THE RISE OF THE CHALLAH MAFIOSO
by David Berkowitz
February 8, 1997
This is good challah, thought Aaron. I've never had such good challah, not too eggy, a good, firm crust, dense, the densest challah I've ever eaten, more challah per square inch than ever.
Aaron Saturday finished his first slice, then grabbed a second. The attractive blonde girl he had been spying, and one of the few blondes at Chabad House, caught Adam taking another piece of Challah from the basket on the table and she smiled. "You've got to grab it quick before it disappears," she said.
"This is good challah," said Aaron. The blonde winked at him. He never realized what potential the challah had before tonight, but never before had it tasted so good. After he finished his third, and then his fourth, slice of challah, a girl three seats down from him rose to get another basket. "No need to get up, babe, this one's on me," Aaron said as he stood up and headed toward the kitchen.
In the kitchen he found Lana, a girl that often assisted the Rabbi's wife in preparing the food for Friday nights. He whispered to Lana, "Meet me at midnight, where the sun never shines on the sundial."
"What are you talking about?" asked Lana.
The dame's not cooperating, thought Adam, so I'll have to get dirty.
He would have loved to just slip her a note, but it was Shabbos, and writing on Shabbos was prohibited. "You good friends of the Rabbi?" he asked, knowing he'd have her.
"Yeah," she said. "What's it to you?"
Score! "If you know what's good for you, then meet me behind the lecture hall at midnight, no questions asked." Aaron grabbed a basket of challah, then turned back to grab a second, and returned to the table where he found the blonde seated in the chair next to him. "Honey, you like this challah?"
"Who doesn't?" she said, winking. She had something in her eye, and it really bothered her, so she kept on winking.
"Doing anything later?" asked Aaron.
"Not that--"
"Say no more. Lecture hall, fifteen minutes before midnight, but you've got to do something for me first."
"But why--"
"Wegman's, get a dozen eggs, five pounds of Gold's bleached flour, three one-quarter ounce packages of Fleischman's yeast, a tub of butter, cookie sheets, a container of salt, and some Twizzlers, because I might get hungry before we do the deed."
"Hey, challah boy--"
"Say no more, and back away because if the Rabbi knows we're in cahootz, this'll just get way too complicated, so sram, dame, and see you behind the lecture hall."
* * *
Aaron was feeling rather nauseous at twenty minutes before midnight as he waited behind the lecture hall. That challah was so tasty, it was even addicting. That's why the blonde had to go to Wegman's for him; he would not have passed a challah sobriety test. After having a dozen pieces plain and three with extra salt, he found the challah went well with everything, from the salad dressing to the matzo ball soup, from the kugel to the chicken. He would have eaten the Rabbi's hat if it was served between two pieces of that challah.
The blonde arrived with the merchandise two minutes early. She was good, too good, but she was going to get her hands dirty if it killed her, and Aaron was planning on making a killing. Maybe not that night, maybe not the next, but his ship would be coming into the harbor in no time. "Leave the talking to me," said Aaron. "And pass me the Twizzlers."
Ten minutes later, Lana approached Aaron Saturday and his companion. "You know the recipe to Hannah's challah, don't you?" asked Aaron, interrogating his victim.
"So what if I do?"
"Keep your voice down, and come with me." Fearing the worst, Lana followed Aaron and the blonde to an unmarked car in a remote parking lot. Damn, thought Aaron. "This isn't my car, where the hell did I park?" The three then headed to a 1991 Toyota Tercel, red with a gray interior, chrome alloy wheels and equipped with the most kick-ass sound system ever installed in a Tercel. This car was clearly marked.
Aaron unlocked the driver's side front door, entered the car and signaled for the two dames to follow suit. "Shotgun," called the blonde.
Aaron turned the car on, popped his Natural Born Killers soundtrack in the compact-disc player and cranked up the volume. "What do you think?" asked Aaron.
"I think you shouldn't try putting an audio cassette in the CD player," said the blonde.
That challah was showing some effects. He put the cassette tape back in its case, removed his Natural Born Killers CD from his glove compartment and, on the third attempt, successfully inserted it into the compact disc player. "Now what do you think?" asked Aaron.
"Uh, cool," said Lana, hesitantly.
"Glad you like. I just wanted to show off my kick-ass stereo system so you know what kind of person you're dealing with. Now follow me into the dorm."
* * *
Thirty minutes later, the three were gathered around the oven in the basement of Aaron Saturday's residence hall, waiting for the challah to be done. Aaron now had the recipe, he had seen how Lana made it and he had some left-over ingredients to get himself started. Sleep was the only ingredient missing, and he would need more ovens too. But all of that would come in time, all in good time. If only he could find a way to access a massive amount of ovens and share the cooking time, but not the profits, with others. Like he could really pull that off.
* * *
Aaron Saturday's doctored Curriculum Vitae guaranteed him a job at the Hinman Dining Hall, considering the literacy rate of the staff there was hovering at around 40%. He doubted the manager even knew what some of the big words he wrote were, so just to see if the manager would know the difference, Aaron had made up some words such as "ulchriquiously," as in "Summer 1994: Worked ulchriquiously for IBM."
Now Aaron had access, he had slaves, as he liked to call the staff, people that would jump at the chance to bake something new, and when Aaron Saturday said "Jump," the dining hall staff said "Why?" Aaron accepted the problems with the intelligence level, but he planned to use that to his advantage. As long as they baked the challah flawlessly, and it had to be flawlessly, then there would be no problems.
And bake they did. Much to Aaron's satisfaction, the students loved the challah. They demanded challah french toast, challah paninis (a psuedo-Meditteranean delight), challah Rice Krispie treats (although even he acknowledged that was going too far) and challah pizza with the new, crispy crust technology. They became hooked, ordering challah by the masses, buying extra so they could have some back at their dorms. Comment cards posted on the wall read, "We welcome the age of the challah revolution," "This challah's the greatest stuff since Cheez Wiz" and "Bring back the macaroni salad." Challah was king, and Aaron was happy, but not completely happy. He was only very happy, sometimes elated, but this was only one phase in his master plan.
* * *
Three weeks into Hinman's challah craze, Aaron ordered the Dining Hall to stop baking his challah. A few had thought to question him, but none thought to disobey. This was the one who brought challah to Hinman and was actually making students happy. They were at his mercy.
Students became infuriated. The message board began to be filled with comments such as "Where's the challah?" "Challah's amiss and we're pissed," and "Bring back the macaroni salad." This went on for three days and three nights as students started fasting in protest.
At 6:00 PM on Wednesday night, Aaron Saturday commandeered the attention of the students and dining hall staff by standing on a table in the dining hall, biting into a challah he made himself back at his dorm. Students flocked to him in masses; others quickly ran back to their dorms to get their friends. A cub reporter for the acclaimed twice-weekly campus newspaper, Pipe Dream, stood poised in the middle of the action, vigorously writing notes on his trusty steno pad and hoped that a photographer would be on his way. This was a story not to be missed.
"You come for THIS!" shouted Aaron, waving the challah through the air in a swift, sweeping motion, then holding it up high for all to see. Many students drooled, some choked on their chicken grillas, others wondered what this had to do with macaroni salad.
"I bring you challah and the challah is mine and mine alone. It is MY challah that you want, and I shall give it to you, but all challah comes with a price." Students reached into their pockets, grabbing their wallets, ready to give Aaron their souls if they could only have more challah in return.
Aaron whistled a few bars of Paul Simon's "Graceland," and the blonde emerged from the crowd to join her lover on the table. "Here's the deal," said Aaron. "You give the blonde your names and numbers and we'll be calling for you when we need, shall I say, favors. In return, I'll let the dining hall keep baking the challah. If anyone refuses," Aaron drew his index finger slowly across his neck. Most students, the cub reporter included, took that to mean a death threat, but Aaron was just checking up on his bad case of acne on his neck that was really bothering him.
"If anyone refuses," he said, "you'll see if Denny's serves up this challah, because you surely won't be served here. And if it's a real problem, well, let's put it this way, no soup for you." This confused a lot of students, but they were scared nonetheless. Who was this guy anyway? He was their savior and they would do anything for him.
Aaron took a dramatic pause to consider what he had accomplished. He looked out into the masses and thought how he could hook the freshmen present for four years, but by the looks of them most would graduate in five or six years, so he could have them for longer. Those that would enter graduate school would demand it wherever they were, and Aaron would follow them, sending out disciples to Johns Hopkins, to Harvard, to the University of Michigan, and when the grad students would demand the challah, so would the underclassmen.
The less aspirational of the masses would demand it in their workplaces, in office buildings in Manhattan, in home-offices in Scarsdale and in the factories in Rochester. All it would take is one student or graduate to demand the challah, and the challah would follow. And when the challah would follow, it would spread, and Aaron would rise like yeasted dough to glory and happiness.
Most of the students present had gone home by this point, because as much as they craved challah, they were not big on overly lengthy dramatic pauses. But the cub reporter remained, knowing he would have the biggest story since one of his colleagues got the scoop on the dining hall serving macaroni salad. All he would have to do is follow the challah and keep an eye on Aaron Saturday, and he would rise to greatness as well. And follow he would, and follow he did, one eye on the challah and one eye on Aaron and a third eye on the Hinman Dining Hall, just in case they ever decided to bring back the macaroni salad.
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