Stanley Hyman's grandfather, Joseph, established Titanics kosher deli in Manchester in 1913. It went on to become a community institution. Here we publish extracts from Mr Hyman's new book on the story of the shop.
In the beginning
Grandpa Joseph Abraham Hyman had decided to leave England for a new and exciting life in America. After all the streets in there were paved with gold. What could possibly go wrong?
That is how he found himself standing on the deck of the Titanic that night marvelling at the magnificent sight of the majestic icebergs, glistening in the bright moonlight as they floated past.
He was watching as if hypnotised when the ship collided with one, virtually the same size and height as the Titanic. He did not think too much about this incident, and continued to watch. But as the night wore on it became apparent that something awful was happening and the boat was sinking.
As he was travelling steerage and was lucky enough to be on deck he was asked if he would row a lifeboat as the first- and second-class passengers could nor would not demean themselves with manual labour.
The rest is tragic history. He was rescued by the Carpathia and later landed in New York.
He spent several months there with relatives during which time he saw the new and interesting foods in the New York delis: salamis, salt beef and smoked salmon. This gave him the idea of opening a delicatessen store in Manchester on his return.
When he arrived back in the UK, the family moved to a new up and coming Jewish area at 230 Waterloo Road.
The name of the business would become obvious, as every time he walked down the road people would nudge each other and say in awe:
"Look. There's the man from the Titanic."
Don't mention the 'P' word
The climax of the year in Titanics, and the most scary of time of all, was Pesach.
To put a myth to rest, we did not make shed loads of money. It was OK but the amount of hard graft that went into this mammoth project was more of a tribute to our ancestors leaving Egypt for the Promised Land.
Pesach used to be a sensible festival, food wise. The list in 1975 had 50 items on it. The basics: cheese, unsalted butter and chocolate liqueurs from Ringers of Holland, chocolates and sweets from Israel, matzahs from Bonns of Carlisle and sometimes, when shalom was made with the Beth Din, Rakusens matzahs and crackers.
Oil was from a new can and was decanted into new bottles. New packs of sugar, salt and certain spices were allowed. Dried fruits, jams and honey and that, basically, was your lot. Life was a lot less complicated. Now commercialism has overtaken the real meaning of the spirit of this festival and we have hundreds of items, most so obscure you wouldn't eat them during the year so why at Pesach?
The logistics of organising for Pesach were enormous. Three months before, you had to place the order making sure there was enough of each product - too much and you would be stuck with the goods afterwards and who wants a packet of almond macaroons after Pesach? (Come to think of it, who really wants one during Pesach?)
When the goods were delivered they had to be priced. Too expensive and the customer would shop elsewhere, too cheap and you would be working for nothing. The clever thing was to be cheaper than the competition and still make a profit. Secrecy, surprise, zany advertising and most of all, very hard work.
Add to all this the sometimes obscure rulings of our Beth Din, which seemed to become more paranoid every year.
But there were some lighter moments, which made it bearable. There was the time when a lady from Southport brought her two daughters to their Passover initiation at the shop, resplendent in mink coat, and armed with three lists - one for her mum, one for her sister and one for her.
She sent the girls off in 57 different directions for the separate orders. Alas, the best laid plans went awry - a dead certainty, as it was hard enough making up one order at a time. The balagan reduced this hard-headed shopper to tears. Sitting in the middle of the floor, mink dishevelled, with tins and packages all around her, and her two daughters looking at her in astonishment - and at the prospect that this is what they too had to do in years to come.
Cafe of characters
We had employed a Polish lady by the name of Helen, as our cook.
The shop at 230 Waterloo Road had a large area and one third had been requisitioned for the snack bar-cum-café-cum restaurant. We were able to sit around 25 very hungry people and, boy, did they all have hearty appetites.
Helen made the best holoshkies - that is boiled cabbage leaves stuffed with mincemeat and rice. Her potato latkes were the talk of the town, but always the traditional favourite was hot salt beef, plenty of fat round the edges of course, and chips with lots of salt and vinegar and a pickled sweet and sour cucumber served with mustard.
Her crowning glory, however, was the apple strudel. It was so good that people would phone to reserve a piece. Some 50 years on and I can still savour that amazing taste. Looking back I suppose that this food was a heart attack on a plate.
When Helen decided to hang up her pinny and retire, we were very fortunate in finding a wonderful replacement cook by the name of Olwyn.
She hailed originally from Jamaica and was a wonderful exponent of West Indian food. She had the canny knack of converting recipes from her home country into the kosher equivalent.
Her cooking was hot and spicy, just like her temperament, and woe betide any customer who had the temerity to complain about any of her dishes.
She would tower above them and demand to know what the problem was. The customer would always back down and apologise, as she carried a rolling pin with her at all times.
"Tools of the trade," she would say.
