Glatt Kosher

Rabbi Shlomo sat shivering in his van. He took another sip of coffee that had long since grown cold.
The coffee left a bitter taste in his mouth. He opened the window of his van slightly and threw the
remnants of his cup into the street. The wind took advantage of the temporary opening to blow a chill
into the van. Shlomo’s hands shook with the cold as he quickly closed the window. He twisted his
body around to the back seat of the van looking for the thermos that held a promise of fresh coffee.
The van was a disgusting pigsty. Empty pop cans, half-eaten sandwiches, crumpled fast food
wrappers and every imaginable type of filth and garbage littered the seats and floor of his van. He
vowed that he would give the van a thorough cleaning when the weather finally turned. It would
certainly get a meticulous cleaning in time for Pesach. He retrieved the thermos but knew by its
meager weight that the best he could hope for would be a quarter of a cup. He poured the coffee
anyway and found that it too had gone cold. He tossed the thermos over his shoulder returning it to
the purgatory of the back seat. Rather than risk opening the window again, Shlomo put the cup in the
open holder and wondered if the coffee would eventually freeze.
Shlomo huddled deeper into his seat and dreamed of a hot fresh cup of coffee. A Coffee Time Donut
taunted him from across the street. Some of the neon lights had selectively burned out so that the store
now announced to the world that it was opened “24 hou urs”. He imagined that he could smell the
coffee drifting across the wind swept street into his sealed van. But as much as he wanted the coffee,
he knew he would not buy a cup. Coffee Time was treyf. They used lard and other animal products.
The thought of cream filled donuts cooked in pig fat made him sick to his stomach. His body
responded by emitting a foul smelling fart. The offensiveness of the smell surprised him. He was
tempted to open the window again but he could not suffer the cold. The Rabbi closed his eyes instead,
waiting for the smell to pass.
Shlomo wished that he could turn on the heater but he dared not run the engine. The rabbi both loved
and hated stakeouts. The typical stakeout involved long hours of mind numbing boredom followed by
a few moments of mildly stimulating excitement. But after the stakeout was long over, the memory of
the boredom seemed to shrink while the memory of the excitement grew. After multiple repetitions of
his embellished stakeout stories to his cronies at Shul, it seemed that he spent only a few moments in
boredom and several hours of intense excitement.
When he opened his eyes, Shlomo saw the figure of a man walking towards his van from across the
parking lot. The man was dressed like a member of Shlomo’s community, in traditional Hasidic garb
consisting of a long black coat and a big black hat. But instead of an everyday Homburg or Stetson,
the stranger wore a fine hat trimmed with an ornate ring of beaver fur. Such a hat was worn only by
the most pious of men and only on special occasions. The man’s peyas were also extraordinarily long
giving more evidence to pious nature of the individual. Shlomo wondered why such a man would be
wandering the streets at 3:30 in the morning. Watching the man with a critical eye, Shlomo
absentmindedly fingered his own peyas. Shlomo was ashamed to admit that he was inappropriately
proud of the length of his peyas. Like his biblical namesake, Shlomo was convinced that his peyas
were both a symbol and source of his spiritual strength.
The stranger stopped at the van. Shlomo hesitated briefly before opening the window.
“Shalom” said Shlomo without enthusiasm.
“Shalom, Shlomo ben Yitzhak,” replied the stranger.

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“Do I know you?” asked Shlomo.
“You are blessed for you have found favour in G-d’s eyes.”
“Who are you?” asked Shlomo with equal parts cynicism and reverence.
“I am an angel of the G-d of your fathers.”
Shlomo paused to consider the statement. The man was a stranger. If he were a member of the
Toronto Hasidic community, Shlomo would certainly have met him sometime in the past thirty years.
For that matter, if he were a member of the Brooklyn Hasidic community, he would also likely be
known to Rabbi Shlomo. The Rabbi was, after all, a leader in his community and extremely well
connected. It was possible that the stranger was from Montreal. But if so, who had told the man
Shlomo’s name, what was he doing out here at 3:30 in the morning and why was he claiming to be an
angel?
“That is very sacrilegious. Why do you speak that way to a Rabbi? Are you an anti-Semite?”
“No. I’ve come to tell you that you have found favour in G-d’s eyes”
“Then why are there anti-Semites?”
“I have not come to debate theology.”
“Anti-Semitism is more of a social disease than a question of theology,” replied Shlomo.
The stranger did not respond to this last remark. Two possibilities occurred to Rabbi Shlomo. The
first was that someone was playing a joke on him. Not a very good joke. A cruel joke. The joker was
someone who didn’t like him and wanted to make him for a fool. The second possibility was that an
enemy was trying to scare, distract or somehow cause Shlomo to lose his nerve. The Rabbi was the
chief mashgiach for Toronto and was responsible for issuing the glatt kosher designation to Hasidic
food and eating establishments from Oakville to the Quebec border. Some businessmen do not like
the Rabbi’s zealot interpretations of the Kashrut laws
“Well, what do you want?” demanded Shlomo.
“I’ve come to tell you that you are blessed.”
“Is there anything else?”
“No.”
“What should I do with the message? Do you want me to preach a message to my people?”
“No.”
“Then what does G-d want me to do?”
“Nothing other that what you have always done.”
Of course there was a third possibility, Shlomo reminded himself and he considered this strictly for the
purpose of completeness. The man might truly be an angel.
“What is your name?” asked Shlomo.
“Mael.”
“Can you prove that you’re an angel? A demonstration of your heavenly powers?”
“G-d does not prove himself. And I can no easier prove that I’m an angel that you can prove that G-d
exists. And yet you pray to G-d three times a day. You believe or not as your conscience dictates.”
“That is very sound advice.”
“Thank-you, Shlomo.”
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Now the problem with the first two possible explanations was that nobody knew that he was sitting in
the parking lot of United Dairies Restaurant at 3:30 in the morning. Shlomo considered the possibility
that he might have been followed, but in any case, someone had spent quite a lot of energy pulling off
this stunt. Import a Hasid from parts unknown. Have him follow Shlomo both night and day. And
brave both the clock and the weather to confront him in this parking lot on this night. Couldn’t the
joker have waited another 4 weeks until Purim when the weather has at least a chance of being half
pleasant? Shlomo’s feet and hands ached with the cold.
“Would you like to sit inside the van?” asked Shlomo.
“No thank-you.”
“Then go with my blessing.”
“G-d has chosen you Shlomo.”
“Chosen me to do what?”
“You have been chosen to know the Name of G-d”
Shlomo thought for a moment about the implication of the stranger’s words. “To know the Name of
G-d is to die. Will I die?”
“Eventually.”
Oh, that’s the way it’s going to be, thought Shlomo. It was a game of theology. Maybe the prankster
was putting some life into his Torah studies. If so, then the Rabbi approved. It was the greatest of
mitzvah to make the Torah into a living document.
“But only a Kohan may know the Name of G-d.”
“You cannot dictate your rules on to G-d”
“Rightly so.” The stranger was good, thought Shlomo. “I only meant to protest that I am not worthy.”
“It is not your decision. G-d decides as He sees fit.”
“But why me?”
“You may not question G-d.”
“G-d makes it difficult to be a Jew.”
“Don’t blame G-d. If it is difficult, than you have constructed your own barriers. Being a Jew is only
as difficult as you make it.”
Shlomo did not like the feeling of frustration. “So when will I know the Name of G-d?”
“You are as arrogant as Jacob. You scoff and challenge G-d to give you proof. You demand answers
to your questions. You act as if G-d was trying to get a hechsur for his restaurant. But you cannot
affect G-d’s decision. You will know His Name. But first you must be pure. You stink of corruption.
You earn your livelihood from the sale of flesh. A necessary evil but you must cleanse yourself.”
“How?”
“Take two weeks off. On your first day off, take a mikvah. I will instruct you further.”
Someone does want him off the job, thought Shlomo. Well it wasn’t going to happen.
“The truck is coming,” the angel warned. “The grated cheese is treyf.”
Shlomo heard the truck and turned to look up the deserted street. When he returned his gaze to the
angel, all he saw was the back of the departing stranger.

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The truck backed up to United Dairies’ loading bay. The driver effortlessly slid open the door of the
truck. Yosel, the owner of United Dairies, waited anxiously at the loading bay, shivering in his shirt
sleeves, his tsi-tsi blowing in the wind. The side of the truck read:

Cases Closed
Utica, New York
Shlomo’s suspicions were confirmed. He had never heard of Cases Closed. And if he had never heard
of them, they were not glatt kosher. The Rabbi watched as the truck unloaded its cargo and departed
back into the night. Shlomo checked his watch and decided to wait five more minutes before raiding
the restaurant.

“Open the door, Yosel.” Rabbi Shlomo pounded heavily on the door.

Yosel appeared through a crack in the door, hunched and prostrated in fear. Upon recognizing Rabbi
Shlomo, Yosel gave a sigh of relief and attempted to regain some dignity by straightened his body. He
opened the door the rest of the way and allowed Shlomo entry into the back of his store. “What the
hell are you doing Shlomo? You just about scared the life out of me. I was sure that I was about to be
attacked by pack of anti-semitic bandits.”
“I’m here to perform my monthly inspection.”
“At 3:30 in the morning? Have you lost your mind?”
“If you can accept deliveries at 3:30, than I can inspect that delivery at 3:30. Now let’s get to work.
What have you got here?” Shlomo saw that Yosel had a stack of cases piled next to a worktable. One
case was opened. Shlomo pulled a jar out of the case. It was a 10 oz jar of grated cheese. Shlomo
read the label carefully. It was packed for Cases Closed of Utica N.Y. but the name of the food packer
was not given. Shlomo turned the jar over in his hand several times as Yosel watched nervously at his
elbow. Shlomo could not find a hechsur anywhere on the jar. Next to the open case was a stack of
labels and a hot glue gun. Shlomo picked up a label. It was the generic house label of United Dairies
Restaurant. ‘Grated Cheese’ was stenciled into the blank space reserved for the name of the
product. A hechsur was prominently displayed on the label along with the phrase ‘Under the
Rabbinical Supervision of the Kashrut Council of Toronto.’
“This cheese is not kosher,” pronounced Rabbi Shlomo.
“The cheese most certainly is kosher,” objected Yosel.
“The jar has no hechsur.”
“It is not the hechsur that makes a product kosher, it is the blessing of the local Rabbinical Council.
And all of Cases Closed’s products have been approved by the New York State Rabbinical Council.
It’s on the list.”
“Why bother going through the trouble of getting the blessing of the Kashrut Council if you don’t
advertise your hechsur on the label?” asked Shlomo.
“How should I know? Maybe they’re using old labels. Maybe they just sell to institutional users like
me. Maybe they’re anti-Semites. I don’t know and I don’t care.”

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“Then why are you changing the labels?”
“I have to change the labels. The American labels aren’t bilingual. I don’t answer only to the Kashrut
Council, I also have to answer to the Canadian Government.”
“Well, I only have to answer to G-d and I say that this cheese is treyf.”
“What you say doesn’t matter. I tell you it’s on the list.”
“Why do you do it?” asked Shlomo. “Why do you use non-kosher cheese? Is it cheaper? Is this all
about money?”
“I tell you the cheese is glatt kosher. And what’s wrong with money? I use my money to support my
family. My money supports the community. My money pays your salary. I pay a fortune for my
hechsur, so don’t tell me that this isn’t about money,” Yosel shouted in righteous indignation.
“You make me sick,” replied Shlomo. “My mother eats in this restaurant. How dare you pollute her
body with chasur fleisch?” Shlomo walked to the front of the store and pulled the hechsur out of the
window.
“Hey, what are you doing?” demanded Yosel.
“I’m pulling your hechsur,” responded Shlomo.
“You can’t do that!” shouted Yosel.
“Just watch me,” said Shlomo.
Yosel lunged for the sign as Rabbi Shlomo neatly ripped it into two equal pieces. Yosel grabbed at the
Rabbi’s lapels. “You bastard!” he shouted.
Shlomo was a large man and out weighted the plump Yosel by at least 80 pounds. Shlomo pushed
Yosel back with little effort. Yosel fell, banging his eye on the corner of a table on his way to the
floor.
“You’ve not heard the last of this!” Yosel yelled from the floor as Shlomo left through the back door.
Yosel arrived at the Headquarters of the Canadian Jewish Congress at 9:35 am the next morning. He
glared at Shlomo as he walked past the Rabbi working in his messy cubical. Yosel walked into the

director’s office without knocking.

“Yosel, how are you?” asked the director.
“Baruch Hashem” replied Yosel tersely.
“Look at your eye! What happened to you?” asked the director with genuine concern.
“Shlomo is what happened to me. He burst into my restaurant like the Gestapo last night. He accused
me of using treyf cheese and ripped the hechsur out of my window.”
“What happened to your eye?”
“Things got out of hand. Shlomo pushed me and I fell into a table. Meanwhile, Shlomo ripped up my
hechsur and I need a new sign before anyone notices that it’s missing.” Yosel demanded.
“I’m terribly sorry. Let me talk to Rabbi Shlomo and I’ll make sure that someone drives over with a
new sign before lunch.”
“That’s not good enough. I need a new sign right now. And I want Rabbi Shlomo fired.”
“Calm down Yosel. It’s not your place to demand vengeance. I’ll talk to Rabbi Shlomo, don’t worry.
Glatt Kosher Page: 5
Wait here, I’ll get you a new sign.” The director left his office for a few minutes and returned with a
new hechsur sign. “Look, the new ones are made out of plastic. Even Rabbi Shlomo doesn’t have the
strength to rip this one up.”
Yosel was not in the mood for joking. He ungraciously took the hechsur from the director. “Just keep
Shlomo out of my restaurant. If you want to inspect my store, you come yourself,” warned Yosel
before storming out of the director’s office.
The director sighed and ran his fingers through his scraggly beard. He was worried about Rabbi
Shlomo. A rabbi should be married. It grounded him in his community. Shlomo has not been
himself since the divorce. It was not the love of G-d but the lack of a wife that sends Shlomo out into
the streets in the middle of the night. The director slowly got out of his chair and walked into Rabbi
Shlomo’s cubicle. The Rabbi was hunched over his desk hard at work on what appeared to be a
mathematical problem.
“Good morning Martin.” Shlomo said as the director entered his office.
“Good morning Shlomo, how are you?” asked the director as he cleared a stack of papers off of a
chair and sat down at the visitor side of Shlomo’s desk.
“Baruch Hashem” replied Shlomo.
“Baruch Hashem” agreed the director. “What are you working on there?”
“I was in buying bagels at Isaac’s on Sunday morning. The line up goes right out the door. Not only
that but Isaac supplies half the delicatessens in the city with their bagels plus the hospital cafeteria plus
some of the goyisha coffee shops. He has a truck delivering half baked bagels to his wholesale clients
every morning”
“Isaac has built himself a nice business.” Martin agreed.
“I figure that Isaac sells 1,000 dozen bagels on an average Sunday morning. I’ve seen his production
line and it’s not in the best shape. Theoretically he can produce 100 dozen bagels an hour but because
his equipment is old, I’m sure that he can’t do better than 80 dozen bagels an hour. After daylight
savings time he has only 9 hours between the time Shabbat ends and the trucks start shipping bagels
out his back door.”
“Where is all this leading?” sighed Martin.
“There is no way that Isaac can meet his demand unless he starts up the ovens before Shabbat
officially ends on Saturday night.” pronounced Rabbi Shlomo triumphantly.
“That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. Why don’t we move this meeting into my office?”
Shlomo followed his boss into the only office in the department that was graced with a door. They
both piously kissed the mazuzah as they entered the office. Martin discretely closed the door to his
office as Shlomo sat down in one of the worn leather chairs.
“There was some excitement last night at United Dairies?” asked the director.
“Yes, I saw Yosel this morning.” agreed Shlomo.
“You gave him a black eye?”
“Is that what he told you?”
“I’m more interested in what you have to tell me.”
“There was a scuffle,” admitted Shlomo.
“And did you rip up his hechsur?” asked Martin

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“I caught him relabeling treyf food.”
“What makes you think that the food was treyf?”
“It didn’t have a hechsur. Not only that, but he was relabeling the bottles at 3:30 in the morning.
Why would he be sneaking around in the middle of the night if he wasn’t up to no good?”
“What was the name of the packer?” asked the director, ignoring Shlomo’s explanation.
“Cases Closed from Utica, New York. I’ve never heard of them. And why would a company make a
delivery in the middle of the night?”
Martin pulled a loose-leaf binder off his credenza and began leafing through the pages. “Cases
Closed. Here it is. It’s a new entry. Approved by the New York Rabbinical Council. They’re glatt
kosher.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed Rabbi Shlomo.
“And what makes you think they’re not glatt kosher?”
“I’ve been a mashgiach for 23 years and I know that where there’s smoke, there’s fire. My instincts
tell me that something’s not right.”
“We don’t operate on instinct here. We operate on facts. And the facts are that Cases Closed is
kosher. The subject is now closed.”
“Let me go down to Utica and inspect them.”
“No. New York is out of our jurisdiction. We rely on the New York State Rabbinical Council and
they rely on us.”
“But what if the New York State Rabbinical Council is corrupt.”
“If they are corrupt, they will be disciplined by the North American Rabbinical Council.”
“Then let me get proof that they’re corrupt.”
“It is not in our mandate to investigate another Rabbinical Council. Really Shlomo, you must learn to
accept the way we Jews govern ourselves.”
“And am I expected to eat suspect food? Am I to allow my family and friends to eat suspect food?”
“The food is not suspect. And yes, you are expected to eat it. There is no possibility of sin. The food
is kosher because the Rabbinical Council has decreed that it is kosher. To be disrespectful to the
Rabbis is the greater sin.”
“So I can eat pork if the Rabbis tell me its chicken.”
“I will not be drawn into a nonsensical argument. You’re distracting me from the real issue.”
“And what is the real issue?” asked Shlomo, more than a trace of hostility had crept into his voice.
“You are not unilaterally authorized to take away someone’s hechsur.” Martin paused for a moment
to compose himself. He continued in a calmer tone of voice. “Even if Yosel was found to be bending
a rule or two, we would not take away his hechsur. We would merely instruct him on proper
halachah. At worst he would have to pay a fine. Our job is to rehabilitate offenders, not destroy
them.”
“I though our job was to protect the community.”
“Yosel is a member of the community. An important member of the community. He is a major
contributor to community charities, far in excess of the required tithe. If we put him out of business,
he would be taking tzadeka instead of contributing to tzadeka. And what good would that do anyone?
Besides, we would all be denied Yosel’s delicious cheese blintzes.” Martin said, smacking his lips in
Glatt Kosher Page: 7
good humour.
Rabbi Shlomo did not see the humour in the director’s comments. “I’ll never be able to eat another
blintz as long as I live,” muttered Shlomo.
The director could see that he was not reaching his chief mashgiach. “Shlomo old friend, you are
losing your focus. Take two weeks off, with pay. Take a small vacation and reflect on my words.”
Shlomo appeared to be alarmed by the director’s instructions. “I don’t need a holiday,” protested
Shlomo with little enthusiasm. Despite his objection, Shlomo appeared ready to accept his fate.
“Why don’t you start your vacation right now? Take the keys and go downstairs for a shvitz. You
look like hell.” Martin said as he handed Shlomo the keys to the sauna located in the basement.
Rabbi Shlomo took the key silently and left muttering his thanks.
“And when you get back, no more midnight raids. We’re the Canadian Jewish Congress not the
National Socialist Party.” Martin called out to the departing Rabbi.
In the mid 1980's, when hot tubs became a necessity for newly affluent Yuppies, a sleepy little
company owned by Pincus Wasserman became embarrassingly profitable. So in addition to other his

other charitable activities, Pincus installed the city’s largest hot tub (along with showers and a change
room) in the basement of the CJC to be used as a mikvah. During construction it was suggested by
certain members of the board that a sauna could be added at very little additional expense (to Pincus).
Pincus happily obliged. So in addition to performing mikvahs, the senior members of the Canadian
Jewish Congress had the exclusive and little advertised use of what was effectively a lazy man’s health
club.
Rabbi Shlomo sat soaking in the hot tub/mikvah, naked except for the yameka pinned to the top of his
head. He was contemplating the events of the past 8 hours when he heard someone at the door.
Looking up he saw Mael, the alleged angel, stepping out of the change room dressed only in a towel,
yameka and slippers.
“This is the most marvelous mikvah I have ever seen. Very modern. Do you mind if I join you
Rabbi?” asked Mael as he hung his towel on a nearby hook. Shlomo watched silently as the fat angel
slowly lower himself into the steaming water.
“Who are you?” demanded Shlomo.
“I am a messenger of G-d,” replied Mael. “This is really quite wonderful,” he added with delight.
Without warning the angel dunked his head under water leaving his yameka floating on the surface of
the tub. After a few seconds submerged in the hot water, Mael popped up vigorously rubbing water
into his face and tattered beard.
“Why are you tormenting me with this senseless game?” shouted Shlomo.
“You must really take Martin’s advice and learn to relax. Are you warming up the shvitz?” asked
Mael.
“How do you know what Martin said? Is his office bugged?”
“I’ve already told you that G-d does not like to be questioned.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I am going to help you prepare to receive the Name of G-d. Could you turn the heat up just a notch?”

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“Why are you talking differently? Last night you sounded more formal.”
“It was our first meeting and I wanted to make a good impression. But now that you are going to
know the Name of G-d, you seem more like an equal.”
“When is this going to happen?”
“Soon. But first, you must prepare yourself.”
“How?”
“You must keep your body pure. You must never again eat any animal products. Neither meat nor
dairy.”
“Leviticus clearly states that Jews are allowed to eat animal products, provided they come from kosher
beasts. Is G-d rescinding these regulations?”
“No.”
“When why should I be forced to adhere to a higher standard?”
“What did I tell you about questioning G-d?”
“How do I know that this isn’t some kind of hallucination? Or a dream. I could have fallen asleep in
the hot tub.”
“G-d creates reality or destroys it as he sees fit. He can make reality into a dream and make dreams
into reality. If G-d appears to you in a dream, it does not make it any less real.”
“Why I should believe anything you say?”
“What does belief have to do with it? You don’t want to contaminate your body anyway. Didn’t you
tell Martin that you wouldn’t eat Yosel’s blintzes?”
“How do you know these things?”
“Stop trying to figure this out logically. G-d is beyond human logic.”
“So I am only to eat vegetable products?”
“Trust no one. Eat only those foods that you can prepare yourself.”
Despite the prohibition against thinking logically, the angel’s advice was sound, based on what
Shlomo now knew about the inner working of the Kashrut Council. “Is there any thing else I have to
do to prepare myself?”
“Three days from now, when your body has rid itself of contaminants, you must bathe yourself
carefully and then shave all the hair off your body. Except for your peyas. Remove all the hair on
your body except for your peyas.”
“That is ridiculous. There is nothing you can say that will make me do something that crazy,”
predicted Shlomo.
“Do not tempt your fate. I have to go now, I’m feeling a bit light headed,” concluded Mael. He
turned and slowly walked up the steps of the makeshift mikvah. As he rose out of the tub, Shlomo
could see that the hot water had turned the skin on the strange man’s behind an unpleasant shade of
red.

The drive to Utica was uneventful. As usual Rabbi Shlomo was forced to endue an intense scrutiny at
the border. You would think that border guards had never seen a Hasid. The long drive was made
tolerable by listening to volumes 4 through 8 of ‘Torah on Tape’. Shlomo had stopped at a kosher
Glatt Kosher Page: 9
health food store before leaving the city to stock up on fruit, vegetable, grain, nuts and bottled water.
He nibbled on his stash of food virtually non-stop for five hours.
Cases Closed was a typical industrial building in a one of those new industrial parks found on the
outskirts of every American town. The building was low and squat, in the modern style, sitting in a
field of frozen mud. Evidently, the landscaping had not been completed before the onset of winter.
The front lobby held a glass display case filled with the company’s products. If the display case could
be believed, the company packed spices, pasta, cereals and various types of snack foods as the private
label brands for Wal-Mart, Shaw’s, Tops Market and numerous other supermarkets, large and small.
A pretty young woman sat behind a plexiglass wall greeting visitors.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“May I see the General Manager?” asked Rabbi Shlomo.
“Is she expecting you?”
“I sincerely doubt it. But I believe that anything is possible.”
The receptionist apparently took her role as guardian of the front door very seriously. She looked
viewed Rabbi Shlomo suspiciously. “She is very busy. What is the nature of your visit?”
“I represent the Rabbinical Council. I am here regarding your kashrut designation. Your kosher
designation?” the receptionist’s blank expression prompted Rabbi Shlomo to repeat himself.
“Please have a seat. I’ll see if she is available.”
Rabbi Shlomo was kept waiting for 40 minutes. He kept himself occupied by silently reciting portions
of the Torah.
“Hello, I’m Patricia Viceroy.” A handsome woman stood before Shlomo with her hand extended in
anticipation of being shaken.
“Oh yes. Hello.” said Rabbi Shlomo rising awkwardly to his feet, his hands held firmly behind his
back. “I’m Rabbi Shlomo Zloczower.” Patricia expression betrayed her confusion and
embarrassment at Shlomo’s failure to shake her hand. “I’m sorry,” explained Shlomo. “I’m a
religious man and I don’t shake women’s hands.”
“What can I do for you Rabbi?” asked general manager, attempting to hide her irritation.
“I would like to talk to you about your kosher designation.”
“Certainly. Let’s move into one of our meeting rooms.”
The pair walked down a short hallway to a spacious room dominated by a 30 foot meeting table. A
large white screen stood at the front of the room. Coffee service sat on a mobile cart.
“Would you care for a coffee?” asked Patricia.
“No thank you.”
“A cold drink perhaps?”
“No, nothing, thank you.”
“Do you mind if I have one?” the woman poured herself a cup of coffee without waiting for Shlomo’s
reply. “So what can I do for you Rabbi?” she asked as she settled down at the meeting table with her
coffee.
“I understand that you have recently been approved to sell kosher foods.”
“That’s right,” replied the general manager, noncommittally.

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“I’m the chief Rabbi in charge of such matters in Toronto. Some of your products have started to
show up in Toronto. We’re always happy when a new supplier begins to service our community. I
saw some of your products in the display case out in the lobby. I’m sure that you’ll have great success
in Toronto.”
“Thank-you, we’re hoping for the best.”
“I do have some questions. I noticed that the label on your grated cheese didn’t have a small U or K
signifying that it was kosher. We use a COR in Canada.”
“We’re waiting until we use up our existing stock of labels. The next printing should have a U on the
label. But it’s not really a big deal because we’re mainly a private label manufacturer. Most of our
customers provide their own labels.”
“But you are kosher?”
“Absolutely, a Rabbi Konigsberg drove in from Buffalo to give us the seal of approval.”
“Glatt kosher?”
“That’s right, glatt kosher.” she replied proudly.
“If you don’t mind me asking, do you close down on the Sabbath and Jewish holidays?”
“We don’t close down the entire plant. That would be prohibitively expense. We were told that all we
have to do is to stop manufacturing kosher products on those days.”
“But you then you can’t be glatt kosher.”
“What’s glatt kosher?”
“Glatt kosher means strictly kosher.”
“What’s the difference? I thought that kosher was kosher.”
“Do you mind if I have a look around your factory?” asked Shlomo.
“Yes I do mind. I was told that the New York Rabbinical approval was good for all of the U.S. and
Canada.”
“Well, that’s technically correct,” agreed Shlomo.
“There are 50 states and I don’t know how many Canadian provinces. You can imagine the disruption
if every individual Jewish Council wanted to inspect our premises.”
“But nobody else will want to come. I’m working on a special project.”
“I’ll have to call Rabbi Konigsberg.”
“Never mind. Sorry to bother you.” apologized Shlomo. The Rabbi left Utica with his worst
suspicions confirmed.
“Country of citizenship?” the uniformed officer asked Shlomo as he pulled up to the customs booth.
“Canada” replied Shlomo.

“May I see some proof of citizenship?”

Shlomo obediently handed the officer his birth certificate and driver’s license.
“What have you got in there with you?” the border guard pointed at the bags of food laying on the seat
next to Shlomo.

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“Just some food.” Shlomo held open a bag of dried fruit for the guard.
“Why are you dressed like that?”
“I’m a religious Jew.”
“Pull the van over to that area on the right and give the officer this card,” the guard instructed
“Mr. Zloczower?” The second officer butchered Shlomo’s name.
“Rabbi Zloczower,” Shlomo corrected the customer’s officer looking for a little respect.
“What was the purpose of your visit to the United States?”
“Business.”
“What was the nature of your business?”
“I’m a Rabbi and I was visiting a company in Utica that packages kosher food.”
“Do you have a work permit?”
“I don’t believe that I need one. I wasn’t paid for the visit.”
“Then why did you go?”
“I wanted to make sure the company was following the rules.”
“And were they?”
Shlomo hesitated. “Yes.” he replied.
“Please see the man at the counter.”
Shlomo entered the gray building. He stood at the counter trying to catch the attention of a burly
customs officer sitting behind the counter. The man appeared to be a master of the civil servant’s art
of ignoring people waiting for service at his counter. Moreover, he seemed to enjoy his failure to
notice Rabbi Shlomo. Out the window Shlomo saw two customs officers systematically dismantling
the interior of his van.
“The man told me to see you.” Shlomo explained meekly when the guard finally acquiesced to look
up, albeit with jaundiced eyes.
“Follow me,” he grunted.
Shlomo followed the man into a small cubicle. In the close quarters, Rabbi noticed that the unpleasant
man had an offensive odor. “Strip.” ordered the guard.
“Pardon me.” replied Shlomo with a surprised and shaken tone of voice.
“Strip. Take your clothes off. I’m going to do a body cavity search.”
“I can’t take my clothes off. I’m a religious man.”
“That won’t bother me,” replied the guard with a chuckle.
“I want a lawyer,” said Shlomo, his voice cracking with emotion.
“You don’t get a lawyer. You just get naked.”
“What if I refuse?”
“We send you back to where you come from.”
“But I’m from Canada.”
“Look, I don’t get paid to argue. You either strip or we haul you off to prison. And trust me,” said
the guard with an evil grin. “You won’t like the food in prison.”

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Shlomo reluctantly complied with the officer’s wishes. When he got down to his tsi-tsi and yameka he
asked. “Can I leave these on? They’re religious articles.”
“Oh all right.” said the guard with exaggerated magnanimity “But I’ll have to look under the
garment.”
The guard proceeded to inspect Rabbi Shlomo’s naked body. After performing his normal cavity
search, the guard lifted the Rabbi’s tsi-tsi and rubbed his greasy hands over Shlomo’s chest hairs.
“What have you got hidden in the mess you call a beard?” asked the guard as he ran his hands through
the Rabbi’s beard and hair. “I hope you don’t mind my greasy hands,” the guard whispered into
Shlomo’s ear. “I had a ham sandwich for lunch”
Shlomo’s skin burned as if the guard had rubbed acid over his face and body. He stopped at the first
motel on the Canadian side of the border. He showered until he ran out of hot water and still his skin
burned. To find relief, Shlomo bought a razor at the front desk and shaved all the hair off of his body,

carefully preserving his peyas. And although his skin was rubbed raw, the burning finally subsided.
He sat in a chair, shaking with exhaustion, staring at his strange reflection in the mirror.
There was a knock on the door. Frightened, Shlomo looked through the peephole to see Mael
standing outside his door. Shlomo swung the door open. He threw himself into the angel’s arms,
openly weeping. “Blessed art thou O’ L-rd our G-d who creates miracles.” He said quietly to himself.
“I know you had a hard time, old friend, it’s almost over.” said Mael comforting Shlomo in his arms.
“There is only one more thing you have to do. A test, to see if you are devoted enough.”
“What must I do?” asked Shlomo devotedly.
Mael produced a knife from beneath his coat. “You are to cut off your left hand.”
Shlomo took the knife slowly in his right hand. He slowly walked over to the cheap desk provided by
the motel. He put his hand down firmly on the desk and pressed the blade against the back of his
wrist. “Won’t G-d stay my hand?”
“Do you think this is a trick? This is not a ploy and you’re not Abraham. This is the real thing.
Intentions mean nothing. Only actions produce results!” Mael shouted.
“It hurts.” whined Shlomo as blood began to trickle from his wrist.
“Of course it hurts! Let your devotion overcome the pain? How badly do you want this?”
“I can’t.” cried Shlomo.
“I COMMAND YOU!”
“What do we have here?”
“Looks like a suicide. The guy checked into the motel and slashed his wrist.”
“Jesus! He didn’t just slash it. He just about sawed it off. He shaved all his hair off too. What’s he
dressed up as?”

“He was a Hasidic Jew.”

“Really? He looks more like a Harai Krishna. I guess he didn’t practice what he preached. Where
was his parish?”
“He’s not that kind of Rabbi. He’s the guy that blesses kosher food.”
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“So what happened here? Was he part of some suicide cult? I mean, are we going to find dozens of
these guys in motels around the province?”
“No. Jews don’t go in for that sort of thing.”
“Any sign of foul play? Maybe he blessed the wrong food.”
“More likely that he withheld his blessing. But it’s nothing like that. He was a religious nut. His boss
said that he was acting erratically over the past few days. He just went nuts, that’s all.”
“O.K. that’s it then. If you’re satisfied, the case is closed. Let’s go grab something to eat.”

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 Glossary

Baruch Hashem - Literally ‘Blessed be God’. Traditional reply to the greeting, ‘How are you?”
blintzes - cheese crepes
chasur fleisch - pig flesh
glatt - strictly
goyisha - Not Jewish
halachah - Kosher rules and regulations
Hasidic - A sect of Orthodox Judaism
hechsur - A sign hung in a window or a symbol on a label indicating that the contents are kosher
Kashrut - Kosher
Kohan - priestly caste of Judaism
mazuzah - religious icon nailed to each doorpost in a Jewish home or business.
mikvah - ritual bath
mashgiach - Rabbi supervising Kosher rules
mitzvah - holy deed
Pesach - Passover
peyas - ear locks worn by Hasidic Jews
Shabbat - Sabbath
Shul - synagogue
shvitz - sauna
treyf - not kosher
tsi-tsi - undergarment with fringes that are displayed outside of a Hasidic’s man’s clothing
tzadeka - charity
yameka - skullcap

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