Only the most devout need apply for the task
Copyright 2006 Houston Chronicle
When an observant Jew eats at a restaurant, or attends a wedding at a hotel, or goes grocery shopping, she wants to be sure that what she is eating or buying is kosher. The job of confirming that — kosher quality control, you could call it — is the responsibility of a mashgiach.
About 20 of them, most part-timers, can be found in Houston working in a handful of restaurants, supermarkets, factories, even on the occasional cruise ship setting sail from Galveston. The word, pronounced mah-SHKEE-ach, means "overseer" in Hebrew — and it is surely one of the more unusual occupations in the food industry. As described by a newly minted mashgiach in Houston, the job is to prevent nonkosher hanky-panky.
The laws of kosher, or kashrut, stem from the Hebrew Bible and they are much too complicated to explain here. Observant Jews may not eat meat unless it has been slaughtered according to kosher law. They may not mix dairy foods with meat in a single meal or on the same set of dishes (foods categorized as "pareve," or neutral, go with either). Jews may not eat pork, birds of prey or shellfish. Among mammals, Jews are permitted to eat only those that have cloven hooves and chew their cud. Cows, yes; camels and dogs, no.
To a nonbeliever, the laws of kashrut may seem hopelessly exacting, even weird. But to observant Jews they are a matter of faith, "a God-given commandment," as Rabbi Betzalel Marinovsky of Houston's Chabad Lubavitch Center puts it. That makes the work of a mashgiach a heavy responsibility.
"If I, God forbid, was to make a mistake and somehow milk got into the restaurant and someone ate it, I would be held responsible by HaShem (God) for causing other people to transgress against the laws of kashrut," said Yoel Moore, the 27-year-old mashgiach at Suzie's Grill, a kosher meat restaurant in Meyerland. "They are trusting me that it's kosher."
Moore's work day begins at 9:30 a.m. He unlocks the refrigerators and freezers and lights the stoves. The meat is kept under lock and key when the restaurant is closed, to ensure that nothing untoward — no wayward dairy product, no pig's blood — contaminates it. Kosher law states that food for Jews must be cooked by Jews. But over the centuries, rabbis have determined that it is sufficient for a Jew to light the stove; in certain traditions, a Jew must place the pot of food on the stove, as well.
When vegetables are delivered, Moore inspects them carefully for bugs. "Winged swarming things," says the Book of Leviticus, are not kosher.
"It's said by Orthodox Jews, if you eat one bug, it's as if you had two porks," says Susan Goldstein, proprietor of Suzie's Grill. Moore follows a fastidious protocol for washing the greens to dislodge any insects.
At the nearby Seven Acres senior citizen's home, mashgiach Jane Alexander is beginning her day, too. Seven Acres maintains two separate kitchens, one for preparing meat meals, the other dairy meals. The staff goes between the two, changing aprons each time.
Among her daily chores, Alexander must check "every item in every kitchen" to ensure that a dairy pot, utensil or plate hasn't strayed into the meat kitchen.
"That which belongs in the meat kitchen should stay there. That which belongs in the dairy kitchen should stay there, and never the twain shall meet," explained Rabbi Mark Urkowitz, chaplain at Seven Acres and supervisor of mashgichim for the Houston Kashruth Association.
If the twain accidently meet, Alexander "re-kashers" the offender, according to established procedures. She may heat the item to a certain temperature, boil it in bleached water, plunge it in earth, immerse it in a special ritual bath, say a prayer.
Like Moore, Alexander is also responsible for checking food shipments. She's looking for a hekhsher, a symbol that certifies that a product is kosher. There are more than 800 different hekhshers, including one given out by the Houston Kashruth Association. Some are considered more reliable than others.
If Alexander doesn't like what she sees, she rejects the shipment. Recently a big order of cereal arrived at Seven Acres, containing hekhsherless boxes of Shredded Wheat. Out they went.
Many curiosities arise — for instance, the Seven Acres puréeing predicament, caused by the breakdown of one of two institutional food processors. In a place where many residents are unable to chew their food, it's a vital piece of equipment. Re-kashering the sole reliable machine between dairy and meat meals proved cumbersome. Rabbi Urkowitz investigated the relevant Jewish law and ruled that molecules can't transfer when food is cold; as long as the food was processed chilled, the machine could be used for both dairy and meat products.
Neither culinary nor theological training is required to qualify for the job of mashgiach. Moore is a young man, soon to be married, who has previously managed restaurants and a Walgreens. Alexander is a mother of four, trained in social work, and a substitute teacher who "wanted to make a contribution to the community."
In fact, the larger kosher certifying organizations, such as the New York-based Orthodox Union, do offer occasional seminars on kosher food inspection. More important than specialized training, however, is that a mashgiach be "a Godfearing person that the rabbi trusts," Chabad Rabbi Marinovsky said. A mashgiach must keep a kosher home, observe the Sabbath and be otherwise devout. And he shouldn't think he has all the answers. Kashrut is a confusing business; Jewish scholars have debated its finer points for thousands of years.
"When in doubt, ask," Alexander said. "Always ask."
"Or when in doubt, do without," Urkowitz interjected.
Some mashgiachim supervise factories that manufacture products that carry a hekhsher or are used in kosher food preparation. In such cases, training in chemistry or industrial processes is useful. Several times a year, Rabbi Marinovsky visits a Chevron plant to check on its food machinery line. Probably no one but a mashgiach could think of the right questions: Is the oil used to grease the inner workings of a commercial meat slicer — one that could one day slice kosher pastrami — itself kosher? Rabbi Marionvsky scrutinizes batch numbers, piping systems, dedicated kettles, the chemical makeup of the oil.
It was the industrial revolution that led to the modern-day mashgiach. Centuries ago in the shtetl, Jews patronized butchers, bakers, fishmongers, butter and egg men from their own communities, people they knew personally and trusted, people they sat next to in synagogue. Today, food is produced in far-off places for a global market. Religious Jews need to know beyond a reasonable doubt that olive oil from Spain, apple juice from upstate New York, ketchup from a plant in Venezuela, are manufactured in conformity with kosher law.
Typically, a mashgiach is paid by the certifying agency for whom he works, an arrangement meant to ensure he isn't pressured by his employer to disregard a breach. Rabbi Urkowitz declined to say what the Houston Kashruth Association pays, but there's general agreement that the job is not especially lucrative nor that money is what motivates people to do it.
"A mashgiach is only as good as they are reliable, as they are trustworthy. You are doing a job and he" — Alexander pointed to Rabbi Urkowitz, "is not there watching. God is watching. This is very important. When you are a mashgiach, people depend on you, that you are honest and that you are absolutely, completely straight and sure about what you are doing. I never would do anything that would be wrong. It's a holy act. It's a privilege to do this work. You're protecting God's Torah. You're protecting the Jewish people. You're doing it for God."
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