Day Twelve: A Series of Wild Goose Chases
And an ode to Dovid Malka
Well, after a more profound than intended entry last night, it’s back to regular programming for the Where’s Waylen series. Just me failing at doing what I intend to do, but enjoying every second of the failure regardless. So you find me on a Friday, in the holy city of Jerusalem, a much more packed city I may add and much more full of life and vibrancy than last week—as if the rockets from earlier this week had somehow energized rather than deterred the eternal Jewish spirit that courses through these ancient streets.
Call me the chaser of wild geese. Because that’s what today felt like. It started off with chases and ended as well. Well, I guess the day hasn’t ended, but that comes with the territory as a frum blogger who has to put the tools away at the onset of the holy Shabbat.
This morning, true to my word, I attempted to visit Har Hazeitim, to the kever of my elter-zeide. Incidentally, my grandfather is also buried there, but us eineklach aren’t really supposed to visit within the first year of passing, so I wasn’t going there for him per se.
I hailed the first cab, told him of my plans and asked if he’d take me there, wait for me and bring me back. He flatly refused with the sort of finality that suggested I’d just asked him to drive me directly into enemy territory. Ok, that’s fine. There are more geese in the sea.
This happened with two other taxi drivers, each refusal becoming more emphatic than the last. The final driver told me he doesn’t recommend it and thinks that access is closed to the mountain. When three separate Israeli cab drivers—men who’ve probably driven through worse situations than most people can imagine—tell you a place is off-limits, you listen.
Well, that put a pin in my plans. Not to worry, I had other quests I wished to achieve on this remarkable day. It was warm, bordering on hot, my backwards Chabad.org cap earning its keep, keeping the Mediterranean sun off my very white, very Ashkenazi neck.
I left my apartment in search of potato kugel. Not just any potato kugel, but something that would rival the greatest potato kugel there is: Dovid Malka’s.
[Here begins the epic ode]
For those in the know, Dovid Malka potato kugel isn’t just food—it’s a spiritual experience wrapped in silver foil. Picture this: you’re standing on Carroll Street in Crown Heights on a Friday afternoon, the summer air crisp with the stench of Brooklyn garbage, and there it is—that little brick attached house that has become the stuff of legend among potato kugel connoisseurs worldwide.
The aroma hits you first, wafting from the kitchen like some sort of starchy siren song. Inside that modest establishment, magic happens. Potatoes are transformed from mere vegetables into golden-brown perfection, each bite a symphony of textures—crispy on the outside, fluffy within, seasoned with the kind of precision that can only come from decades of dedication to the craft.
There is no competition. The Market Place can try with their industrial efforts, homemade has its nostalgic moments, There are some spots in Borough Park that make a valiant attempt, but nothing—and I mean nothing—beats that piping hot rectangle of heaven wrapped in silver foil, purchased moments before it disappears forever, and devoured by chasidim from around the world who make pilgrimages specifically for this transcendent culinary experience.
It’s the kind of kugel that makes grown men weep, that converts non-believers, that has sparked theological debates about whether such perfection can exist in this world or if we’re getting a taste of the World to Come. Dovid Malka has achieved what most people only dream of: creating something so perfect that it becomes the standard by which all other attempts are measured and found wanting.
[End epic ode]
Armed with this impossible standard, I began my doomed quest through Jerusalem’s kugel establishments.
I went to one place: the potato kugel was so disappointingly mediocre that I asked the store’s proprietor if indeed I had taken a potato kugel or had mistakenly grabbed some sort of cardboard substitute masquerading as Jewish cuisine. He told me I had in my possession one of Jerusalem’s best. That didn’t bode well for the holy city’s kugel reputation. Strike one.
I went to another spot in Geulah and had a slightly better specimen, but still found myself pining for that which comes from that little brick attached house on Carroll Street like a homesick yeshiva bachur dreaming of his mother’s cooking.
Well, let’s just say that was the second failed goose chase of the day, though my taste buds had been sufficiently educated in the vast spectrum between mediocrity and perfection.
I then found my way to a bustling shuk, a far cry from last week’s ghost town, when an air raid siren hit our collective phones. Police officers shepherded us to an underground bunker (read: car park) and I joined the throngs of people heading there.
I met up with two Brisker yeshiva bochurim and had a lively discussion about Torah and Chabad and was then approached by two French looking young women who asked me if I needed candles for shabbat. I was baffled and immediately said no, but on second thought, I do need to light candles this week, so I’m a bit of an idiot.
When the coast was clear I then embarked upon what would become the day’s most epic quest: the search for a pair of nail-clippers. I am not exaggerating when I say that I walked 7,500 steps in search of these elusive grooming implements, zigzagging through Jerusalem like a man possessed. I went to one pharmacy and then the next, one makolet and another, creating an increasingly elaborate mental map of every convenience store in a six-block radius.
While the makolet’s did succeed in fueling my Red Bull addiction (the Israeli knockoff versions are surprisingly adequate—I suggest Blu over XL), they did not help me in my quest for proper grooming. Each shopkeeper looked at me with the sort of confusion typically reserved for tourists asking for directions to imaginary landmarks.
I had almost thrown in the towel, when in a last gasp effort as I reached my apartment, I decided to try the tiny makolet practically next door to me. I asked in my most confident Hebrew if “you have the thing that people cut their nails with?”
I was elated when he led me to the back of the store, past the energy drinks and questionable snack foods, to my shiny silvery salvation! Now, I could enter Shabbat with dignity.
I then wrote a quick story for Chabad.org about the cluster bomb that struck dangerously close to a Colel Chabad daycare in Be’er Sheva (I have to pay the bills somehow, don’t judge), and prepared for Shabbat in the holy land.
This evening, I will be joining my similarly stranded cousins for what promises to be a meal filled with discussions about escape routes and flight schedules, and tomorrow I will join my father’s cousin for an unseemly early meal start (seriously, who starts Shabbos meals before 11:00 am?! This is a violation of everything I hold sacred about leisurely weekend dining).
Thanks for tuning in for the wild adventures of a rapidly aging Waylen, chasing geese across Jerusalem with the determination of a man who has clearly lost all sense of proportion. Wishing you all a wonderful Shabbos wherever you may be!
Until next time!
