FEATURED JOBS
Look, I don’t like to be the bearer of bad news. But I knew I had to tell him. He’d want to know. So reluctantly, after coming home last Wednesday night from the charred remains of the Suburban House, I called “Jersey Boy” – my good buddy who lives in the so-called Garden State – to let him know that the landmark Pikesville restaurant suffered a major fire.
There was a long pause on the phone, and I even wondered if some tears were being shed. “Is it gone?” he asked, sounding fragile. I told him the damage was fairly extensive, but I was hopeful that they would reopen.
I sensed a great relief. “That’s good,” he said. “That place just has to stay open.”
Whenever he comes to town for a visit, Jersey Boy always wants to go to S&H (as Suburban House is known in the local vernacular, a holdover from the initials of the first names of the former owners). Jersey Boy loves their food, and obviously a lot of other fressers do, as evidenced by the customers being evacuated from the building while carrying plates full of food. Along Reisterstown Road, I swear I saw plates with half-eaten hotdogs and onion rings left on the grass and sidewalks.
(They couldn’t just leave the food while fleeing a fire?! They had to bring it with them?!! When I told this to a colleague, she shrugged and simply responded, “That’s our people.” I’m sorry, I’m Jewish, too, but you tell me that a restaurant’s on fire, I’m hauling my butt out the door and leaving the kreplach and kasha varnishkes far behind. No food is that good!)
But you know, the community’s longtime love for S&H goes far beyond the quality and abundance of its old-world Jewish cuisine and noshing appeal. It may not be the most beautiful or well-decorated place. One has to have a love of kitsch and nostalgia to truly appreciate it. (For example, paint-by-number-style portraits of Abe Lincoln in the dentist’s chair might not be everyone’s idea of high art.) Some people might not enjoy being the youngest person in a restaurant by a good 30 years. (One friend told me, “I always feel like I’m in a senior center or a nursing home when I go in there.”) I’ve always said that S&H is the Jewish version of the old Women’s Industrial Exchange restaurant in downtown Baltimore (but without the tomato aspic).
And the informality of S&H isn’t everyone’s cup of tea when it comes to fine dining. Cases in point: loud, boisterous conversations among families, and octogenarians helping themselves to third, fourth and fifth cups of coffee without permission from the waiting staff. Some people might not like the décor (paneling, mirrored walls, autographed portraits of local “celebs,” and painted, shlocky beach scenes) nor the spinning dessert case.
But as Baltimore Jewish bard Gilbert Sandler told me yesterday, all of that is part of the charm of the place. The minute you walk into S&H, you immediately know you’re in a decidedly and unabashedly Jewish restaurant. The corny placemats with the silly Borscht Belt humorisms (about mothers-in-law, “goyim” buying retail, and Liz Taylor’s countless marriages). And then there’s the schmoozing (oh, the schmoozing!). The laughing and kibitzing and wheeling and dealing. The arguments.
S&H reminds us that we’re still Jews, we’re not WASPS yet. We don’t have to put on airs there. We can just be ourselves, among our own. We don’t have to keep our pinky fingers in the air there when we drink our coffee, or worry about getting a few crumbs or stains on our shirts.
That’s why it’s one of the last of its kind. It’s not just the soup with the matzoh ball that’s bigger than your head. Or the omelette that could feed Ghana. Or the coddies or shiva trays or gefilte fish or chicken-in-a-pot special. It’s the way S&H makes you feel when you go in there. You not only feel welcome, but you feel like you can take your time and be yourself. A lot of places say their customers are like family to them. At S&H, you don’t feel like family; you feel like mishpachah. There’s a big difference.
Everyone has an S&H story or two. They used to always go there with their zaydie or bubbie every Sunday morning. Maybe they went there after the movies while on their first date with their future wife. Perhaps their family went there after someone’s bris. (Ouch!)
Here’s one of my S&H stories. A couple of years ago, I bought Jersey Boy a great big pen at S&H’s counter with the restaurant’s information imprinted on it. I knew he’d love it because a) it was a souvenir from S&H, and b) it lit up in the dark. Of course, he was thrilled with it, but I decided to go back and get one for myself.
Trouble was, they were all out. The hostess at the cash register apologized profusely, but they didn’t have anymore. However, Joe Stowe, one of the co-owners, must’ve seen the disappointment on my face and came over.
“You know what, I’ll look through my house, I’m sure I have one of those pens lying around,” he said to me. “Give me your address and I’ll mail it to you.” He didn’t know anything about me (such as that I write for the Jewish Times). He was just being a mentsch. Then, he turned to his hostess and said, “If a customer wants a pen that badly, I’ll find it for him.”
And damned if a week later, that pen didn’t show up in my mailbox. That says a lot about a place, that it takes its customers’ loyalty seriously and doesn’t take its following for granted. If only more businesses were run that way these days.
When I finished my conversation with Jersey Boy on Wednesday night, he seemed encouraged about S&H’s future, despite this setback. “They’ll find a way to reopen,” he said. “They’ve got a good thing going there. The next time I come to town, we’re going back.”
You’ve got a date, Jersey Boy. And the matzoh ball soup’s on me (figuratively speaking).
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