Superbowl Sunday

SUPERBOWL SUNDAY

It’s Sunday in Los Angeles – Superbowl Sunday. Superbowl Sunday is a big day for the Los Angeles Jewish Community. It’s up there with Yom Kippur, or Seder Night. How do I know? Because I'm here with a delegation from the Ma’aleh Film School for 10 days of screenings and events, and we haven't been able to book a single screening on Superbowl Sunday. There is no synagogue, JCC, campus, Jewish organization or private home that would consider holding an event on this holy day. That’s because every single member of the Los Angeles Jewish Community, from age 7 to 77, male or female, Ashkenazi or Sephardi, orthodox or reform, is mad about American football. And that means that nothing, absolutely nothing, can be scheduled on Superbowl Sunday.

I’m trying to think if we have a parallel in Israel? I don’t think so. Let’s say the Los Angeles ballet company were coming to Tel Aviv and they wanted to schedule a glitzy performance on Yom Kippur. It would be no problem. They would get 1,500 people. And if all the theaters were closed, someone in Herzliya would do it at their private home.

What I’m trying to say is, there isn’t a single event in the Israeli calendar where you could get all Israelis to agree on the importance of that once event. Certainly not a sporting event. If the event had something to do with Humus, (the chickpea dip, not the terrorist organization) you might get a consensus. Humus is the great Unifying Factor in Israel. I’m not kidding. Arabs eat it (they invented it). Ultra-orthodox Jews eat it. Trendy Tel Aviv lefties eat it, and Settlers eat it. The Green family eats it on a Friday night with fresh whole wheat challah, so there is never any room for soup. There might be some exceptions though. There’s a Russian Orthodox monastery right next to Ma’aleh and I’m not sure the nuns there eat Humus. Those nuns look a bit anemic to me. I’ll make sure to send around a tub or two.

I do remember one time when practically every Israeli in the country was watching the same thing on TV, and that was when Ilan Ramon, the Israeli Astronaut, was broadcasting from the inside of the space shuttle. I get such a pain in my heart when I even think about Ilan, who died in the space shuttle explosion, and his gorgeous beautiful son, who was killed piloting an IAF plane only a few months ago. I hope G-dash-D is holding them both really tight up there. I hope He’s hugging them for all the Israelis who want to hug them but can’t.

I take it back when I say that all of Israel was watching Ilan’s broadcast. The ultra-orthodox were probably not watching. I think they were out demonstrating in Tel Aviv, against the Los Angeles ballet company performing on YomKippur.

THE PICO KOSHER DELI AND OTHER SPIRITUAL MATTERS

It’s Superbowl Sunday and my colleagues, Neta and Pazit, have gone to Disneyland for the day. I’m feeling SLIGHTLY better, after two days on antibiotics. I've had strep throat and a high fever, (that's right, on a business trip), so I didn't go.

So here I am alone in a hotel room. My knees are improving, they’re now chopped liver consistency and I can sort of stand up. But with the sore throat and feeling like death and all, I’ve had nothing to eat for four days.

I’m sitting on my bed in the hotel room feeling a little low, because I just spoke to Pazit, and she and Neta are about to go on the “It’s a Small World” ride which I haven’t seen for thirty years. All seventy two TV channels are showing ads for the Superbowl, or past Superbowls, or men in suits predicting what will happen at the Superbowl, or crowds of laughing and delighted people in New Orleans laughing and being delighted about the upcoming Superbowl. (The Saints did win by the way.)

I’m sitting on the bed thinking:

“What would I love to eat right now, if I had to force it down just to get some nutrition?”

And I realize there’s only one way to find out.

Ten minutes later I’m walking on my chopped liver knees down Pico Boulevard, which is around the corner from the hotel, and where all the kosher eateries are. I call Tali our events organizer, whose superb brain we are using to produce the film festival.

“Tali,” I say “I need a corned beef sandwich, for medical reasons. Where do I go?”

Without missing a beat, Tali says:

“You need the Pico Kosher Deli”.

Pico Kosher Deli is awesome, there is no other way to describe it. It is a dream of a deli, and the people who work there only speak in Hollywood movie language. They call out things like:

“Ira, that’s one corned beef on rye with pickles and coleslaw to go.”

The corned beef looks like it’s from a movie and so does the rye bread. Even the coleslaw looks like it was scripted. The coleslaw should have a sign next to it saying:

INTERIOR. DAY. COLESLAW.

All I can say is, if you are ever having doubts about your Judaism, you need to visit the Pico Kosher Deli. Come to think of it, I don’t think it’s a co-incidence that the Aish HaTorah building is just up the road. Those Aish people know what they’re doing. First, they spend six months putting people back in touch with their Jewish roots. Then they send them down the road for a corned beef sandwich. After those two experiences, no one has any problem believing in G-dash-D.

So. I’m back in my hotel room sitting on the bed, watching the only channel I can find that doesn’t have the Superbowl on it. It’s the health channel, showing hour after hour of pregnant women giving birth to premature babies who almost die but don’t.

I unwrap the corned beef sandwich, which is about six inches high, the coleslaw is glistening in its little plastic tub, two elegant long pickles are laid out on the greaseproof paper, and I’m sipping on a diet coke. On TV, premature twin girls named Shauna and Shannon have just been born, and they’re going to be okay.

You know what?

You can keep Disneyland.