“Schmaltz Alert” [by Amy Gerstler]

Schmaltz Alert

One whole loaf of bread, a baguette

sliced lengthwise in half though of course

they never say baguette in Vienna, they had

other words in that slightly grimy dark bar

where I first saw it displayed in a poorly lit

glass case next to a plate of what I mistook

for burnt chocolate cookies but which turned

out to be thin, crisp slices of blood sausage.

A jar of rubbery pickled eggs, blurred

in murky liquid sat on top of the case.

But I was mesmerized by the sandwich.

What in God’s name is smeared on that bread–

I almost said–that translucent goo the color

of pus?! For politeness sake I asked in my

creaky German What’s that sandwich in

the window? Which probably came out

something like: “What is window-bread?”

but aided by my pointing, the guy behind

the bar received the meaning. He looked

as if I’d asked what beer was. That’s a chicken

fat sandwich, he replied, as though to a dim

child. Yes, those were chopped raw

onions sprinkled on top of the schmaltz

which was spread thick like peanut butter.

Like so many things my mother cooked

that I gave her grief for and wouldn’t eat:

liver, tongue, parts of the animal I couldn’t

bear to recognize, let alone ingest–

suffice it to say I was utterly repulsed

by the python-like sandwich sold in sections

at that tavern in the land of my ancestors,

and with my friends at the table, I laughed

at it. Yet, eating to keep warm–what did I

know of that in my privileged existence? What

did I know of pogroms, Russian winters, forced

immigration, of the value of fat, its anti-

starvation richness, of using every bit of a bird,

my pickyeaterhippievegetariancollegeeducated

self refusing to acknowledge any such necessities,

wrinkling my nose at the stink of cabbage cooking,

squinting at Russian writing on the backs

of forebearers’ multi-stamped passports slipped

into a photo album, their set, defenseless, nameless

faces peering at me hungrily. Once an uncle

at the wedding of his son, a skinny, hairy kid

who was marrying a Rubenesque beauty said,

“He always did go for those little fatties” as though

this was a delightful remark. Actually, he

used the term “little fatties,” as a second try.

First, he said zaftig, but based on what he read

as incomprehension on my face, he figured

he needed to translate for the poor dumb

Jewish girl who didn’t know her own language.

But, though I know little Yiddish, I was familiar

with zaftig, lobbed as a compliment among my

relatives to mean a well-padded, curvaceous cutie–

nobody’s stomach rumbling here! An aunt took me

aside one afternoon when I was 20, advising,

you should eat more, dear, if you want to catch a husband.

I didn’t bother to respond or keep the contempt

off my punim. Anyway, old friend, what I

wanted to say is that on the phone the other day,

when you said Schmaltz Alert! to warn me

you were about to say something affectionate,

I remembered that gross, noble sandwich

for the first time in years. I thought about how

we both come from Russian Jews who fled first

to Europe, where they perfected that sandwich

as well as an ability to simultaneously embrace

and mock the excessively sentimental, and

for no good reason I found myself in tears.