Close encounters of the best kind
On New Year’s Eve, we dined at The Milky Way, a kosher dairy restaurant in West Los Angeles. Nestled among a stretch of Jewish bookstores, delicatessens and synagogues, this homey place belongs to Leah Adler, aka “Stephen Spielberg’s mom.”
The décor is a visual homage to Hollywood luminaries, from chalky autographs in the exposed brick entryway to Sharpie-signed glossies on the stucco walls. The hallways give special tribute to Spielberg’s movie accomplishments, E.T. to Schindler’s List.
But make no mistake: Leah’s the star of this establishment. She driftes between the kitchen and the cozy banquettes, hovering over her guests like the Jewish mother she is.
“Everyone loves my pistachio pasta,” she said, as she passed out copies of her eclectic menu. “Try it—you’ll want to take the recipe home.” My family ordered chimichangas, Asian stir-fry, spinach crepes, and cheese blintzes. But who was I to argue with Spielberg’s mama?
Everything was tasty, but oh, that pistachio pasta was out of this world! I complimented her, of course, and as predicted, I asked her for the recipe.
“It’s so simple,” she said, “You chop up your pistachios, and then you saute them with olive oil and garlic. Next, you add your shallots and soy sauce…”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I said. “I’m so not a cook! Could you help me by writing this down?”
“If you’re not a confident cook,” she said with twinkle in her eyes, “invite someone with decent taste buds to join you.” She grabbed my son’s arm, pulling him into our conversation. “Pretend you’re in Betty Crocker’s test kitchen.” Then she whispered a secret behind her hand, “If it doesn’t taste quite right, you probably need more soy sauce.”
As we made our way toward the door, I admired her photographic memorabilia. "That one’s my favorite," I said, pointing to a candid shot, in which Leah’s beaming face is cuddled up close to her smiling son’s. "I can tell that you love being a mama."
She nodded. "Oh yes!"
We exchanged knowing glances. "Yeah, me, too,” I said.
We kvelled about our kids, of course, but we also talked about the joys of being our own true selves. "I love your spunky attitude," I said, giving her studio portrait as an example. Inside the milky white frame, Leah is sprawled in a snow-white chaise lounge. She’s wearing white from head to toe, save for black-rimmed eyeglasses and a Groucho Marx moustache. “That picture," I said, "has happiness written all over it."
“That’s why it’s hanging outside the bathrooms," she said with a wink. "People rush past Stephen’s posters in a blur, but while they’re waiting for the toilet, I’ve got a captive audience.”
We cozied up for a few pictures of our own, and as we hugged good-bye, I thanked her for a delicious meal—and more than that, for all the ways in which she’d fed my spirit.
She caressed my arm. “You nourished me."
I got all misty-eyed. "And you, me," I said.