Fado, Fado
One-Day Rambler Pass in hand, I boarded the 31bus early on a gray, but not objectionable Saturday morning. I was in search of the “best” bagel in Ireland. You see, I’ve been Jones-ing big time for a perfect bagel with cream cheese, lox, cucumber, tomato, and red onion. A Dr.Brown’s Cream Soda and a half-sour Kosher pickle along side is a fantasy I let myself indulge in, but like most of my fantasies, in my heart of hearts I know the extra stuff is unattainable.
But it is practical to believe that the basics; bagel, lox, cream cheese, etc.; should be easily obtainable in Dublin. Ireland has the best dairy products I’ve ever had. All the lush green pasture, and lack of laws about pasteurization and irradiation make for lovely dairy products. Hell, they don’t even bother with the nagging little fat percentage grades on the milk cartons that we Americans care so much about. So the cream cheese should be good.
And lox… When Irish tastes call for something a little fancy and “gorgeous” the Irish have a lovely plate of smoked salmon and brown bread. The salmon from the cold Atlantic waters is brilliant. If you ever get the opportunity to visit Ireland, take a drive through the little seaside towns in the West and Southwest . Just on the verge of little towns like Lisdoonvarna you’ll smell the peppery aroma of the local salmon smokehouses. I daresay the smoked salmon is better than most I’ve had in the U.S.. So, we’ll call that lox, because it is lox, and damn good lox.
As for the tomato, cucumber, and red onion, pretty simple. This time of year tomatoes and red onions come to Ireland from Spain. A few months earlier they would have come from South Africa. A few months from now they’ll come from Ireland, but they won’t be as good as if they were from Spain. And cucumbers, of course, come from England.
All sorted except for the main ingredient, the bagel. Now, the bagel is a very touchy subject with me. I spent my early childhood in Miami Beach, a suburb of Brooklyn New York. There was a kid in our neighborhood, Kenny Wolfson, whose dad owned a bagel bakery. Kenny’s dad made water bagels and biyalis. Boiling bagels before flopping them on the floor of a burning hot oven is the ONLY way to make bagels, hence the name water bagels. Somewhere in the late 1970’s bagels became a national craze in the U.S., and like everything else adopted by a mass market the soul got crowded out of bagels until they became a flaccid, doughy compromise. I was hopeful, though, when I heard from a few people that the place for “real” bagels in Dublin is Bretzel’s Bakery in Portabello. Bretzel’s opened in the 1870’s and is known to most Dubliners as the Jewish Bakery. How could I lose?
If you ride the bus in the morning hours on weekends in Dublin you’ll notice that most of the patrons are elderly gray haired Irish ladies. They’re going to market, empty Dunne’s Store bags in hand, or to mass, or to attend the boot sale at Our Lady of Consolation. Personally, I’d never attend a church named Our Lady of Consolation. Why settle for second best?
If you watch old Irish ladies closely on bus rides, you’ll notice an interesting thing. Old Irish ladies always cross themselves when the bus passes a church. Now, the proper way to cross oneself is to touch your right thumb (even if you are left handed) to your index and middle fingers representing the Holy Trinity, while the remaining fingers rest below the thumb. You then touch your forehead, then the base of your sternum, then left side of your chest, then right.
I’ve never had the occasion to ride Dublin bus this early on a Saturday morning, but the hour, the clientele, and the sheer number of churches between Clontarf and Portabello created the perfect storm of Catholic zeal. It was like a beautiful ballet, strong, synchronous, and graceful. It seemed as in slow motion with each passing church the old lady’s crossings became one symphonic movement.
Our Lady of Redemption — Father, Son, Holy SpiritOur Lady of Eternal Succor – Father, Son, Holy Spirit. St. Fintan’s – Father, Son, Holy Spirit. And so on and on all the way from Clontarf to Portabello.
I arrived at my destination, Portabello, filled with the holy spirit and dreams of crispy crusted, soft centered, lovely bagels. I found my way to Bretzels and queued up in line. Looks authentic enough I thought to myself.
My turn arrived and a young Eastern European girl asked “You alright?”. I’ve learned that “You alright?” is how the Irish ask if they can help you. I learned this the hard way during pub visits during my early days in Ireland when the barman asked “You alright?” and I replied “fine, thanks”. With that the barman inevitably walked away and no drink was served. It took me about a month to catch on, and drink was finally served and taken.
I asked for three bagels, Father, Son, Holy Spirit. One for the bus ride home, one for my breakfast, and one for a medallion necklace I was planning. Yer one handed me a brown paper bag, I threw down my Euros, said keep the change, and bolted out the door. I ripped open the bag and fished for a bagel. With my first touch I knew I’d been betrayed. HAMBURGER BUNS!! The bagels were soft and bready like hamburger buns. Dejected, I found the first bin and tossed the whole batch in.
What to do now? Think, think. What neighborhood in Dublin would have a good bagel? The Jewish neighborhood! That’s it! I’d heard that most of the Jews in Dublin live in a neighborhood in South Dublin called Teranure. In fact Teranure is where Leopold Bloom lived. “How do I get to Teranure?” I shouted at the first person I saw on the street. “15 to Teranure Cross”, came a reply. “Cheers” I shouted and found my way to a bus stand.
I stepped off the bus at Teranure Cross. Teranure seemed like a very nice little neighborhood, pleasant looking shops and restaurants, a couple of good looking food stores and a hat shop whose sign read “Hats for Sale or Hire”. Now, that’s an idea, hats for hire. I walked down the road thinking to myself that there must be a good bagel somewhere around.
The neighborhood was very gentrified with stately trees, and homes set back off the main road. I noticed a woman wearing a very fancy hat hurrying toward a gate by the side of the road. Christening, I thought. Out of curiosity I watched her go through the gate. I moved a little closer. I looked up above the trees and saw two massive windows in the shape of the Star of David. A Synagogue; I found a Synagogue in Dublin.
I looked over the gate and was taken aback to see that there was another very imposing metal security gate with a guardhouse and a guard in it. Sad commentary, I thought. It wasn’t going to be easy getting in there.
I motioned to the guard and he buzzed me in through the initial wooden gate. I walked up to him and said through the gate, “Shabat Shalom, would it be possible for me to attend services?” Now, I haven’t been to a Synagogue since my niece’s Bat Mitvah, and my niece is 34 year old, but I had to get inside. I had to find the perfect bagel.
With that the guard asked for some identification. I showed him my California Driver’s License and he seemed relieved to see my very Jewish first name. He activated his walkie-talkie and mumbled something into it. A few moments later I heard a buzz and the big metal gates parted. He asked me to take off my coat and hand it to him. He handed it back to me and motioned with his head to go inside.
When I entered the Synagogue, even though I hadn’t been to Schul in 21 years, I knew immediately that this was an Orthodox congregation. The men sat together on the main floor and the women and children sat in the surrounding balcony. I would have hardly believed that there would be a minion of Jews in Dublin, much less a full-fledged Orthodox Synagogue.
I took a kippah and a tallis and put them on and made my way down to the men’s section. The men were in mid-prayer, reading from the Torah and rocking back and forth in the way I remember so well from those interminable Yom Kippur services my father forced me to go to. I took a prayer book and pretended to mouth the Hebrew.
A pleasant looking bearded man next to me gave me a welcoming head nod and mumbled Shabat Shalom. Another man extended me his hand. I shook it. The bearded man whispered, “Are you an American?” How is that so obvious, I always wonder? “Yes” I said, “from San Francisco.” “Welcome to Teranure” the man whispered back. I nodded.
I continued my fake davening and thought about what a sham my religious education had been. I was Bar Mitvah’ed, but didn’t have enough Hebrew to do it for real, so the Cantor recorded my Torah portion and I learned it by mimicking the audio tape. Some Jew I am, I thought. I did about 20 more minutes of my Hebrew charade and finally re-focused on my mission, my raison d’etre. I was getting desperate, not to mention a little hungry.
I whispered to the pleasant bearded man, “Do you know where a man can find a good bagel in Dublin?” He looked surprised at first, but the smiled and said, “Bretzels”. “No” I said, “I tried. Their bagels are like hamburger buns.” Now the bearded man was amused. He turned to the red-haired gentleman next to him and whispered, “Where’s a good bagel in Dublin?” The red-haired man said, “Bretzels”. “No, no”, said the bearded man to the red-haired man “their bagels are like hamburger buns.”
With that, the red-haired man turned to the man next to him and whispered, “Do you know where there’s a good bagel in Dublin?” At this point the Rabbi copped on to the extra-curricular activity. He waved his hand for the Cantor to stop his reading, cleared his throat and asked “you alright?” Embarrassed, but determined, I spoke up.
“Learned Rabbi, I have traveled thousands of miles to this island and I am in search of the perfect bagel. In your experience, is there such a place in Dublin where a man can find a perfect bagel?” “Bretzels” the Rabbi replied. “With all due respect Rabbi, I find certain imperfections in Bretzels’ bagels. I’m looking, Rabbi, for a New York water bagel, crispy on the outside, soft and chewy in the center. The kind they boil before baking in a very hot oven.” “Corner Bakery, Harold’s Cross, take the 16A You’d better hurry, they run out of bagels pretty early on Saturdays.” said the Rabbi. “Thank you so much learned one.” I said. “Do you happen to know where I can get a Dr.Brown’s Cream Soda?” “Don’t push your luck” said the Rabbi.
With that, I dashed out of the Schul, and ran down the Teranure road flagging down the 16A. I jumped off at Harold’s Cross and easily found the Corner Bakery. “Bagels”, I shouted. “Do you have water bagels?” “All gone I’m afraid” said a very Jewish looking woman. “Listen, here’s our card. The bagels go very quickly on Saturdays and Sundays. Call us and we’ll put some aside next time.”
Dejected, I stumbled out of the bakery. The next thing I knew, I was in a restaurant in City Centre. I don’t even remember how I got there. I was wakened from my funk by the waitress asking, “you alright?”. “Full Irish Breakfast” I replied, and handed her the menu.
Copyright (C) 2004 – 2019 Abram Richman All Rights Reserved
The Only Other Jew In Dublin 