Earlier this week, as my few readers may know, was my birthday. And my wife, as is her custom, decided to provide me with a birthday meal.
"Would you like Italian, Chinese or Jewish," she asked one evening before the blessed event.
"I really have no preference," I said evasively. "Frankly, they all turn out Jewish anyway."
She laughed at that and we went on with our days.
When I arrived home on the evening of my birthday, a delicious aroma was wafting down the hallway and the crockpot was simmering with a brisket the size of, if not the Ritz then at least as large as a Con Edison two-man manhole cover.
I think somewhere in Texas or wherever they breed cattle, grizzled, spit-strewn cowboys pick out the largest bovines they can find and brand them with the Star of David.
"We got us a Jew Cow," they say to each other. And they corral them into a separate pen complete with vinyl slipcovers and deep-pile carpeting where they have both dairy and meat cud for said cattle to chew on.
These Jew Cows are shipped to New York and women like my wife get a little beep on their phones--a text message reading "Jew Cows at Fairway."
They quickly run there and buy a brisket that could feed the Denver Broncos for a week.
Esthetes and hipsters disparage the Upper East Side where I live. "It's boring," they tell me.
Of course it is.
We can hardly move.