A gentile dining experience

“No, he’s not Jewish either, he’s Scottish.” It might be my favourite line from the evening. But there were plenty to choose from.

We were all at the Kasbah BBQ & Grill because one of us lives around the corner, and had been dying to visit for years. “It’s always rammed!” explained Elaine. “And they have TV sets on the wall with dancing rabbis.”

Back at Kasbah, the host’s face fell when he saw it. “Ah, I’m so sorry. It’s kosher but not mevushal”

I am an aficionado of the offbeat dining experience and the improbable theme restaurant, so Kasbah, with its kippah-clad waiters and its basement brick walls hung with pictures of chaps in luxuriant furry shtreimel, was irresistible. Who gives a fig about blagging your way into the Polo Bar when you can flick through a grill menu (with a mysteriously large selection of sushi) while watching home movie footage of a bunch of guys in grey beards high-kicking through their ankle-length black coats on the Tel Aviv tarmac next to an El Al jumbo? Only in New York…

Things got off to an unsteady start. The Kasbah BBQ & Grill is unlicensed, and the three of us had been taking it in turns to return to the nearest liquor store until our BYOB was kosher enough for the host. I’d made our first selection – an Oregon Pinot – based on region, grape and year; 2012 was killer for wineries in the Pacific Northwest. But, sadly, none of the wine is kosher. We didn’t care, as none of us are Jewish. But the restaurant did.

I dashed back to exchange the bottles for some Petite Syrah marked “kosher – suitable for Passover”. But back at Kasbah, the host’s face fell when he saw it. “Ah, I’m so sorry. It’s kosher but not mevushal.” Come again? Mevushal wine, it turns out, is the only kosher wine that can be handled by potential idolators (us, and any non-Jewish members staff). A sympathetic fellow diner offered to open it for us, but the host explained that, while they were really sorry, they had a 100% mevushal policy. No budging. “Let them have some wine from the back,” suggested our neighbour, taking pity on the clueless tourist gentiles. “Oh I couldn’t,” said the host apologetically. “It’s only for cooking. But if you’re going back, let me recommend the Herzog Jeunesse. It’s a cabernet sauvignon. Or the lady may like the black muscat.”

The “lady” had already raised an eyebrow at the “lady’s steak” on the menu, and would have preferred some barolo. After a little discussion, and another trip to face down the increasingly irate liquor store owner, we were ready to go. The wine was approved and opened. We tucked into some beef cigars (delicious, truly), and some of the very best hummus, with chargrilled, lush, large circular pillows of bread, that I’ve ever eaten. Then we tried the wine. Oy vey. Those multiple downgrades of vino to appease the sky gods had not been kind. Mevushal means that they boil the wine, so it’s okay to be handled by the aforementioned idolator. The only handling this wine needed was in the direction of the sink. I was reminded of the episode of Frasier in which Kelsey Grammer stirs spoonfuls of sugar into a cabernet to simulate kosher wine.

Our oenophile sensibilities swiftly bludgeoned into a coma, we turned our attention to the menu and the steaks. “That dish is ‘geshmak’!” promised our waiter, with endearing onomatopoeia, pointing out the Johnnie Walker steak. One of us went with his suggestion, another went for the Gaucho, and – after whispering across at my new friend at the next table for impartial insider advice – I ordered the Butcher’s Cut, “our most tender steak”. Mine was good, the Gaucho was a little overly spiced (more chili paste than chimichurri), and the Johnnie Walker was horrid and riddled, rather than marbled, with fat. “I’d take it home, but it’s too fatty for my dogs,” sighed Elaine. All three cuts had the same texture – this meat hadn’t been tenderized, so much as pummeled into submission by someone with anger management issues.

“How did you find yourself here?” asked our neighbour, while we were still playing tag to source an acceptable wine, as if we’d fallen through a rabbit hole rather than stepped into a basement on West 85^th Street. “It always looks so much fun from outside,” explained Elaine.

“So… none of you are Jewish?”

There was a sudden panic. Were we even allowed to be in here?

Things relaxed as the waiters – beyond friendly and fairly adorable – took charge. They couldn’t have been more mortified by the ongoing wine debacle. But then again – while we were on their turf, it was their debacle.

I wondered what a Papal restaurant might look like. You want transubstantiation with that?

The whole concept of a cuisine developing out of, or being tailored to, a theology is tricky. As with many theme restaurants, the theme dominates and the cuisine comes second. And while I sipped my Jeunesse and felt grateful for being a devout atheist with a rack full of Chateau Musar at home, I wondered what a Papal restaurant might look like. You want transubstantiation with that? Having grown up Irish Catholic, I suspect it may be more focused on terminally overcooked greens and spuds with everything.

The night we were at Kasbah the restaurant was dominated by two large tables, quite far apart: one party all women, the other all men. Occasionally, a beard would wander over to snap the ladies with his cameraphone. This wasn’t the only contemporary element we encountered. “If we can take a picture of you, and you post it on our Facebook wall, we’ll comp an appetizer,” promised one of the waiters. So we did. And as he dropped the check on our table, having “liked” our post seconds after we made it, he assured us: “The beef cigars don’t exist.” I wondered what Richard Dawkins would have made of it all. C

Kasbah BBQ & Grill Kosher Restaurant, 251 West 85^th Street, NY, NY 10024, USA
+212 496 1500; delikasbah.com