Kosher Wine on Neptune Avenue

Title: Kosher Wine on Neptune Avenue
Author: Mikhail Salita


I am a student in a rabbinical seminary. One of my teachers once told me that sometimes the most important sermons are not found in books, but in moments—moments you have to recognize when they happen. And one day, I witnessed exactly that kind of moment. Maybe one day it will be retold like a story from Maaseh Buch, the classic Jewish collection of tales about sages, righteous men, and the sacred hidden among ordinary lives.

It happened on Neptune Avenue, one block from Cropsey Avenue, in Best Buy Liquor Store. An ordinary shop by appearance, but on that day, it became something else. That’s where two men walked in—not businesspeople, not emissaries of a synagogue, not philanthropists with ties. Just two Jews. Musicians. One went by the name Bugsy Siegel, the other Meyer Lansky. Yes, those names, though these two were not gangsters but artists. They came with respect, without rush, as if even a liquor store might contain a trace of the Shekhinah, hidden somewhere between the rows of glass and flickering fluorescent light.

They were there to choose kosher wine—not for a banquet or a wedding or a gift, but for two synagogues: one for Rabbi Natan Arister, the other for Rabbi Zalman Liberow. “We need wine,” Bugsy said plainly. “But not just any wine,” Meyer added. “Something that Gavriel himself might pour a drop of in heaven when he hears the Kiddush.” The vendor, a Georgian Jew with quiet, watchful eyes, nodded without asking for further explanation.

Still, out of courtesy or curiosity, he asked, “What’s it for?” “For rabbis. For Shabbat. For the soul,” they answered, perfectly in sync. The man brought out a box from the back, containing bottles with glossy hechshers and a smell of something rich and layered. “These are the ones the old rebbes like,” he said. “Soft but with character. Sweet, but not simple.” “Like the Talmud,” Meyer said quietly. “One sip won’t explain it—but if you go deep, it might save you.”

They looked at the labels, at the light through the glass, and listened to the quiet between the words. They chose slowly, deliberately, because this wasn’t just wine—it was a vessel for a blessing. “It needs to be good enough for Kiddush,” Bugsy said, “and strong enough for the angels to start singing Shalom Aleichem before sunset.” “Something between ‘L’Chaim’ and ‘Baruch Atah Adonai,’” he added with a small smile. “So the rabbi smiles, and the angels don’t get offended,” Meyer said, nodding.

They picked two bottles. One was light, with the color of desert sand near Mahanaim. The other was deep, dark, like an old Lubavitch nigun carried across generations. One was for Rabbi Arister. The other was for Rabbi Liberow. A man once said—maybe a Chassid from Brighton Beach, or maybe Meyer himself—“When rabbis choose wine, even prophets pause to listen.” Or maybe it’s just something people say. But it stayed with me.

As they left, Bugsy turned to me and said, “Study, kid. Study the real stuff. Because whether you’re a rabbi, a musician, or even someone who’s seen too much of the wrong world—sometimes you still need the same three things: a word, a wine, and a prayer. That’s how you stay human.”

People came to their concerts. The older generation came—those who still remembered the smell of challah in the oven and how their grandfather used to whisper Aleinu before bed, back when it was still safe to do so. The younger ones came too—children and grandchildren of Soviet assimilation. They had grown up without a siddur, without candles on Friday night, without stories of Exodus or Torah. Their grandparents, shaped by decades of fear and forced silence, had passed down survival, not tradition.

And yet, something awakened after the music. Even if they didn’t know how to celebrate Shabbat, many started to feel why it mattered. There was something real in the air. Torah had not disappeared. It was still present—not only on the bimah, but in Bugsy’s clarinet, in Meyer’s violin, in the small quiet “amen” a soul whispers when it recognizes something ancient in the sound.

Even the angels on Yom Kippur paused for a moment, not because they heard music that day—on Yom Kippur there are no instruments—but because they remembered what had once been played. On another night. For another soul. Because sometimes, a sound that once existed stays in the world like the whisper of teshuvah.

And as they paid for the wine, a breeze from the ocean passed through the door and carried a quiet phrase that sounded like “Shalom Aleichem.” Maybe it was a coincidence. Or maybe it was a sign—that even buying kosher wine on Neptune Avenue, one block from Cropsey Avenue, can be an act of kabbalah and teshuvah, if you know what you’re living for.