mitzvah Party, he played Siamese Dream by the Smashing Pumpkins on the guitar with his feet and teeth. So Art Show USA was never sweating the prospect of losing a fight or a girl to an Irish wigger moron from Long Island, who thought stamping a permanent Newport cigarette tattoo on his esophagus was a bright idea, regardless if it ensured him a truck driver job for Killan’s Red or not.
Liam and his crew of Irish wiggers came down from Long Island to start a fight with Art Show USA because they attended the same high school as Rachel Weinstein and only had eyes for inhaling her whole. Plus, they weren’t enthralled with the Rachel wearing an underground, circulated hoodie with a picture of Art Show USA on it, sporting an American flag bandana and star of David gold necklace around his neck, showcasing well earned, non-banking job related bling.
Liam cuts the line with his Irish wigger posse and bursts into Kosher Klaus Sushi like Mark Wahlberg on the set of SNL after Andy Samberg did a sketch about Marky Mark talking to farm animals. Liam bum-rushes the sushi bar and says, “Hey, faggot. I’ll kick your ass right now, to show all your groupies what a pretty boy faggot, gay pussy bitch you are in real life.” Art Show ignores Liam’s Alpha Dog attack. Liam jumps over the sushi bar to strike. Art Show does a look away kick to middle of his forehead, which sends Liam flying into the ceiling fan, which knocks him out senseless. Art Show USA says, “Alexa, play Jump Around by House of Pain.” Kosher Klaus Sushi erupts into instantaneous jubilee, Jewish pride pounces the air, inspiring Rachel Weinstein to flash her tits at Art Show USA as the entire restaurant throws their gold necklaces with Stars of David’s on it in her general direction, in honor of all those sweet, harmless Jewish boys who were never taught to defend themselves like the Hebrew Hammer, Bugsy Siegal or Art Show USA.
Hummus is Chickpeas are great in Arabic. It’s the most popular dish in the Middle East among Egyptians, Jordanians, and Israeli offshoots of the Zohan tribe, 7 degrees separated from the golden Jew Adam Sandler. Actual unity is getting your Hummus resistor Jewish father from the Bronx to follow your 3 Koshertarian diet embracing children by joining the party to try your homemade Hummus made in his Arizona estate home for a pre-nosh nibble snack on top of toasted pita triangles with some diced up cherry tomatoes, fresh scattered parsley and vibrant looking, just grated carrots on top. I’m not betting the farm on my father to try my workshopped, perfected homemade Hummus over Thanksgiving break but as my father likes to rightfully point out, I don’t own a farm let alone a John Deer lawnmower or the personal property big enough to justify the expense because I’m still so broke, my Hebrew name is under judicial review. Everyone can unify behind the depressingly dreary premise of a degenerate Jew like myself not being financially secure in life yet, who uses his fingers for basic arithmetic like a retarded version Dustin Hoffman at the Blackjack table at Talking Stick Casino.
Growing up in elementary school, all my Loan Officer mother ever made me was peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch, which didn’t help my blobby physique one bit at the time. Still, I never complained or requested anything different, urging my mother to make me Bento box lunches with Power Rangers stickers on the outside, with Cucumber and cream cheese Koshertarian rolls wrapped in seaweed and sticky rice within. Also, as a kid, I always preferred sesame bagels, for my egg and cheeses at the local Greek dinner, inhaling 2 in one sitting, after a night of drinking, with my old school high school buds, which is why my father called me the” human shovel” for a reason. So, I don’t need to be a math savant like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man to realize my love of nut based spreads like peanut butter would eventually lead to my developed steamy love for Tahani flavor in Hummus, which is where the oily, creamy, pulverized sesame seed spewing essence derives from. Hummus is basically, the more versatile, infinitely less tubby version of peanut butter, which also packs leaner blasts of less sticky mouth protein. So of course, I’m hot for hummus but only after I stared making my homemade versions to spice up my kid’s lunches, so I didn’t burn them out on peanut butter, ruining their capacity to ever savor a Reese Pieces Butter Cup, made at all the specialty chocolate chops like in Ridgefield CT again, which is an American shishy bitch rite as it gets.
If you never tried hummus, the famed sesame paste can be a turnoff, if you never sampled the primo goods before. On the surface, some store-bought hummus or homemade hummus can look like a sad plop mound of dried out earwax. That’s why you must add color and a dash of sophistication to your presentation. Pine nuts, who needs them. Chopped hardboiled eggs, gross, too overtly Israeli for my taste sorry. Pesto on top of hummus, is a blatantly unnecessary, awful idea, knowing Hummus when made right, requires no parm cheese garlic infusion to make it more swoon worthy than it already is. For me, I dress up my Hummus triangle creations with a menage a trois of radiant, lick it up color such as hot to trot, Little Red Corvette, cherry tomatoes and Arizona wild, desert bloom orange specked shredded carrots or some Polo Lounge conjuring green in the form of thick strands of Jalapeno on top to keep it extra steamy in the process.
Just like it any relationship, you have to spice things up, incorporating needed color and variety to keep things interesting or you’ll lose sustained stiffage, which is the perpetual state of arousal necessary for any relationship to get excited for toppable tomorrows. The same rule applies to homemade loving infused creations versus the mass produced, manufactured kind, which lacks the length and depth of personalized pop compared to the real thing. So invest in a Cuisinart to blend your Goya Chickpeas, add some store bought Tahini from your local Kosher butcher, add a garlic bulb or 2, throw in a generous heaping of sea, Himalayan, or Kosher salt, I don’t give a shit, before pouring in a steady steam of medium grade Olive oil, as the hummus magic swirls into scrumptious loving perfection before constructing your pita triangle pizzas with the steamy garnishes I mentioned prior and call it a day. At the very least, your kids will love you more putting in the extra effort to tantalize and awaken their tastebuds to newer, fresher, yummier possibilities than ever before. Plus, your kids won’t become instantly tubby and resent your existence for it later. Last, your wife tasting like hummus won’t lure you into sucking face with her on the spot, but you’ll take whatever justified outs a 10-year marriage can give you.
The Chicken Cutlet from the Edgemont Deli on Central Avenue next to Danny’s Cycle in southern Westchester County, 30 minutes north of Manhattan was always the best. My old school dear friend Ari, now a Kidney doctor who part owns his own practice in CT, a graduate of Washington University, no dummy, would agree with me, we became fixated on hunting down the perfect chicken cutlet sandwich ever since. I remember inhaling down this chicken cutlet thinking, I was in the presence of greatness, just based on the crispy enough, herbed spice breading on it alone. Back then, I didn’t know the difference between sage or rosemary. I wasn’t aware of how cilantro was used as an herb in salsa. Shit, an underclassman fooled me into buying oregano for weed senior year in high school, so I wasn’t obsessing over the herb installation componentry embedded in my bomb chicken cutlet from the Edgemont Deli at the time, that wasn’t Calista Flockhart skinny but more Jo plump like from Facts of Life, which gave you something more excitable to chomp into again and again. The perfectly shredded lettuce, semi-thin, actual fleshy red tomato on top, nestled between the banging Kaiser roll, which was never drowning for dear life in an amorphous plop of mayo goo didn’t hurt the chicken cutlet sandwich’s overall appeal one bit either. Ah, those were the days, pre-Yelp, where you actually had to rely on your own intuition and New York bred sense of adventure to try and consume it all, like a less hyper articulate, perpetually suave, mini Anthony Bourdain in the making, minus the French royal rocker look working in your favor either.
Now, that I’m getting my 3 kids more courageous about trying different Kosher meat creations because they know I’m writing a book about it and unlike others, they still believe me in pounding my dreams of comedic superstardom into freaking reality already, especially when I involve them in the act of pulverizing the homemade Kosher chicken cutlets I made tonight with real deal Hebrew Hammer fury. I told my son Arthur to choke up on the mighty mallet before pounding the chicken cutlets for round 2 with the intention of smooshing those cutlets into barely recognizable form like when Mitch Blood Green came up with the bright idea to start a street fight with Iron Mike in Harlem during his prime time domination years, where he knocked out legendary heavy weights by the time you banged another one out to Taste Of Amber again.
My wife had to Nazify my dream chicken cutlet recreation tonight, using a combination of panko breadcrumbs and homemade ones while also using a mishmash of chopped parsley, sage and rosemary, by insisting on calling it the meal “Schnitzel”, saying, “I haven’t had Schnitzel since Oktoberfest in Germany.” Meanwhile, I’m thinking, “Chances are you had pork schnitzel for starters, which is fine, but don’t lump my dish into your non-eating Kosher past in Germany before the open borders invite to invade and resist assimilation lead to no-go zones, proving too much for Angela Merkel’s hunched shoulders to bear alone. Where is W to give Angela Lansbury’s, more homely, less talented, dour dumpy clone to give an unsolicited back rub, when you need him? Also, I didn’t know what the hell Schnitzel was in high school, I just knew how to order a chicken cutlet at the deli, with shredded lettuce, tomato, mayo, Russian dressing or getting some melted provolone on it if I was feeling particularly eccentric for lunch, that day, that’s it. Granted, tonight, I did fry up gargantuan flatted breasts which looked like Pauly from Rocky passed out on Bridget Nielson’s tits. But I wouldn’t call a schnitzel dish using Panko breadcrumbs and Kosher certified chicken as a sterling example of keeping it real Arian like either. Actually, for those food nerd historians at home, schnitzel was actually invented in Austria before famed Nazi hunter Simon Wiesenthal helped track down Adolf Eichman’s Nazi footsteps in Buenos Aries pleasuring himself to more Malbec and Nazi trading cards bound for the ashbins of truly deplorable history. Before shiny shoes got hanged in Israel for being Farrakhan’s dreamboat exterminator against you know who Gervais, and it wasn’t your mole infested British commoners working as Bank Tellers for Barclay’s Bank either.
I’m most impressed with my how kids continue to embrace and try any new meat creation I make for them, because they know it’s made with love and kids always love you back twice as much, when you make them like feel like the center of your universe instead of the reverse. Last, your kids can’t help but look up to daddy a little bit in the kitchen knowing he’s doing his best to please God and obey his dietary laws in exchange for blessing him with the greatest home team imaginable, which grows closer every day, yeah, yeah.
I’m about to put my 3-year old son Samuel in the car today on our way to pick up a couple of last minute, improvised inspired ingredients and he says with a wink and brightened smile, “I hate your jokes and your books to.” I laughed long time. The fact my 3-year-old son already understands the full spectrum of silly minded, sarcastic fueled ball busting while also comprehending what work I’ve been pounding away at since he was born is a sign that God really is looking after my back through this miracle wonderkid. Samuel Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo really is the pubescent, Total Package, Lex Luger after all.
The considerably less greasy Pastrami from the 2nd Ave Deli in Manhattan comparéd to Katz in the lower east side on Houston Street, offers a killer Pastrami on Rye yet memories of more meh bites of pricy Pastrami, don’t make my heart flutter with more erect interest the way repeat showings of the Cherry Pie video on MTV in junior high did or provide the same rapturous joy in hunting down the perfect chicken cutlet in high school throughout lower Westchester County once we all become licensed to drive.
Not every Pastrami sandwich on rye from Jewish Delis in New York is woo worthy. Growing up in the snuggle soft confines of Westchester County, 30 minutes north of Manhattan, our only local option for Pastrami was at Epstein’s, located on a semi-derelict, zero frills section of Central Avenue close to White Plains, NY. Where my friends and I used to frequent a local bodega who didn’t ID, to pick up more forties of Old English, Snoop Dog’s old school ho sprayer of choice. The pastrami on Rye at Epstein’s is only 13 bucks compared to its vastly superior, smokier succulent cousin at Katz Deli on Houston, the oldest deli in America, which was big time before George Burns uttered on his deathbed, “I got off easy compared to Jackie Mason, who had the misfortune of being branded as the less lovable, more overtly Jewish, curmudgeon version of Don Rickles.”
Reality is, you get what you pay for and the pastrami at Epstein’s always tasted a tad blubbery rubbery to be classified as Yelp stroking, jerking off Pastrami ever. Is the Pastrami at Katz infinitely better than Epstein’s? Is the Catholic Church soft on condemning pedophilia? Still, Katz is a schlep if you don’t live downtown or anywhere remotely close to the Island of Manhattan. Plus, the place is a dump and pictures of Ben Stiller on the wall don’t make it anymore alluring either regardless of him being the face of Mugatu or not. Also, when you go to Katz for the 1st time when you’re already in your late twenties when you’re selling ad space for the Village Voice, which doesn’t include the sale of she male size stamps in the back, you feel unfashionably late to the Pastrami is king, rallying party. I’ve tried the Pastrami from the famed Montreal Jewish deli transplant Mile End in the East Village, which packs as much old world charm as Ethel the waitress’s armpit stains, as she scribbles in your order, cursing your existence for being such a predictable, blah brain bore like the rest as she thinks, “Pastrami on rye with spicy brown Mustard, how original. I bet he thinks Bill Maher wishing for a Recession on Real Time to get President Trump out of office, pre-Corona was an example of keeping it real, resistor like, boy!”
My intention isn’t to completely crap on the most unifying of all foods for gentiles and Jews alike, Pastrami on rye. Still, taking my 3 kids to Epstein’s this past Saturday to celebrate my upcoming all-star book review for The Great American Jew Novel, to be published in the Midwest Review of all places, I was slightly embarrassed for hard selling my kids on how Pastrami is considered the Filet Mignon of kosher cow dishes. Granted, this type of Pastrami wasn’t the Austin smoked brisket kind or the Katz caliber, but for a comedy writer who prides himself on his originality, I felt like a used Honda car salesman, for pushing the Pastrami on rye to my 3 kids, by inferring they’d be fake news Jews without embracing the Romantic Comedy date nosh of choice.
Matilda, my eldest, actually emoted about her bit size bite of Pastrami the most, saying, “I like it Daddy. But can you make your London Broil again but a tad more tender next time?” Arthur, her younger brother said, “I like my Hebrew National Hot Dog way better than the Pastrami Daddy. Can you start making your Hebrew National Dogs at home taste more like this?” Baby brother Samuel took some excited nibbles from the pastrami, but he wasn’t doing any yummy dances in the smoked meat’s delicacy’s honor either. I inhaled the remainder of the Pastrami sandwich but only forcmere blessed meat Kosher sake. I actually preferred bites out of our communal square potato Knish by itself, without even dipping it in the too sour spicy brown mustard, proving meat isn’t always better, especially if it’s not a homemade do it all dad creation you made yourself.
At the same time, my kids were very giddy in our padded booth, sucking down their Dr. Brown’s diet cream soda, which isn’t nearly as sugary sweet, with big hearted, didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world relish. On this unseasonably warm Saturday, before we visited my nearby old elementary school in Edgemont, NY as I proceeded to make it rain with more perfect arching jumpers from way downtown before I started freaking out the more career stable parents by the playground by gunning our nerf football at our kids heads, which they ate up with a spoon. Sometimes, the best things in life, don’t have to be smoked, cured, brined or seasoned, reminding me how the only ingredient necessary for old school fun, is being silly as you want to be, which never gets played out in our hearts.
Who told Samuel L Jackson it looks cool to dress up like Spike Lee’s grandmother? Who identifies, as a Jazz critic descendant of Sonny Rollins in Tyler Perry’s new film, The Uppity Cunt. Co-starring Jeffrey Wright, who plays a wannabe OG, sax savant brother dropout from Julliard, who plays himself in the latest David Simon joint, after telling his Jazz critic brother, to blow his crap review of his debut, self-produced album, Kind Of Sad, up his ass.
New Yorkers are no longer procreating fast enough to replace their dying population. Over the hill hipsters, can’t get it up to pork their girlfriends, because they’re already glued to the couch from another pork induced coma. Lena Dunham clones want to have sex but they’re not hot enough to impregnate by mistake either. Lena’s Dunham’s encouraged flappy look on Instagram isn’t helping. Over the hill hipsters hobbits aren’t getting their girlfriends into the mood for sweet, sticky love either, when their ideal workout is picking up a phone to order more Pork Buns instead. So, ladies, if you want your sweaty sex period with your boyfriend to last more than 2 seconds, than stop mimicking Lena Dunham’s encouraged frumpiness on Instagram. No man, bi, straight or gay, is sweating the prospect of missing out on the opportunity to mount the hunchback of Bushwick, who looks like she just swallowed Hipsterville USA during restaurant week, trust me.
Rock and Roll ain’t shit without AC/DC and unlike Chuck Berry, legendary howling front man legends Bon Scott and the best picker upper follower up all time and it’s not even close, Brian Johnson, no offense Sammy Hagar, never put a camera in the girl’s room, to spy on new pubescent trim to break in at their restaurant to get a big Kansas City T Bone Special of her own. AC/DC is also Rick Rubin’s favorite band, and he’s the less cagier, earthier, hip hop hipper machine pop culture tectonic shifter shaper equivalent of Phil Spector minus the amazing made for HBO movie about the Ronettes loving, teenager in love soundtrack penning producer legend, gold record shitting Phil Spector, who for some reason decided to chuck it all for a C- bit never was actress, whose big break screen credit was playing the Amazon on The Moon extra 5000. I digress, but Brian Johnson the rip roaring shredding leader singer of AC/DC on Back In Black can no longer perform live because all of his pitch perfect, cannon ball powered shriek blasting for God knows how long has made him borderline deaf. Now all he hears God willing, is Hells Bells.