Fork It Over The Intrepid Adventures of a Professional Eater-Mantesh by Unknown (rm book recommendations .TXT) 📕

I nod to the guards, walk through another door. I’m in. I don’t know why I’ve been admitted after being explicitly informed of a ban against whites. Maybe it’s because Farrakhan isn’t speaking this Sunday and they figure I’m not there just for a show. Maybe they’ve seen me at Salaam and figure I’m genuinely interested in the Nation of Islam.

Maybe I don’t look Jewish.

Inside, Mosque Maryam is spacious and bright, with theater-style seats. The women sit apart from the men and outnumber them two to one. Everyone is very still. No chatting. No looking around.

The mosque is about one-fifth full. I surreptitiously glance around.

I seem to be the only white person. I’m seated between two young men, neither of whom looks at me. Almost everybody is neatly and carefully dressed, although I notice some young men in hooded sweatshirts.

Several of the Fruit of Islam stand facing the audience. A few minutes after two p.m., they slam themselves into their seats like plebes at a military academy dining hall. The service begins with a short prayer, and then an introductory speaker sets the stage for Ishmael Muham-1 8 8

A L A N R I C H M A N

mad, one of the sons of Elijah Muhammad and the assistant minister of the mosque.

He bids all of us “As-salaam alaikum,” and the response from many of the men in the audience is a militaristic “Wa-alaikum salaam, sir!” Ishmael Muhammad speaks for about an hour and a half, emphasizing family values.

He is in favor of more home cooking and fewer soap operas and talk shows. “Oprah and Montel won’t make you a success,” he exclaims.

The only whites he impugns by name are Betty Crocker and Sara Lee—he wants women to cook, not just open packages. His anger at what white people do to black people is restrained. His admiration of what white people do for one another is intended to be a lesson: he wants black people to treat one another equally well.

He is particularly concerned about the disciplining of small children. He says his mother “popped” him as a child, and the children of today would grow up better if they were popped more often. He recommends decisive action against children who squirm while having their diapers changed.

From the meeting, I take away this message: Those who have the most to fear from the Nation of Islam are two-year-olds who are not potty-trained.

On the way out, I receive a smile and a friendly nod. It is from the same Fruit of Islam who did not allow me to enter through the front doors.

On the basis of my five meals at Salaam, I know this: The bakery is adequate. The casual-dining areas are clean and comfortable and, perch aside, offer tasty food. To me, the mystery lies in the effort to offer “fine dining.” I do not believe many of the followers of the Nation of Islam can afford the prices—lamb chops without vegetables cost more than twenty dollars, once the mandatory 15 percent tip is added. I cannot find any attraction for people who are not members of the Nation of Islam.

Farrakhan has publicly stated his intention of restoring the food-service strategies of Elijah Muhammad, who opened a series of mod-F O R K I T O V E R

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est Salaam restaurants in the sixties and seventies. (The last of them closed in the late seventies.) He has announced plans for five more Salaam complexes, costing at least $2 million each. He intends to buy up a million acres of farmland.

None of this explains why he requires a restaurant with gold-trimmed salt-and-pepper shakers and golden fixtures in the bathrooms.

He is a proud man and quite likely a vain one, fond of silk suits, Italian alligator shoes, and gold jewelry. Perhaps he feels only a palace can adequately reflect the national figure he has become. He is a doting father, and his daughter, Maria Farrakhan Muhammad, designed and supervised the building of Salaam. “She’s quite an artist, and she does make things quite expensive,” he said, fondly and forgivingly, at the opening ceremonies. Perhaps it is too much to ask an indulgent dad to rein in his beloved daughter.

In my five visits to the restaurant, I saw only one other white person, a white man dining with a black woman. I can only guess at Farrakhan’s motives for building Salaam. If he did it with the admirable goal of reducing the isolation into which he has guided the Nation of Islam, his plan is likely to fail.

GQ, september 1995

O L D E S T L I V I N G J E W I S H

W A I T E R S T E L L A L L

What I said to the elderly Jewish waiter working the lunch shift at Ratner’s in New York was this and nothing more: “Your partner here is very nice, but I wish our waiter were you.” I meant no disrespect, but I had forgotten the first commandment of conversing with an elderly Jewish waiter: Watch your words, because what the customer says is rarely what the waiter hears. I was speaking in English, the language of the happy-go-lucky Pilgrims, and he was listening in Yiddish, the language of the long-oppressed Jews of Eastern Europe.* As Leo Rosten points out in his classic work The Joys of Yiddish, the language “lends itself to an extraordinary range of observational nuances and psychological subtleties.” Mostly, it lends itself to sarcasm, which is why the waiter instinctively took offense. By him, I was a momser.† I felt his eyes bore into mine for an endless three seconds as he reacted reflexively to a lifetime of aggravating customers, perceived affronts, and insufficient esteem.

My friend Merrill Shindler, a Los Angeles food writer who grew up in the Bronx, had warned me about the wrath of the Ratner’s waiter, of provoking