Gaby’s, shmabys – WTF? *

I’m riled by the hypocrisy of Israeli-bashing lefties and luvvies campaigning to save Gaby’s Deli. Note that it has to hide any connection to Israel in part because of the climate of hatred towards the Jewish state fostered by such “lovers of Gaby’s” as Ken Livingstone and Vanessa Redgrave.

That is similarly the situation at Maoz, a chain that can be found in the heart of gay Soho as well as in other “liberal” cities. It does excellently authentic Israeli falafel as good as anything to be found in Israeli restaurants in areas such as Golders Green.  Yet it can have nothing to tell you that its founders and core cuisine are Israeli. One can dismiss the comment in this article which asserts it was for marketing reasons only. Their website even explains that Maoz comes from the term from courage without mentioning the language concerned (hint – it’s not Arabic).

And however individual a place Gaby’s might be it certainly does not warrant this absurdly flattering review in The Telegraph. The wonderful Chas Newkey-Burden recommends two genuinely kosher (Gaby’s is described in that review and elsewhere, wholly erroneously,as kosher) West End(ish) restaurants in this piece, namely the vintage Reubens and the new kid Deli West One.

* (What’s This Falafel)

A Note on the Name “Witriol”

That is the title of an aide-memoire that my father typed up and photocopied. It read:

My parents came from Galicia, in what was formerly Austrian Poland. Towards the end of the eighteenth century the Austrian emperor, Joseph II, decreed that all Jews were to register their family names (in German, the language of the Austro-Hungarian empire).

Those Jews who did not possess a family name (i.e. surname) were offered a choice. Those who could afford it were allowed to assume “good” names, e.g. Rose, Ross, Lilienthal, Birnbaum (German for “rose”, lily of the valley”, “pear tree”). Those who could not pay for these “noble” names could choose, for a lesser fee, a “plain” name, e.g. Stein (“stone”), Feld (“field”), Eisen (“iron”). Those who could not afford a “respectable” name were saddled by the Austrian registration officials with offensive or “humorous” names such as Frochwaig (“frog’s spawn”), Nierenstein (“kidney-stone”) or Grünspan (“verdigris”). In this latter category presumably came the name Vitriol (same spelling in German and English), meaning “sulphuric acid”, which would have been anglicised by my father to “Witriol”.

See s.v. “Names” in Jewish Encyclopedia. [as found here online]

Joseph Witriol

“What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards?  Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards.       Pope – Essay on Man

As well as typing this for his family’s information and elucidation, I suppose he wanted us to have something to hand should people ask us about our “very unusual” name. “Unique, actually” is my mock-snobbish (but true in the UK) initial rejoinder to said remark.

It was I think in the 1970s that he learnt that someone in the USA had the same name, albeit with a variant spelling. He wrote to him to discover if there was any family connection. This ‘relative’ wrote back stating that my father’s grandfather had come to live with his (ie the American Witriol’s) family and hence adopted the name Witriol.

This seems plausible as he also gave my great-grandfather’s original family name(s) which tally with other names in the (sparsely branched) family tree my dad once penned out on a piece of card.

I do not know how the initial connection with the American Witriol came about and any hypothesis (looking in a NYC phone book at the Borough reference library is one that comes to my mind) vividly underlines how the Internet/Google/Facebook has changed  our ability to discover such links.

Docklands – Diner, Dido, Duncan

A rare foray on a glorious winter day into Docklands. We were too late to eat in Docklands Diner, but it was delightful to stumble across an old-fashioned “working mens cafe” - the owner (below) took umbrage when I called it a greasy spoon. 

Located in the historic Cannon Workshops of 1824-5 by Rennie, it has been there for thirty years. She was not very happy about restrictions imposed on her by the landlord (and/or English Heritage?) as far as putting up signs etc was concerned.

Then visited The Museum of Docklands, housed in a Grade I listed warehouse of 1802-3. Saw this painting by Duncan Grant, a member of the Bloomsbury Group.

It reminded me of this work by my mum which she almost certainly did whilst studying at Toynbee Hall.

Unfortunately, the condition has markedly deteriorated – it was (based on dim recollection of family conversations), executed quickly on cheap backing material whilst “on location” at the docks.

This is one of my dad. He was always proud to point out to visitors that my mum did this oil painting in just fifteen minutes on our kitchen table, again using a cheap substitute for canvas.

The Museum of London Docklands was the third museum/gallery in as many days where my wife and I were the last to leave. We had been talking to the staff about my mum’s painting and also their misleading interpretation of Dido’s status at Kenwood.

The day before we had gone to Cambridge to see the Vermeer exhibition. Whilst in the city we went to The Live and Let Live pub which they say has arguably the largest selection of rums in the county (my emphasis – it seems a modest claim). Of course, I’d chosen this pub for its real ale reputation, so it was a tad amusing that the next day we were in a museum whose adjacent Rum and Sugar Restaurant/Bar boasts one of London’s most extensive selections of rum.

The day before that, our Edinburgh trip ended with a visit to the  National Galleries of Scotland.  Our need to retrieve our bags from the coin lockers at The Royal Scottish Academy at the other end of William Henry Playfair’s magnificent landmark building on The Mound meant the staff having to deactivate the alarm system to let us out!

Sentimental books

My father was a voracious reader throughout his life. He amassed a large and eclectic library.  He was not, though, a collector for the sake of collecting. Books were for reading for pleasure, for knowledge; or for their practical use in translating, writing articles, teaching and so on. Since my parents died, nearly all of these books have been disposed of. Here I highlight a few that have a special point of interest.

Inscribed in a rear endpaper, this is the signature, presumably, of Israel Witriol, my father’s father. I cannot decipher the word on the second line, but his wife was Yetta Balin and his sister married Frank Wagreich.

This is the frontispiece of the book itself

Apart from a letter to Yetta, this is the only extant example of his handwriting – he died at 48 when my dad was 12.

My father added this sentimental note to a book

I wonder why this, dafke, was one of the handful of books they had? Chapter VIII is even more apposite today – see also this piece

This is the book’s title page – I think it must be a scarce item now. 

From an early age, dad excelled at English as this bookplate testifies

As for the book itself, in his unpublished ‘Autobiography of a Failure’  he said

 [I]…could never get into it. May have had something to do with the small print.

Maggs is one of London’s most venerable, yet relatively unstuffy, antiquarian booksellers. Their website, like their Berkeley Square shop, is well worth visiting. In this catalogue

I happened to see one of my dad’s two major translated works!

From Palate to Pallet

Volunteered at this year’s Great British Beer Festival (GBBF) on the final Saturday, having been once before, as a youthful punter, at Alexandra Palace in the late 1970s.

Assumed that as a newbie I’d be assigned mere drudgery, but in fact was asked where I wanted to work. Somewhat taken by surprise, I said the New World Beer Bar simply because the person in front of me had been offered that.

A busy day as it turned out, some schmoozing with nerdy beer buffs and even the occasional buff ladette in between a fairly constant stream of opening and pouring bottles, glass washing and cash taking.

As well as beers from America, Australia etc, the bar also featured Japanese craft beers from two breweries, Baird Beers and Hitachino Nest. The missus and I are off to Japan soon, so I’ll try to sample some Baird Beers on home ground. Their taproom in Harajuku looks like a handy pit stop if we make it to that particularly fascinating area of Tokyo.  They also provide a manual for retailers giving an insight into the complexity of serving real ale.

Daytime drinking is not really for me, so I simply sipped some samples now and then. These included what the bar manager had flagged up as one to flog based on its dire (IHHO) taste – Revelation Cat 3 Year Old Lambic (Laphroaig), from an obscure Italian brewery.

Come close of play, I was ready to saunter off to the staff bar and cafe. However, I discovered what the little monkey sticker on my volunteer’s pass represented when I was told in no uncertain terms to report to the pallet truck area.

There a Northern gentleman of ample girth, even by CAMRA standards, sternly explained that once allocated one of his pump trucks, with accompanying wristband, I was not to let it out of my sight. I was eventually entrusted with Inigo Jones (“Ah give them awl names – not military or politicians – it makes it bit more personal, like”) and dispatched to the cheese stall.  It was almost an hour before I could make my excuses and leave Earl’s Court.

Visible ethnic diversity was wholly absent from the volunteer cohort and rare amongst the punters. But there were a significant number of what I would loosely call foodie types who perhaps go to GBBF in much the same way as they would attend a Kenwood picnic concert or stroll around, say, Borough Market. And it seems to me that CAMRA has not sufficiently embraced this demographic.

The Festival still seems to be largely (pun intended) geared to middle-aged trainspotters standing alone or in pairs at the various bars and sinking pints. It is difficult, almost impossible, to leisurely sit around a table and take the opportunity to match the incredible range of beers with an equally wide range of complementary food (the food is there, but almost wholly in a separate area with hardly any seating).

Of course the overall atmosphere is one of bonhomie and good cheer. Speaking of which, one of the things that occurs throughout the day is a  “Mexican roar” rippling through the hall – I do not know if this was wholly spontaneous or triggered by a glass being dropped or similar.

In contrast, despite the logo on our volunteer t-shirts describing us as “official dispensers of mischief “, the prevailing mood was, perhaps understandably, rather earnest and workmanlike.

Still, next (Olympic) year in Olympia. Unless I’m behind the bar in Harajuku.