Flying to Flakowitz

These two could stay in the pool all day.

Here is my husband getting fitted with a snorkel thing.
David has all the newest Florida gadgets!

My first plane ride happened when I was a teen. I flew across the country with my parents. I don’t know what I imagined I’d see out of the plane window other than an image of Georgia O’Keeffe’s painting of clouds. When I looked down over the land, I was surprised to see vast, unending stretches of brown and green fields. I guess I was expecting some sort of border identifying the states, after all, my only view of the country was a map in school with black lines separating the states. Where were the black lines when I looked out of the plane window? How will anyone ever find California, Florida or New York? Geography was obviously not my strong suit.

Along with my many quirky personality traits, I suffer from a bad case of acrophobia. I don’t do down escalators, especially those big open ones in the department stores. I won’t look over high balconies like there are in Shmooey’s building or chance a peek through the panoramic windows of Vicki’s New York City apartment. But if I could open the window of an airplane and stick my head out to see what is 35,000 feet below me, I would. That makes no sense, I know. I love to fly. I would have missed out on some really great trips if I let my fear of heights take over the skies too.

Norman picked up a Post before boarding our plane to Florida. I usually don’t read a print newspaper as I prefer up to the minute internet coverage to stay informed. Doesn’t everyone want to get their bad news as fast as possible? Halfway into our flight, Norman was sound asleep and dreaming of pickleball, so I grabbed his newspaper. This guy murdered that guy. That guy punched this guy in the face. Some creep ejaculated all over a woman’s back in the subway. Yuck. Why does he read this stuff? My personal favorite was a story where TV anchor, Rosanna Scotto’s son testified that a man admitted to killing someone in his home. After the murder, the killer sat down to eat pancakes. Gee, it must not have fazed him much. It seems that murderers can have a night of good fun and still enjoy a hearty breakfast. And because this was the New York Post, the pancakes made the headlines, not the murder. Fear of crime on the streets chased us out of Brooklyn many years ago and I bet it’s why people retire to Florida, leaving the city and the cold behind.

Newark to Florida seemed a short and easy flight to me, but then again, I was not flying the plane. Thank goodness for that. I don't have much experience these days with airplanes. We had a wonderful male flight attendant who I had assumed was the pilot but then wondered who was doing the flying when he was busy handing out drinks and cookies. (I guess they’re not called stewardesses any more.) The plane touched down in West Palm Beach with applause from the snowbirds happy to have reached their winter home safely. I was looking forward to the warm welcome of Florida and seeing where David lives, but there was a down escalator in the airport I still had to deal with. I could fly, I just can’t ride a moving stairwell. I don't think I am that old, but maybe I do belong with the altacockers after all.

A beautiful home

And it comes with a cute butler along with Delmy

Our friend David has a lovely palatial home, with artwork worthy of any museum. And his newspaper, The Palm Beach Post, is a much more delightful read than its New York cousin. No murders were discussed in this paper and pancakes were only offered as a recipe for the home chef. The top story in David’s Post mentioned a man hired to remodel a home. He left his truck unlocked and when he returned to his vehicle, all of his tools were missing. The man wasn’t killed, but his day certainly was. This made news in West Palm Beach. No plate of pancakes would have make up the difference for him. 

Unless, of course, it was served to him by Maddy, the waiter at Flakowitz.

Norman, as the more experienced guest Floridian, told me that my first visit to the sunshine state would not be complete without visiting Flakowitz of Boca. He said anybody who is anyone would be having breakfast there between 9:30 and 10:00, and we will probably run into a Brooklyn homey or two. My husband finds friends no matter where we are, and sure enough, we heard, “Oh, Mr. Levine!” as soon as we parked the car. An old coworker from Norman’s school was so excited to see him that she dropped her laundry in the parking lot before we ever got into the famous Jewish eatery. That’s my husband. Friends flock to him like a Brooklyn Jew to a good bagel store.

Flakowitz has fat New York style bagels, enticing aromas of freshly baked babka,
appetizing perfect for a Bris or a daily brunch, and knishes that should be classified as a cultural phenomenon. This is a Jewish Mecca of delight and I could understand why it has such a large following. Guy Fieri’s face was even plastered on the walls. It’s not just Jews who enjoy a good smear.

Sue was our hostess. She was in charge of crowd control and she did this with a smile, joking around with the hungry guests who lined up for a table. Sue refilled coffees and happily swept the floor between seating her customers. This was a woman who should have retired years ago along with the folks who think every day is Sunday, but she clearly loved her job. The regulars kiss her goodbye and thank her before leaving just as they would thank their mom for a home cooked meal. Coming to Flakowitz is like
visiting your extended family.

A Flakowitz brunch starts with a plate of complementary marble cake. Friendly waiters who know everyone’s name offer coffee and oatmeal as an appetizer. Two elderly ladies at the table next to ours were discussing the marble cake. I bet they meet there every morning and exchange the same words, as if they memorized the lines of a funny script. The marble cake was very light and one of them remarked that it was from properly beaten egg whites. Her friend said that there were other flavors in the cake that made it so delicious. She knew better, after all, she was the baker. There’s not much a Jew enjoys more than a heated argument. Except maybe a good breakfast special.

I think I like it here!

Florida is a lovely place. We arrived at the airport in New Jersey wearing winter coats and we’ve been living in shorts ever since. Friends and family we haven’t seen in years are welcoming us with hugs and stories of a happy life. The sun is shining, the skies are blue even if the forecast calls for a shower, and our friend’s home is like a dream. The best part of this vacation is seeing David in his element. He is as handsome as ever, swimming in his pool and busy meeting friends for a game of poker or a lecture. He just needs to buy Delmy some baking powder and vanilla so I can make him a proper piece of mandel bread... a breakfast treat worthy of any Flakowitz order.