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Telegraph
01-07-2025
- Politics
- Telegraph
‘We told jokes in the camps' – but is Jewish comedy doomed?
It begins, like so many conversations about Jewishness, with a joke. An imam, a priest, a vicar and a rabbi are playing cards for money when the police burst in. Each man is asked if he has been gambling; each swears in turn on a holy text that he has not. All except for the rabbi, who says to his accuser: 'Seriously, you don't really think I am gambling all alone?' The French-Jewish sociologist Michel Wieviorka overheard a rabbi tell this joke to his fellow French religious leaders at a conference on assisted dying in France. All four men were friends, but the joke left Wieviorka uneasy. 'Because in the joke, the Jew is the only one who avoids perjuring himself,' he says. 'He's no longer a victim. And he exhibits no solidarity for the others, only cunning. It's a joke that cuts itself off from a certain universalism, which is troubling for the Jewish community.' Prompted by this encounter, Wieviorka has written a book called The Last Jewish Joke, which argues that the great Jewish comic tradition – one that historically appeals to empathy through gentle self-mockery – is in danger of dying out. His book is both an homage to that humour, which he sees as rich in generosity, absurdity and self-ironising asides, and the story of its evolution through the 20th century, jumping from the shtetl to Hollywood to France to Britain and beyond. Wieviorka also believes that the space for Jewish joke-telling is under threat – from a combination of increased hostility towards Israel, growing ignorance about the Holocaust, and the rise of other ethnic groups pleading a victimhood that Wieviorka argues was once historically Jewish. 'For centuries, there has always been room for humour in the Jewish experience, even in the most appalling situations,' he says. 'Even the Torah is full of humour. But I fear the Jewish jokes I know and love are struggling to exist.' So, is he right? As the old joke goes, ask two Jews and you get three opinions. 'It's true that Jewish culture tends to find comedy in carrying the worries of the world on our shoulders,' says the Welsh-Jewish stand-up Bennett Arron. 'I have this joke I tell when people ask me if Jews drink alcohol. I say, 'Yes, we are allowed to, but we often don't. Firstly because it takes away valuable eating time. And secondly because when you drink, you forget all your troubles. But our troubles are all we have.' Yet increasingly I find that people respond by saying, 'Well, others have got it worse.' There's a sense that empathy [for the Jewish condition] is being eroded.' Others, however, reject what they see as a narrow view of Jewish wit. 'Jewish comedy is sometimes about victimhood, but often it's about a state of mind,' says the Jewish comedian and author David Baddiel. 'If people are turning away from the idea of Jews as victims of history – which, by the way, they always have – then I'd argue there was only ever a brief window where people accepted that [kind of humour] in the first place... I wouldn't want to write jokes that position Jews as victims and invite sympathy. As a Jewish comedian, you are trying to invite people [to realise] that my experience as a Jew is part of the human experience, it's not over there and nothing to do with you.' Ask most Jews what constitutes Jewish humour in the first place and (on this at least) they agree: it's about finding light in the dark. 'It's always been used as a way of speaking truth to power,' says the Orthodox Jewish stand-up Rachel Creeger. 'If they're laughing, you can say anything. We told jokes under persecution, in the shtetls, in the ghettos, in the camps. Humour has a physical impact on the body, raising endorphins, giving the joke-teller a dopamine hit. For a culture like ours, this is definitely part of our survival.' Historically, this humour in Britain has occupied a marginal position. It overlaps with our comic sensibilities in its instincts for self-deprecation, but diverges in motive: British humour tends to be more apologetic and tied up with class anxiety. And Jewish humour has nothing like the centrality here that it enjoys in America. As Baddiel notes, 'The American sitcom Curb Your Enthusiasm can do a whole episode in which Larry [David], trying to get in with some very religious Jews, eats some non-kosher food from a plate, is caught doing it, and has to bury the plate for three days in his garden to cleanse it.' He continues: 'No one says, 'Larry, nobody will understand this because it's too Jewish,' because there's an assumption in American comedy that the language of comedy will include Jewishness. That's not the case in the UK.' Certainly, when Robert Popper was writing Friday Night Dinner, Channel 4's long-running and much-loved sitcom about a Jewish family (starring Tamsin Greig and the late Paul Ritter), his producers asked him, perhaps with a touch of nerves, just how Jewish the show was going to be. 'To which my answer was, well, as Jewish as I am,' Popper says. 'Which was to say, we're normal people, so get used to it. I mainly saw Friday Night Dinner as being about a specific family, inspired by my own, rather than about a generic Jewish one. And I saw it as very different to what we used to get with Jewish stories on TV, when you had Yiddish violin music over the lighting of the Shabbat candles and Maureen Lipman saying 'oy vey, oy vey'.' As a result, many viewers watched Friday Night Dinner without realising the show was Jewish at all: or, if they did realise, they didn't regard the Jewishness as its defining feature. 'I was out in Soho after the first season came out,' says Tracy-Ann Oberman (who plays Auntie Val), 'and this Islamic cleric came running up to me. He said, 'I love it! It's just like my family.' I think there's a universality in Jewish humour that speaks to the absurdity of the human condition, which is something we can all recognise.' Nor does she see this quality as being under threat, as Wieviorka fears; in fact, she believes it's enjoying a resurgence. 'Given that comedy has changed so much in the past 20 years, with people becoming more and more scared about what they can say, I think Jewish humour has fared better than most other types. Jewish humour is not about punching down, but about observational wit and storytelling.' That Friday Night Dinner did not announce its Jewishness perhaps reflects a certain tentativeness that Jewish people have long felt about their relationship to Britain's broader culture. 'We live in a time when all minorities, not just ethnic ones, have been encouraged to own their minority and not be in the closet, and this is all to the good,' says Baddiel. 'But Jews find it very difficult to do that, particularly now, and that includes being openly funny about being Jewish.' Yet this argument isn't borne out by today's thriving Jewish stand-up circuit – which was non-existent when Baddiel was starting out 30 years ago. 'Over the past 15 years, I've seen a huge growth in the number of comedians who have been public about their Jewish heritage and use it in their material,' says Creeger, who runs the UK's only regular Jewish comedy night, at the north London venue JW3. 'It feels like there's an understanding now that Jewish comedy is something positive and engaging. There's an awareness that it has status in the US as a genre, which helps. And where previous generations were often advised to keep a low profile about their ethnic and cultural identity – some even changed names – now, this is far less common.' However, Creeger also agrees that Jewish comedy is under pressure in an era that, as Wieviorka puts it, is 'not a time for smiling or laughing, or for the Jewish jokes that it was once possible to share with others'. In fact, she thinks, 'Jewish comedians have gone in one of two directions recently. They've either become much more expressive of their identity, on and off stage, or removed it almost entirely from their material. There's definitely an external expectation of being seen to be 'the right kind of Jew': one who conforms to the widely held and loudly shouted views. There isn't a great deal of knowledge or understanding of the rich diversity in Jewish history, thought and opinion, and this means that labels get placed on Jewish people without nuance or critical thinking.' She herself has openly experienced anti-Semitism as a stand-up, including one instance when she came on after an act that had made reference to the Middle East. 'I've had a gig where some of the crowd literally turned their backs at the reveal of my Jewish identity,' she says. 'It's a real problem when [other comedians include] ideas that are not factually correct, or include tropes and stereotypes.' 'I've lost a lot of comedian friends, sadly, over the past few years: people who, if I've made a comment about anti-Semitism, yawn and say change the subject, we've heard it all before,' adds Bennett Arron, whose forthcoming Edinburgh show, I Regret This Already, is about precisely this scenario. And yet he doesn't see anti-Semitic attitudes as a threat to Jewish comedy itself. 'Jewish humour has always been about trying to adapt to changing circumstances. It's a coping mechanism. A way of fighting back verbally rather than physically.' None of this is sounding as though the great Jewish comic tradition is approaching extinction. 'By definition, there cannot be a last Jewish joke because a Jewish joke is nothing else,' says the great comic novelist Howard Jacobson. ''The last Jewish joke' is an oxymoron. The black finality of things is what every Jewish joke confronts. The harder things get for Jews, the more jokes we tell. They are our survival strategy, the only victory we know.'
The Guardian
08-06-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
Legends (of the Golden Arches) review – a giddy, witty journey into a phantasmagoric hell
In the program notes to Legends (of the Golden Arches), performer and co-creator Joe Paradise Lui writes of the 'yearning for a once-common-thing-now-lost': the migrant experience writ large, 'as unfortunate as it is universal'. It's an idea that could also function as this show's organising principle, grappling as it does with the long tendrils of the past – with legacy, culture and the pain of individuation. Legends starts, as all theatre does, with ritual: in this case, the folding and burning of paper as a funerary rite. Fellow creator and performer Merlynn Tong is contentedly performing the ceremony for a recently passed relative, but Lui refuses to participate on moral grounds. This slight disagreement between friends soon spins out into a larger discussion of tradition and observance, of the expectations and cultural burdens they endure as members of the Singaporean-Chinese diaspora. Lui finds it all rather vague and problematic, and if Tong secretly agrees, she sees no harm in humouring the gods for the sake of some connection to her heritage. Lui's central issue is with the seemingly capitalist leanings of these rituals, meant to provide ancestors with luxury and comfort in the afterlife. Tong says they're designed to appease the gods, so they might shepherd the souls of their lost relatives through Diyu, or Chinese hell. Lui thinks this is worse: a bribing of celestial figures who should by nature be above such corruption. Both friends conjure gods to boost their arguments, which only results in more confusion (although happily not for the audience). Eventually, Lui and Tong descend into Diyu – a wondrous phantasmagoria of inflatable gods, neon-bright costumes and dodgy karaoke – on a mission of self-realisation and forgiveness. There they encounter the Heibai Wuchang, two deities that represent the undying loyalty of friendship, as well as the God of War, Guan Yu and the Goddess of Mercy, Guanyin. These beings mock them, threaten them and, in the process, maybe cure them of their doubts and hesitancies. There is a giddy, self-aware sense of abandon to Legends (of the Golden Arches) that disguises a very real and serious examination of beliefs and spiritual philosophy. Lui and Tong are clever and astute theatre-makers with a firm grip on theme and metaphor, who are unafraid of folding painful biographical details into their material while simultaneously taking the piss out of themselves and each other. Tong's loss of her mother to suicide and Lui's decision to evade Singaporean military service for a career in the arts give the work an undeniable depth and poignancy – but their maximalist approach to stagecraft, abundance of wit and some wild imagery helps avoid mawkishness or didacticism. References are broadly sourced– from McDonald's Filet-O-Fish to the 14th century historical novel Romance of the Three Kingdoms – but precisely targeted. The production feels a little unhinged, even when it's carefully calibrated. Cherish Marrington's set is constantly surprising and Nicole Marrington's costumes are hilarious in their blinking, garish excess. Kate Baldwin's lighting design augments the swift mood changes and Wendy Yu's superb video and AV design is totally transportive – although on opening night technical problems with the projections caused a significant delay. Lui's own compositions are eclectic and savvy. While the tenderness of their rapport gives the show its heart and complexity, as performers Lui and Tong are slightly mismatched; Tong is sharper and more controlled than Lui, whose physicality can be awkward and unpolished. Vocally, she is stronger and more richly modulated. But Lui's probing intellectualism and crackling wit is crucial to the show's success. Together they make a winning team. Lofty ideals constantly fall victim to quotidian pressures in Legends (of the Golden Arches), and the result is a kind of toggling between modes – the exalted smashing up against the squalid at every turn. This provides much of the humour, but also underlines a central thesis: any war we wage with the gods must be fought not on the battlefields of honour, but in the streets, bedrooms and kitchenettes of our everyday lives. And sometimes, a dead relative is just hankering for a burger. Legends (of the Golden Arches) is on at Melbourne Theatre Company's Southbank Theatre until 28 June, as part of Rising festival.
WIRED
31-05-2025
- General
- WIRED
Never Drink Alone: A Guide to Turkish Coffee
Not quite espresso and not quite drip, Turkish coffee is more than a morning pick-me-up. It's a social activity rooted in cultural tradition. Courtesy of Denmex; Elite; Kurukahveci Mehmet Efendi All products featured on WIRED are independently selected by our editors. However, we may receive compensation from retailers and/or from purchases of products through these links. Out of all caffeinated rituals, Turkish coffee takes the (coffee) cake. That's because, according to some experts, Turkish coffee isn't a type of coffee—it's a cooking method. Commonly seen across Middle Eastern cultures, the beverage looks and acts similar to espresso, served in a small cup and tasting very rich yet very different. Turkish coffee is made with coffee ground finer than espresso (the ideal Turkish coffee grind has a flourlike consistency) and a brewing process that involves boiling three times. It's an unfiltered drink, so the coffee grounds eventually settle to the bottom of the cup. The grounds make for a thick drink, but they also play an important role in the auspicious ritual of fortune telling, a practice that ultimately inspired my love for the brew. My introduction to Turkish coffee was with my sister's Iranian family (we have different fathers. Her father, Ali, is from Iran). Upon visiting them to celebrate the Persian New Year, my sister's aunt made Turkish coffee after dinner one evening and a family friend proceeded to 'read' the coffee grounds and tell us our fortunes (I dive into the specifics of this process more below). While I cannot adhere to the validity of fortune telling, I will say that the family friend predicted I'd have a son. That was over 10 years ago. At the end of 2024, I gave birth to my first child, a healthy baby boy. But you don't have to get your fortune told to enjoy Turkish coffee. You also don't have to search too far and wide across the coffee forums to find strong opinions about the strong coffee and how it should be made. This was possibly my biggest setback in research, as there are those who suggest beginning the brew with hot water, while others suggest cold water. Some suggest sugar, others without. Some suggest high heat, others low. You might have even seen Turkish coffee being prepared in sand. (The owner at my local Palestinian deli tells me that this is mostly a tourist gimmick.) So, to the coffee nerds, the anal and the meticulous, if you're hoping for a 'right' way to make Turkish coffee, I hate to disappoint you. Those who make Turkish coffee in their home regularly measure and brew with their heart, and each household has a similar but almost always slightly different method. It's your preferences that will ultimately guide the ins and outs of your brewing. Table of Contents Turkish coffee is often served in a cup that's usually no more than 2 ounces. It might look similar to espresso, but while espresso is brewed under high pressure, Turkish coffee is brewed by boiling finely ground (even more fine of a grind than espresso) coffee in a cezve . A cezve (referred to as an ibrik in other countries like Palestine) is a small pot with a long handle, usually holding around 10 to 15 ounces and made out of copper. Generally, Turkish coffee is boiled in the cezve in three parts. After each boil, a small amount is poured into the coffee cup. The cezve is returned to the stove after each pour until you've filled your cups. The process of boiling the coffee multiple creates a thick and frothy coffee that is very strong and very aromatic. Ideally, Turkish coffee is ground with a traditional Turkish coffee grinder like this. Because Turkish coffee is ground to a fineness that most commercial coffee grinders cannot achieve, your best bet is to buy it pre-ground (I've suggested a few brands below). I almost considered using my Sana Grain Mill (8/10, WIRED Recommends) to see if I could achieve the grind, but didn't want to risk the coffee flavor in my homemade flour. Traditionally, finely ground Turkish coffee is mixed with water in a cezve, along with some sugar, depending on your preferences. You'll bring the coffee to a boil on low/medium heat over an open flame, usually in three parts. The first boil will develop a foam (think crema, as seen in other coffee drinks). This foam is essential to Turkish coffee, as the drink's frothy thickness makes it stand out from others. Some recipes suggest using a spoon to scoop the initial foam into your prepared cups. Otherwise, you'll use the cezve to pour it into your prepared coffee cups a little at a time. Put the cezve back on the stove to boil and repeat this process twice more until you've filled your coffee cups to the rim. As I mentioned earlier, it's important to note that, unlike other coffee styles in which technicality is prioritized with scales and thermometers, you'll see neither of these aspects come into play when making Turkish coffee. With roots that date back to the 16th century in the Ottoman Empire, Turkish coffee is a drink integrated into and born of a culture. So, think of Turkish coffee like your grandma's cooking—a recipe acts as a guide, but it is ultimately a process that is led with the heart. You may not place much stock in auspicious practices, and I don't blame you. But in case you're curious, there are traditions to be respected. The fortune-telling process begins once you've finished your drink. You'll place your coffee cup upside down on its saucer. The grounds will drip and scatter, and this is what the fortune teller will analyze to determine your fortune. Kurukahveci Mehmet Efendi Just as my family friend read my coffee grounds on that fateful day 10 years ago, the practice of fortune telling through Turkish coffee should be done by someone who is experienced in the craft. It is strongly suggested that you do not try to read your own fortune. This act of fortune telling also establishes something important when it comes to Turkish coffee: It's a social activity—something meant to be enjoyed with company. It's not a science. A great example of this is my local Palestinian deli using hot water to make its Turkish coffee. Beginning with hot water may go against what some coffee aficionados recommend (beginning with cold water is usually ideal for any brewing process to achieve optimal flavor and extraction), but many places selling Turkish coffee do this to speed up the process and serve their customers more quickly. When making the recipe below, don't focus on being too technical. Yields 2 2-ounce cups of Turkish coffee 1 cezve 2 small (2 oz.) coffee cups 2 heaping Tbsp Turkish coffee 6 ounces water 1 tsp sugar (optional) Combine Turkish coffee, sugar, and water in your cezve. Stir until combined. Put cezve over a low/medium gas stove flame and slowly bring to a boil over a couple of minutes (if it boils too fast, it's harder to develop the initial foam). Once boiling to the top, quickly take the cezve off the stove and pour a small amount into your prepared cups (about half an ounce). Return the cezve to the open flame and bring to a boil. Repeat steps 3 to 4 twice more until you've filled your cups to the brim. Serve immediately. You can prepare Turkish coffee over a non-gas stove, although it will take longer When I say heaping, I mean heaping ! Don't be afraid to indulge. ! Don't be afraid to indulge. My local Palestinian deli grinds cardamom into its coffee. It takes the flavor to the next level.
The National
30-05-2025
- Lifestyle
- The National
Falling for the abaya - an unexpected love story
This week marks one year since I moved to the UAE, undoubtedly one of the best decisions I've made for myself and my family. I love being here for many reasons, as an Arab much of the traditional life here feels familiar. But one thing I didn't see coming was my growing love affair with the abaya. Historians trace the abaya's roots back thousands of years to ancient Mesopotamia. Some historians believe it entered Saudi Arabia some 80 years ago via travellers from Iraq and Iran. Nomadic desert communities quickly embraced it, favouring its simplicity and practicality. Eventually, Bedouins brought it to urban centres, and it evolved into what we now recognise as a cornerstone of Gulf identity – part cultural symbol, part religious tradition. Growing up in London, the abaya was never part of my wardrobe. There was simply no need for it, no cultural space where it felt relevant. But here, it's found a way to be woven into my wardrobe. It's not that the abaya was foreign to me. My bibi, my Iraqi grandmother, would wear it outdoors everywhere she went. On my mother's side in Syria, I saw the abaya take on a different kind of meaning. Visitors from the Gulf brought it with them to my mother's hometown in Zabadani, a scenic mountain escape that became popular among travellers. These guests often returned year after year, forming deep friendships with local families and over time, gifting abayas to the women they grew close to. During multiple summers in Zabadani, I would admire the garment worn by the visitors and soon enough adopted by many local Syrian women too. As a child, I loved their elegance, how they shimmered with understated glamour. But I never thought they'd be for me. In all honesty, I felt too 'western' to be part of the abaya club. So what changed? First, let's talk about its practicality in my new environment. In the UAE's heat, a lightweight crepe or chiffon abaya wins hands down over a formal blazer. It shields you from the sun, dust and humidity while staying breathable and effortlessly comfortable. But more than its function, what's won me over to the abaya is how fashionable and stylish it can be – thanks mostly to how young Emiratis are styling theirs. In fact, women across the Gulf have progressively modernised the abaya. First came elaborate sequins and embroidery and, in the last decade or so, colours such as brown, navy and taupe have been introduced to everyday abayas. Recently, with a boom in women designers from the region, more avant-garde cuts have appeared; an abaya I recently bought has laser-cut scalloped ruffles and balloon-cut sleeves. Whether styled open or closed, the magic of a good abaya is in the details – the choice of fabric, the subtle embroidery and the art of accessorising. Across the Gulf, women have perfected the balance of simplicity, elegance and flair. There's a quiet sophistication in the way abayas are paired with trendy trainers, designer handbags and delicate jewellery. The result is an outfit that is steeped in tradition and practicality, but constantly evolving with trendsetting elements. I often wear an abaya to the mall, where I usually want to step out with little effort or thought about what I'm wearing. I also want to stay comfortably cool outside and warm in the chilly air-conditioned stores. The abaya ticks all the boxes and the look takes little effort, so many women focus on accessorising well. It's the art of balancing tradition with fashion. That balance is something I've always valued. I love dressing down a formal outfit and dressing up a casual one – heels with jeans, trainers with dresses. The modern abaya lends itself perfectly to that styling. I've noticed a recent trend of loafers with abayas, which transforms the look from traditional to contemporary cool. Then there's how it makes you feel. You can't slouch in an abaya. It straightens your posture and adds a certain poise. The fabric floats as you walk, catching the breeze, adding softness and femininity even to the shortest strides. I'm someone who spent most of my adolescence allergic to the idea of femininity and leant towards a tomboy aesthetic, but I've really embraced how effortlessly feminine the abaya is and how it makes me feel – always offering a touch of grandeur. Wearing the abaya has become more than just a nod to my heritage or the climate of the UAE. It's become a quiet kind of joy and comfort, a reminder that modern elegance and tradition don't have to be opposites.
