So much has been written about the Rubashkins, specifically the allegations made against their company. AgriProcessors has been filleted by writers, roasted by bloggers, and smoked by former employees. It’s not my purpose here to defend the company against those allegations; I’ll let the public-relations professionals and attorneys handle that. I merely wish to share my personal experiences with Rubashkin meat.
In 1994 I was living at home, in Hallandale, Florida (a city about 30 minutes north of Miami) when it was decided I would go to a yeshiva out of town, as there were no Chabad yeshivas in the area. I informed my parents I wanted to study in a yeshiva in France because that’s where my classmates in Miami were headed.
That summer, we made all the necessary preparations. Since classes at the French yeshiva were taught in Yiddish, my parents hired a tutor to teach me the basics of the language – basically, if someone is procrastinating, say “nuuuuu?” and if a miscreant pulls into a parking spot you had your eye on, mutter “aaaach!”
Finally, it was time to depart. Swimming in my bar mitzvah black hat and wearing dark trousers with white socks, I was a real 14-year-old fashion plate that day at Miami International Airport. Spanish blared over the intercom with sporadic English announcements. I recall the pride in my father’s eyes – his eldest son was going away to yeshiva.
My mother was also shepping nachas but would have preferred a school closer to home – somewhere, say, in Canada or New York.
At the airport gate, my dad congregated with the fathers of my friends. I recall their discussing how when they went to yeshiva they had two pairs of pants, maybe three. Now their children insisted on ten pairs minimum – some of them even cuffed!
The French yeshiva was known for its rigorous learning. It was also notorious for its less than tasty food, which, to add insult to injury, was served in such tiny portions. (There’s an oft-repeated story about a founding father of the yeshiva observing his students eating bread and butter and commenting, “I understand they want to eat bread and butter. But why does the butter have to be on the bread?”)
During my three-year stay, I often went to bed hungry. I survived on baguettes, which became as difficult to consume as they are to spell. Yes, I know Americans typically consider the baguette be a French delicacy. That’s because they eat one every six months. Try living on it for thirty-six consecutive months, excluding Passover, without much else.
Another thing: baguettes taste best when fresh. But as time passes – a week or so in the squalor of a yeshiva kitchen usually does the trick – the bread turns coarse, rough, and barely edible.
Things would have been much more bleak for my stomach had it not been for a small contingent of fellow students. Luckily, there were several Rubashkin boys among our ravenous group. Without fail, every Shabbos afternoon, during the day’s customary third meal, the Rubashkin clan would bring out vacuum-packed rolls of smoked turkey and salami.
Their spoils were graciously shared with all the other students. In addition, some savvy American students had managed to smuggle boxes of ketchup and mustard packets into the yeshiva, which enforced a strict ban against bringing in outside food. The condiments were considered contraband; we considered them essential to our Shabbos repast.
We would take those wonderful slices of meat and a ketchup packet and create a sandwich on the always available baguette. This was the highlight of my Shabbos. The prayers were nice. A lighter study schedule was enjoyable. But those cold cuts were heaven on earth. The manna in the desert had nothing on the smoked meat the Rubashkins dispersed to the throngs of starving yeshiva students. (In fact, the wandering Jews complained to God about the manna, saying they’d prefer meat.)
Incidentally, I also had the good fortune of rooming with a Schmerling from Switzerland. His family owned the large Zurich-based cheese and chocolate company. Shmerling had an insatiable appetite for crunchy peanut butter, which for some reason was not kosher back in the Swiss Alps. I, on the other hand, hailed from the United States, where kosher peanut butter was plentiful and abundant.