Being a gentile, I've rarely had the opportunity to sample many traditional Jewish foods. Sure, when I was younger and we'd study Hanukkah in grade school, I'd have my fair share of amateur latkes, and I tried matzo once or twice at a classmate's house (though never in soup form). And today I'm a fan, of course, of convenience store bagels (with plenty of schmeer) and the occasional IHOP blintz. But my knowledge of Jewish food doesn't extend much further than that. When it comes down to the authentic stuff, I won't lie, I'm a total pisher. I've never had tzimmes, or even seen gefilte fish. I've never known the joy (or horror) of having my mother feed me piping hot latke after piping hot latke. Nor have I ever had anything made with schmaltz. Until a couple days ago, I had never even heard of hamantashen.
Nevertheless, I cast my culinary inexperience aside Monday and attended the first annual Hopkins Great Debate: Latkes vs. Hamantash, in the banquet hall of Charles Commons. To say the least, I felt slightly out of place. When asked at the T-shirt booth which side I'd be supporting, I was met with stern glances for my indecisiveness. I didn't want to admit to my greenness, and that I had no strong opinions either way. "Can't I just support both?" I asked. I was told no, and that I had to ally myself with one of the dishes. So I took a Hamantash T-shirt, because they had my size. I then sat on the Latke side of the room, to stay neutral.
The lines were drawn through crowd, and as they arrived to the event, to an overture of "Eye of the Tiger" and Adam Sandler's "Hanukkah Song," they quickly took their seats on their favored sides. Master of Ceremonies Steven David kicked off the debate promptly at 7:30 p.m. with opening remarks on the history of the Great Debate and on its contenders.
The Great Debate, it turns out, is an ongoing argument. Although sponsored by our own Hopkins Hillel and JSA, the event, by no means, begins and ends at Hopkins. In fact, the Great Debate has been up in the air since 1946, when the first debate was held at the University of Chicago as a fun way to cultivate a sense of community between Jewish faculty and students. Since then, colleges all over the country have been hosting their own Latke-Hamantash debates, and everyone, from the lowliest dinner tables to the upper echelons of academia, has been considering (and sometimes over-considering) this highly disputed competition -- one professor from the University of Pennsylvania went so far as to write an article analyzing the feminist implications of each food.
The latke, for those of you even less familiar with it than myself, is, essentially, a potato pancake. It is a concept, as computer science professor and latke supporter Yair Amir pointed out, that exists all over the world. Potatoes are either shredded or grated, depending on personal preference, and then combined with a binder, such as egg, and onions, or spinach, or cheese for flavor. The Polish call it placki, the Swiss call it r9asti, and the Swedish call it r8crakor. To the French, the latke is a galette de pommes de terre, and to the Australians it's a fried fish side dish. And to us Americans, it's hash browns.
The latke is traditionally eaten at Hanukkah, a holiday that David summarized rather eloquently: "They tried to kill us, we won, let's eat!" This is in contrast to the hamantash, typically eaten during Purim. Both foods have strong connections to their respective holidays. The frying oil of the latke represents the miraculous oil that burned for eight days, while the hamantash, which means "Haman's pockets," signifies the triangular hat worn by Haman, a nobleman from biblical times who attempted to kill all the Jews in Persia and whose defeat is celebrated with Purim (the crowd booed Haman at his mention). In some translations, hamantashen means "Haman's ears," giving the little fruit-filled cookie some pretty graphic connotations.
The debate proper kicked off with an opening statement by Marc Caplan, a professor of Yiddish literature and language and speaker for the Hamantash side (the Hamantash side began by virtue of a hamantash toss). The debate was structured such that each of the four speakers was allotted five minutes to make his or her point with brief open rebuttals allowed at the end, and Caplan made ample use of his
even going a little over his limit. The greatness of the hamantash, he said, was due to its variability. "The hamantash is the culinary equivalent of jazz. The latke, on the other hand is invariable."
The latke supporters refuted this argument, claiming the hamantash's showiness to be extravagant, aristocratic and elitist. "The latke is democratic," Lester Spence, a professor in the political science department, said. "It's a working class dish. The food of the people."
Following Spence's remarks was a brief "half-time" with music courtesy of the Adam-Christian Brotherhood. The band revealed their alliances to the hamantash in song, with the original piece "Latkeland."
Paula Burger, the "token WASP," as she called herself, implemented a highly scientific rationale behind her pro-hamantash argument. "The hamantash," she said, "is efficient, durable, healthy, versatile, relevant and significant." Burger's claims were bolstered by strong, visual evidence, including diagrams of lunch-box space efficiency, complete with mathematical equations and even the physical destruction of a latke as proof of its fragility.
Amir undoubtedly put forth the most compelling argument for Hopkins students. He placed the foods back in their holiday contexts, and effectively brought the debate to another level: Hanukkah vs. Purim. Or as he put it, "vacation versus midterms." The entire room cheered, and some former hamantash loyalists could be seen discretely changing sides. As if to seal the latke's victory, he added, "Besides, if you eat too many poppy hamantash, you'll fail a drug test."
After rebuttals from both sides, the winner was decided by applause-o-meter. Though hamantash supporters had been far more vocal throughout the evening, the latke-ites let loose at the end, achieving victory for the potato pancake.
Following the debate, the audience was invited to snack on the two contenders. I relished the opportunity to compare the two dishes, and maybe finally form some strong opinions on traditional Jewish cuisine. They both had their pros and cons; I found myself very much on the fence.
While I was unable to make up my mind amid a sea of such staunch devotees, I was not alone in my irresolution. David told me that he was mediator for the debate because of his lack of preference. "On a cold night like this, I like a latke," he said. "Other times, I just want cake."
The debate didn't help me come to a conclusion about traditional foods, but it did give me the chutzpah to explore the realm of Jewish cuisine beyond stale bagels and corned beef. Any culinary field where there exists such disagreement over a pancake and a cookie is worth checking out. I'm looking forward to this Hanukkah season. I'm dying to try a big bowl of tzimmes, whatever that is.
