On a Mission In Search of Hamantaschen

Tale of a New York City-reared Vietnamese American Confucian Buddhist woman seeking Purim cookies.

The oh so elusive hamantaschen, obtained at last.

Primed by Molly Yeh on this past weekend's "Girl Meets Farm," then by all of my friends' posts of baking and buying all the foods and donning all the costumes, compounded by the bevy of corporatey Purim social media posts, I got in my mind by the morning of Purim to pick up some hamantaschen. The plan was to do it post-work, while picking up a Buy Nothing award, after work-from-home, all in the neighborhood, and just in time for the start of the holiday, on an evening that promised to be unseasonably warm. But the Buy Nothing pickup got postponed, till after my Tuesday in-office day, when the weather had turned, back to Winter cold. Not as ideal.

I thought of abandoning the mission. It's not MY holiday, after all. The pickup was in the opposite direction from home, farther west. And then, on top of that, I had seen a curb alert quite a bit farther north that I decided to pursue, and they were there - some not terribly heavy, though rather bulky, storage baskets and a shelf. So there I was, lugging around six storage items, over a half mile away from home, on a frigid evening, the last of Purim. I debated. But I was already out, and the most likely purveyor of the hamantaschen would be en route home, so why not check?

Hamantaschen amid the storage units.

I had high hopes for the Budapest Cafe. I entered its narrow hallway before the display case, while the clerk was helping a patron ahead of me. Rugelach, check; babka, check; black and white cookies, check. No sign of hamantaschen. I could have exited; I was, after all, blocking the means of both ingress and egress with my armload of storage implements. But I was committed to the mission; I figured I could wait and ask - in case there was a hidden supply in the back somewhere. While I awaited my turn, two women came in, discussing the treats they were seeking.

And then my turn. The clerk shook her head; no hamantaschen. I'm not quite sure why I had been so certain a Hungarian pastry shop should have hamantaschen; while I, personally, know Jews with Hungarian roots, post-Holocaust, the Jewish community was greatly reduced, and for all I know, the owners of the cafe (whom, a Hungarian classmate told me, aren't even Hungarian any longer) came up in that post-World War II time with a greatly diminished Jewish influence.

The woman ahead of me, whose exit I blocked, helpfully suggested William Greenberg. Too far, too late, and back uptown from where I had just come. And then one of the ladies who had come in after me, whose advance to the counter I blocked, said, "You're just looking for hamantaschen? I have some here in my bag; I got them just today. You can have them." So sweet, so generous, so kind. Of course, I declined. She was a white woman, whom I assumed had come from a Purim celebration. How could I take the spiritual hamantaschen that were her birthright to satisfy my mere sweet hankering and cultural appropriation? I couldn't. "Thank you so much, that is so nice of you, but no, please enjoy them. I'm sure Agata and Valentina will have them." And with that, they backed up and held the door open for me so I could exit, and get out of their way en route to the counter.

Agata and Valentina? Why would I think an Italian gourmet grocery would carry intrinsically Jewish holiday cookies? Because I live on the Upper Eastside of New York City, and it was Purim, and Agata has a pretty extensive bakery counter and selection. New Yorkers, and New York City businesses, are agnostic as to religion, culture, too, to an extent. That's why we love it so. So why in the world wouldn't culturally Catholic purveyors in New York City carry hamantaschen for Purim? But Agata is south of home. So I figured I'd check the Morton Williams on the way; but no luck. Arms tired, I debated with myself again. But by then I was invested. So, onward toward Agata. First, to Agata's gluten-free outpost, pleasantly empty and spacious. The clerk there had none; "We have rugelach, but we haven't done hamantaschen yet. But I'm sure across the street will have some." So across the street, to the older, narrower store. I looked - on the shelves, in the bakery case; I didn't see any. How could there be no hamantaschen anywhere on the Upper East Side? Well, I suppose it was the last night of Purim. But really, everyone had purchased the entire supply of hamantaschen?! Then I spied a clerk behind the bakery counter, looking like she was readying to leave for the day. And I asked. "Yes, but they'll only be the assorted ones." Holy grail!! No need for the fresh baked gourmet ones in the case; pre-packaged would be perfectly fine. She came out from behind the counter to help me look on the shelves. And there it was, high up; "These are the last ones." I got the very last hamantaschen.

And with that treasure, home I went, to partake of the cultural heritage of my city. It was my dinner that night - far too many hamantaschen in one sitting. But whatever. Not my spiritual or cultural birthright; rather, my New York City-raisedright.

Exchange with the Sissy.

[Edited to completion March 17, 2023.]