If Jews Control the Banks, Explain This Menu.

By Jeremy Kossen

There are certain conspiracy theories that refuse to die.
For centuries, one of the dumbest has been that Jews secretly control the world’s banks, financial markets, and economy.
If that’s true…
…I’d like to file a formal complaint.
Because I just paid $24 for falafel!
Not the combo.
Just…the falafel.
I needed a second opinion.
So I did what any responsible investigative journalist would do.
I drove to my local Jewish deli.
If there was a secret discount, surely this was the place.
The owner looked exactly how every deli owner should look: busy, mildly irritated, and like he’d heard every joke before I was born.
I looked at the menu.
It said “kosher-style.” Which made me laugh.
Kosher, I understand.

But Kashrut isn’t a vibe. It’s Halakha. It’s binary. You’re either kosher or you’re not…there’s no “style,” the same way there’s no “pregnant-style.”
But there it was.
“Kosher-style.”
Which, as far as I can tell, means: no rabbi, no supervision, no actual kashrut… just a guy who really believes in his pastrami.
Hot pastrami.
$24.
Same as the falafel. Well, at least they’re consistent.
Corned beef.
Don’t ask.
Matzo ball soup.

One ball. Priced like it owed me money.
I looked up.
“Excuse me.”
He nodded.
“Do you have…a Jewish discount?”
Without missing a beat:
“No.”
“Huh.”
“How do you know I’m Jewish?”
He looked at me for about three seconds.
“You’ve been complaining about the price since you walked in.”
Fair enough.
I wasn’t defeated.
“What if I prove it?”
He stared.
“…You already did.”
Touché.
I ordered the pastrami.
He asked,
“What would you like to drink?”
“Water.”
Again, he nodded.
Definitely Jewish.
I asked if the fries came with it.
“No.”
“Can I substitute something?”
“No.”
“How much are fries?”
“$7.”
I looked at him.
He looked at me.
Neither of us said anything for a moment.
Finally, he broke the silence.
“Welcome home.”
By now I was determined to get to the bottom of this.
“If Jews control the banks…”
“…who the hell is controlling your prices?”
For the first time, he laughed.
“If we controlled the banks…”
“…I’d start with Visa.”
He wasn’t wrong.
People who actually believe Jews secretly run the financial system have clearly never eaten at a kosher deli.
If we had that kind of influence, there’d at least be a loyalty program.
Buy nine pastramis.
Get the tenth for only the price of a small car.
Instead, we complain.
It’s practically a liturgy.
“Oy.”
“Twenty-four dollars?”
“Oy.”
“Parking isn’t validated?”
“Oy.”
“I remember when sandwiches were twelve bucks.”
Every Jewish family has some version of this.
Not because we’re cheap.
Because we love the deal!
Those aren’t the same thing.
Cheap people hate spending money.
People who love a deal love the feeling that the universe blinked first.
There’s joy in it.
Victory.
The story is almost better than the savings.
My father understood that better than anyone.
Whenever he’d find a bargain, he’d grin and say, in his grandfather’s thick Yiddish accent:
“Sooch a deal!”
He’d stretch the words just enough to make you smile.
It wasn’t about the dollar amount.
It was about the delight of finding value where no one else had looked.
As a kid, I thought it was just something funny Dad said.
As an adult, I realize it was something he inherited.
His father probably said it.
And his father before him.
A tiny phrase that somehow survived immigration, wars, generations, and the slow erosion of accents.
I finished my sandwich.
It was incredible.
I paid the bill.
I tipped 18%, which is Jewish for “excellent service, but let’s not lose our heads.”
I walked out wondering how something so expensive could still somehow be worth it.
I still order water.
I still look for a deal.
I still hear my dad every time I see a menu that makes me wince.
Maybe that’s the real inheritance.
Not money.
Just a voice in the back of your head saying…
“Sooch a deal.”