In an ever-changing world, living half a world away from
where I grew up, I found myself thinking about one particular restaurant my
parents took me to with some regularity. It disappeared long ago, and we
stopped going there long before it vaporized.
It was such an oddity that there were times I wondered if I
had really been there, or it was something I dreamt.
The name my parents used was “The Cooperative Restaurant.” It had only two entrees to choose from— meatballs or boiled chicken. If you didn't want either, then no food for you. The servers were burly grumpy folks, who hurled the plates on the tables with such force that the meaty juices sometimes sprayed the customers. The servers either yelled at you or yelled at each other. The sounds of crashing dishes and blood-curdling cursing that echoed from the kitchen behind the swinging doors, were part of the ambience.
It was cheap, and the food was rib-sticking good, in a homey sort of way.
The name my parents used was “The Cooperative Restaurant.” It had only two entrees to choose from— meatballs or boiled chicken. If you didn't want either, then no food for you. The servers were burly grumpy folks, who hurled the plates on the tables with such force that the meaty juices sometimes sprayed the customers. The servers either yelled at you or yelled at each other. The sounds of crashing dishes and blood-curdling cursing that echoed from the kitchen behind the swinging doors, were part of the ambience.
It was cheap, and the food was rib-sticking good, in a homey sort of way.
It was so peculiar, and didn’t fit the rest of my memories.
Did we really go there? Was there ever such a place?
Turns out there are others who remember, and I found them in
a closed Facebook group for folks who grew up in west Jerusalem. More than a hundred
commentators in the group waxed nostalgic over the place, first called “The Workers
Restaurant,” then “The Cooperative,” and finally “Sovah,” before it met its
inevitable demise. I, who was four and five years old when I ate there, knew little of
its history, and the older commentators input surpassed the riches of my
memory.
Which takes me to this final thought for today's post. Anything and everything that interests you is likely to have a group of others who share your interest. I already belong to a few writerly groups. There really
is a Facebook group for everything.
9 comments:
Wow. What a fascinating bit of history. I'm in Tel Aviv at the moment and haven't heard of any traces of anything like that still. Thank you for sharing.
Yes, there really is a FB group for just about everything.
This place (and others like it) are long gone, and maybe for the better. Israeli restaurants today are as great as any you'll find anywhere.
What an interesting place and how wonderful you were able to reminisce with others who'd also eaten there. Yes, there's indeed a group for everything online and I am grateful for it.
What a fun memory!
I remember a restaurant called The Chicken Palace that my family went to when I was about three. It apparently was a kid-friendly place and we kids liked chicken. My father put up with it while he felt he had to. He had a chicken phobia. But as soon as we were old enough to behave in public, we stopped going.
What a restaurant. I think I would wonder if such a place had really existed. I agree with you that Facebook has a group for any and every thing.
Love,
Janie
"...But as soon as we were old enough to behave in public, we stopped going."
You mean you chickened out, Barbara ;)
Very interesting restaurant. And how delightful that you could reminisce about it with others who had shared that experience.
That is kind of incredible. I belong to only a few FB groups, but along the same vein, there is definitely a YouTube video for anything you need help with, from plumbing to art! It amazes me how so many people are willing to share their knowledge with strangers.
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