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March 3, 2010

Nine Ways to Make LA the “Ultimate Food City”

Touchy touchy.  Last week in Foodaism I dared suggest that Saveur magazine may have been overhyping things by declaring Los Angeles “The Ultimate Food City.” To read the bawling, angry, acting-out reactions to my post you’d think I called for every Yelper to be sent to bed without his Kogi.  So this week I’ll do what any good child psychologist would have suggested I do first: use positive language. 

To reiterate my basic point: LA has wonderful food.  It has bountiful ethnic restaurants and markets, some very good high end places, and an impressive web of farmer’s markets.  Saveur got all that right. But LA is not yet the ultimate food city; it is not even a great food city.  That was the thrust of my criticism. I didn’t mean to insult those who just discovered Koreatown, where I’ve been working and eating for the past 16 years, back when there were more bad Fillipino places there than good Korean ones (Who else remembers the Jitney Café?).  And who knew that Palms has such a loyal fan base. You’d almost think it was, I don’t know, Venice.

Yes, I love that I can—as I did not long ago—stop on the way to work at the Argentine café Grand Casino for a yerba mate and a cornetto, continue onto Koreatown where at lunch a Korean chef will show a Latino busboy how to make my Japanese sushi roll, then pop into the Tar Pit on the way home for a meeting and drink a glorious concoction of bay leaf infused vodka, oloroso sherry and flamed orange rind, grab a cupcake for the kids at Famous Cupcake, then have dinner at Ado, where the chef/owner is in the kitchen and the maitre d’ owner would hold his hand on a light bulb if you told him it was too bright. That is a good food day, in a very good food city. (Not average though—usually I make my own mate, grab an avocado sandwich from Sunny and Charles at Trimana, and make dinner for the family at home).

But here, on the positive side, are the Nine Ways to Make LA a Great Food City.  Read to the end, then add Number 10:

1. Open a Massive, Throbbing, Heart-Stopping, Hunger-Stirring Big-Ass Perpetual Farmers Market.

Think Wednesday Santa Monica Farmers Market,  but indoors in a landmark centrally-located building, open 7 days a week. Think Les Halles of the 19th century, updated to the 21st. This would be the jewel in LA’s food crown—a showcase for the finest locally-grown ingredients, a ready market to encourage new growers and artisan food makers, a place for chefs and diners to mingle, a spur for new food and food education.  Yes we have Grand Central and the Farmers Market on 3rd and Fairfax, and maybe these could morph into that, but they aren’t there yet.

2. Triple the number of Food AND PROVISION trucks

Those food trucks descending like fine smelling SWAT wagons into Venice and Holywood and Mid-Wilshire prove that in a city that makes it hard to get to food, there is an abundant market for food that gets to you.  Build on that success. Bring back the bakery and vegetable and seltzer trucks that used to cruise LA—one of my happiest childhood memories is of the Helms Bakery truck that regularly honked its horn in front of my Encino house, bringing the Mad Men-era housewives and us kids out for bread and a glazed donut.  The Japanese man who sold vegetables out of the back of his truck soon followed.  Besides making sure good food permeates the city’s long stretches of mediocrity, a new food truck flotilla would create impromptu neighborhood meeting places.

3. Free up zoning and licensing to mix food businesses and residential areas, and F the NIMBYs.

When I dared dis Palms in my last post, what I meant was that between Pico and Venice boulevards to the south and north and between Lincoln and National (to be kind) on the west and east, there is NOTHING TO EAT.  Nowhere to stop.  If you want to walk from your house for a cup of good coffee, you will walk for a mile.  True, at the scale of fully tanked-up car LA’s food is spread out before you like Babbette’s Feast, but driving from course to course does not a great food city make.  The key is to integrate high quality corner stores, cafes, restaurants and bars into neighborhoods.  Make good food a part of the block, not a distant destination.  Of course when proprietors try to do that, neighbors load on so many conditional users the bottom line won’t pan out.

4. Loosen after hours regulations and encourage more late dining out

A lot of great dining happens after 10, in Madrid, in Bangkok, in Buenos Airies. This town closes up too early. What about keeping the lights on the Venice Boardwalk on warm nights, and turning it into a strolling promenade like the Zattere in the real Venice?  Let people linger, eat late, enjoy.

5. Improve public transportation

To be a great food city you need to have diners who can get around to eat it, explore it, stay late enjoying it.  Many commenters pointed out the fact that LA’s miserable public transportation system makes that difficult, but that, they say, is the problem with LA, not LA’s food.  To which I say, quoting Tommy Lee Jones in The Fugitive, “I don’t care.”  Doesn’t matter whose fault it is, it is an irrefutable damper on LA’s ability to be a great food city.

6. Encourage City and Suburban Agriculture

The more stuff we grow, the stronger our ties to good fresh ingredients and the chefs who turn them into good food.  Turn lawns into artichoke plots, empty lots into tomato fields, sideyards into chicken coops—a pygmy milk goat or two on every block!  Make it easy and legal to sell the excess at neighborhood farm stands.

7. Invest in Yummier Schools

I believe that children are our future. No, really.  The more money and time we put into programs like Alice Waters Edible Schoolyards, the more the next generation won’t settle for calling LA the ultimate food city, yet.

8. Zone for More Outdoor Cafés, Especially on the Coast

As I said, we have the best weather and the fewest outdoor cafes; some of the nicest beaches and the worst coastal dining.  Let’s convince the county and the powers that be that there is revenue in smart restaurant growth along the beaches.

9. Make the Supermarkets Part of the Solution

Jim Murez, who runs the Friday Venice Farmers Market,  rightly points out that LA food revolves around the car and the supermarket.  When you consider the quality of the supermarkets, you understand a lot about how far we have to go to improve people’s understanding of how good food can be. But that’s where we are, and that’s where we need to start. So here’s the plan: encourage the supermarkets to carry more local food and produce; to hold more nutrition, cooking and gardening demos, to use some of their hardscaping for demo gardens, to work with local chefs to promote better eating and cooking.

That’s my list of 9.  What’s your #10?

 

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What’s “modern” about Modern Orthodoxy?

Over the last few days, two thoughtful writers and teachers articulated a blunt truth about Modern Orthodoxy. They each pointed out that most of us who identify ouselves as Modern Orthodox, are not meaningfully living up to the challenge that this noble term implies. We seem not to undestand what we’ve committed ourselves to. And as a result of this failure, both authors conclude, Modern Orthodoxy – as well at its cousin, Religious Zionism –  have had precious little to offer the Jewish people in the way of visionary national leadership.

Rabbi Danny Gordis, writing about Religious Zionism, penned the following,
“… Religious Zionism has long since had very little of importance to say to Israel at large…It hasn’t produced any creative religious thinkers of the likes of Abraham Joshua Heschel, Abraham Isaac Kook or Joseph Dov Soloveitchik,… For religious Zionism to really matter, it must produce the next generation of religious leaders for Israel, people who must have something to say not only to the yeshiva world, but to the Jewish, democratic society that is Israel.”

Rabbi Donniel Hartman similarly noted that,
“… the centrist or modern Orthodox and the religious Zionist communities, have chosen a third path, a path which lives in the modern world, learns from it and tries to engage in a dialogue between the world and our ancient tradition. .. Alas, while religious Zionists and even the modern and centrist Orthodox have chosen clearly to delineate themselves from the ultra-Orthodox, they have failed to create the ideological foundation to justify this distinction.”

We need to ask ourselves, “What is at the root of our failure to ideologically thrive? What dimension of the Modern Orthodox concept are we failing to vigorously engage, and how is this failure holding us back from our appointment with Jewish destiny?”  Fortunately, we need not dig very deep to discover what’s wrong. It’s right before our eyes.  It’s what Hartman refers to as “the elephant in the room”. We are a community that identifies itself as “Modern Orthodox”, but doesn’t actually understand what the term “modern” refers to in this construct.

Several years ago, a terrible New York Times article about the Five Towns (NY), characterized Modern Orthodoxy as the seamless blending of halachik observance and indulgent materialism. The article was about eating at Glatt kosher restaurants that one’s non-Jewish clients can’t believe are kosher. Or taking the early train home on a winter Friday in order to celebrate Shabbat in one’s million dollar colonial home. About laying tefillin at 6:00, and then pumping iron at the gym at 7:00. Unfortunately, our brethren who were interviewed for the article did noting to dispel the author’s notion that “Modern” referred to nothing more than an all out pursuit of the American dream. Sadly, there is of course much truth to the article’s characterization. And it is little wonder then, that we have not made our mark as a community that “has something to say” to the Jewish people or beyond.

Our Religious Zionist community, in Israel and here, also tends to understand the term “Modern” in a superficial and utilitarian way, rather than in a way that generates a philosophically sophisticated modern vision of Judaism. In Religious Zionist terms, “Modern” refers merely to an embrace of the rebirth of Am Yisrael as a nation-state in our land, and a recognition of the validity of the modern political and military instruments that brought the State of Israel into being.  (This in contrast to the “non-Modern”, who await the Messiah as a pre-condition of emergence of such a State.)

Here again though, “modern” has nothing to do with what the “modern” in “Modern Orthodox” is actually about. What it’s actually about is the quest to articulate a religious vision that speaks to, and has the capacity to bring positive change to the modern world – a world whose notion of morality is rooted in a commitment to the equality of all human beings and to universal human rights, a world whose idea of religious responsibility entails not the building of self-encasing walls, but the building of bridges to communities who are “other”, a world in which people seek a relationship with God that does not require them to jettison rational thought or common sense. Articulating this kind religious vision, and understanding and living our halachik commitments so that they support – not contradict – this vision, is the objective that puts the “modern” in “Modern Orthodox”. This is the work that will render us historically important, and religiously relevant. It’s work that’s underway here and there if you look for it. It is work that needs many many more hands.

To close, with Gordis’ words,
“Gone are the days when religious leaders can conceive of themselves as offering spiritual insight and guidance to people only in their own narrowly defined religious community.” The epic challenge of “modernity” is to give Orthodoxy a voice that truly matters.

 

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Houses of Mourning

In one month, four young lives are gone, each one of them taken in an automobile accident. One after another — it feels less like a coincidence than an attack. For
such loss, grief goes beyond words. You can’t write about it, you can’t not write about it.

On Friday, Feb. 12, Avi Schaefer, 21, was killed by a car in Providence, R.I. Avi, a son of Rabbi Arthur Gross-Schaefer, spiritual leader of the Community Shul of Montecito and Santa Barbara, and his wife, Laurie Gross-Schaefer, was a freshman at Brown University; an old freshman, he liked to joke, because he had first served as a paratrooper in the Israel Defense Forces (IDF).

He was “a young man of inordinate strength and integrity,” Brown University President Ruth Simmons said in a statement. Avi had just organized a campus-wide relief effort for victims of the earthquake in Haiti.
The same Friday that Avi died, 17-year-old Adir Vered, a junior at New Community Jewish High School (NCJHS) in West Hills, was killed when he was thrown from a car in Northridge. Adir was much loved on campus, “an A-plus friend,” Bruce Powell, head of school at NCJHS, said.

“Adir was a caring friend who always walked with his head held high,” his friend Yoni Gliksman e-mailed me. “He was always smiling and making others happy. Adir was loved by everyone and will be truly missed.”

Then, last week, on Friday morning, Feb. 26, 13-year-old Julia Siegler was crossing Sunset Boulevard in Brentwood and was struck by two cars. She, too, died. Julia attended Harvard-Westlake, where she was beloved. She was a bright student, a fun and eager friend.

On Sat. Feb. 27, Sandy Roberts, a USC sophomore majoring in cinema-television production, was killed in a highway accident near Bakersfield. USC Hillel, where Roberts was an active member, held a memorial service for him Monday night. 

“We feel like we lost a member of the family,” Roberts’ improv group, the Merry Men, said in statement. “Sandy was a daring improviser and an absolutely hysterical person, but it was his personality that made him incredible. It was Sandy that really defined our image not just as a troupe that entertains, but as your friends that also do improv. He had an astoundingly infectious zest for life and made everyone around him better for knowing him. A phenomenal talent that will never be forgotten.”

Four precious, promising lives.

I know every young life cut short is a fresh horror. And I know the Talmud teaches us that every life is a universe. But even so, these four young people were special. I didn’t know them, but we share close friends and, in one case, I know the family. Many of us know them: Their families all have vast circles of community, because their own circles of caring were so wide.

Avi’s friends from Brown all flew in for the funeral. So did men and women with whom he’d served in the IDF — all the way from Israel. Nearly 1,000 people attended Adir’s funeral at Eden Memorial Park in Mission Hills on Sunday afternoon, Feb. 14.

Julia’s friends created a Facebook site, “Rest in Peace Julia Siegler,” the day she died. By Sunday night, almost 5,000 people had signed on. They wrote to her, because just looking at her photos, her presence was still so palpable.

“Dear Julia,” one member wrote, “your radiance lights up even the darkest nights. I remember your beautiful smile the first time I met you, your charming attitude, the way you could make anyone and everyone around you laugh. Rest In Paradise. You and your breathtaking charm will be missed by all.”

These deaths have been brutal, loading fresh grief on top of grief. When tragedy hits far away, as it has in Haiti, or Chile, we have the luxury of searching the universe for the Big Questions, even of giving ourselves comfort in offering our help.

But these four untimely deaths, striking such promising, beloved young people so close to home, have hit us like disasters of an altogether different magnitude — testing faith, testing strength, testing community.

Tragedies next door are different. There is no time for why, only how: How will we comfort the families? How will we mourn and help others mourn? How will we honor and remember those we loved?

The instinct is to shut down inside our sorrow. The reflex is to die with each death. We all have wondered how we would muster the strength to face what these families must now face, and our gut reaction is more likely than not: We would just die.

Our tradition gets that. And it pushes us toward others, toward life. There is burial. There is shiva. There is kaddish. There are untold tears to be shed alone, to be sure; but there also are many to be shed together.

“To grieve alone is to suffer most,” the Talmud says.

“Love is stronger than death,” The Talmud also says, and anyone whose path has crossed this kind of sorrow knows that to be true. These were lives cut far too short, god-awfully short. But I don’t doubt that each will leave a legacy of love among all whose lives they touched, and beyond.

As for the rest of us, we need to learn how to be there for others in their time of need. It is one thing to help strangers afflicted in a distant land. It is altogether more difficult, and perhaps even more important, to be there for our neighbors and friends, for those suffering alone from singular, unforeseeable tragedies.

Being there for them is not just the challenge of community; it is the definition.

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The Devil Within: Siri Hustvedt’s Memoir of an Undiagnosed Illness

A fraught moment in the encounter between men and women is the one in which an ailing woman seeks a cure from a healer — sometimes a physician, sometimes a psychotherapist, and sometimes a prophet.

That moment has been described in the Bible and other ancient texts, in the writings of Freud, and, more recently, in Karen Armstrong’s memoir, “The Spiral Staircase,” where she reveals how her symptoms of epilepsy were ignored and then misdiagnosed during the years she spent in a convent. In the Middle Ages, the diagnosis for certain kinds of suffering could have been demon-possession, Freud himself might have used the term “hysteria,” and, nowadays, the same symptoms might be characterized as “the somatic manifestations of anxiety.” Every woman who has presented a set of vexing physical symptoms to a baffled doctor knows exactly what I mean.

Now the novelist, essayist and poet Siri Hustvedt (“The Sorrows of an American,” “What I Loved,” “A Plea for Eros,” etc.) describes her own remarkable struggle to find meaning in a mysterious illness in “The Shaking Woman or A History of My Nerves” (A Frances Coady Book/Henry Holt: $23.00, 214 pps. ), a harrowing and heartfelt memoir that is also a history of medicine, a critique of psychiatry and psychopharmacology, and a study of the curative powers of words, dreams and memories.

A couple of years after the death of her father, Hustvedt delivered an address in his honor at the college campus where he had served as a professor.  She had eulogized him without incident at his funeral, but now she started to shake uncontrollably.  “My arms flapped,” she recalls. “My knees knocked.  I shook as if I were having a seizure.”  She struggled through her speech, and “[w]hen the speech ended, the shaking stopped.”  For Hustvedt, the experience struck her as a kind of possession: “It appeared that some unknown force had suddenly taken over my body and decided I needed a good, sustained jolting.”

“The Shaking Woman” tells the story of how Hustvedt’s sought not only to cure her illness but also to understand it. As she ricocheted between psychiatrists and physicians — “In New York City in 2006 no sane doctor would have sent me to an exorcist,” she writes, “and yet confusion about diagnosis is common”—  the shaking and quivering and buzzing continued, and the author began to blame herself.

“I scolded myself internally, saying repeatedly: ‘Own this. This is you. Own it!’” recalls Hustvedt.  “Of course, the fact that I spoke to myself in the second person suggests the split that had taken place — a grim sense that two Siris were present, not one.”  Eventually, she arrives at a self-diagnosis that is literary and metaphorical rather than medical:  “I have come to think of the shaking woman as an untamed other self, a Mr. Hyde to my Dr. Jekyll, a kind of double.”

The doctors she consulted offered tests, diagnoses and prescriptions, but no cures. And Hustvedt began to see the danger of the “neglect and denial of illness,” which “seem[s] to redraw the boundaries of the body and liberate the conscious ‘I’ from having to worry about the bad parts.”  Again, she uses the concept of “ownership” as an approach to regaining one’s health or, at least, an understanding of one’s illness.

“Alas, my life is lived in the borderland of headache,” she writes, referring to her suffering as what she calls a “migraineur.”  “The headache is me, and understanding this has been my salvation.  Perhaps the trick will now be to integrate the shaking woman as well, to acknowledge that she, too, is part of myself.”

Hustvedt has read deeply and widely in the scientific literature as it relates to her various physical ailments, but she always returns to the first-person experience that informs her book. For example, she recalls a visit to a neurologist after experiencing shocks and tingles in her limbs in her 30s, and she describes what he said when she asked for a prognosis: “It could get better; it could get worse; it could stay the same.”  She burst out laughing, but the doctor “did not see the joke,” although it turned out that he was entirely correct: “It gets better for a while; then it gets worse; and sometimes it stays the same for weeks on end.”

“The Shaking Woman” is a challenging but rewarding book. “The task of diagnosis is to abstract ‘illness’ from ‘person,’” writes Hustvedt, but she insists that a much deeper question remains to be answered: “Who are we, anyway?” she muses. “My symptom has taken me from the Greeks to the present day, in and out of theories and thoughts that are built on various ways of seeing the world.  Tracking my pathology turns out to be an adventure in the history of experience and perception.  How do we read a symptom or illness?”

Here the author announces her real goal, and we realize that she is uniquely qualified to achieve it.  Every observed and remembered detail of human experience has meaning if it can only be retrieved, scrutinized and understood.  That’s a tool of psychotherapy, of course, but it also describes exactly what writers do. In “The Shaking Woman,” Siri Hustvedt has done it exceptionally well.

Jonathan Kirsch, book editor of The Jewish Journal, is the author of 13 books, including “The Harlot by the Side of the Road” and “The Woman Who Laughed At God.”  He can be reached at {encode=”books@jewishjournal.com” title=”books@jewishjournal.com”}.

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