Does the cap fit? My guide to spotting your fellow Jews

It’s hard to explain what first got me thinking that the woman dawdling over the fruit platters at the hotel breakfast buffet might be Jewish. A well-maintained, ooh, fiftysomething, she had blue eyes and ash blonde hair, so not classic tribal colouring. Neither were there discreet give-aways such as a Michal Negrin kaftan or a Naomi Ragen paperback peeping out of her straw bag. But when my Jew-dar starts buzzing, it’s invariably with reason.

However, it’s one thing to suspect you’re in the presence of a fellow Jew in an otherwise non-Jewish setting (in this instance, a lovely hotel in a quiet corner of Tenerife). The real question is how to “let on”, as we say in Manchester, to other potential Red Sea pedestrians that you’re one too.

The real question is how to ‘let on’, as we say in Manchester, to other potential Red Sea pedestrians that you’re one too

His shtick is to loudly declare that he is shvitzing, and he has been known to holler ‘Shabbat shalom!’ in the vicinity of a restaurant table

When you both feel the spasm of recognition, bageling – letting someone who appears to be Jewish know that you are too – is the obvious course of action. You need to be discreet of course, in case, you’re wrong. My husband Martin, an exuberant fellow, is yet to master the art of discretion, however. His shtick is to loudly declare that he is “shvitzing”, and he has been known to holler ‘Shabbat shalom!’ in the vicinity of a restaurant table. On one memorable occasion, it was hard to tell if our fellow diners were startled by the greeting or the volume with which it was delivered.

I take a more circumspect approach such as delicately playing with my Hebrew-name necklace when I am in the vicinity of a potential brother or sister. 

But on our Canarian holiday, I deployed a new tactic:  incidental conversation. Deliberately sidling near my target as though I too were waiting to reach the fruit, I offered an unnecessary “so sorry” as if apologising for standing between her side plate and a heap of sliced pineapple. When she replied with a warm heimishe, noch, smile, my Jew-dar fizzed into overdrive and I found myself blurting: “Excuse me, but you look terribly familiar. Are you from north London? (Even though I live in Manchester I went for the bigger catchment area ). She beamed that she was.

“Hendon?” I ventured merrily. No, Hampstead, it transpired. (Well, it was a posh hotel).  We’d reached the point of no return so I drew back my bow. “Are you Jewish?”

Of course she was. As established, the Jew-dar rarely fails. Before you could say “make mine an Advocaat, Phyllis” we were indulging in what we shall call “mispachology”, the science of discovering Jewish connections. (Win! My sister-in-law knew her sister.)

 Before you could say ‘make mine an Advocaat, Phyllis’ we were indulging in what we shall call mispachology

After we’d connected, my new friend pointed out other potential Jews lurking in the undergrowth. The one with the frizzy hair? She had to be Golders Green. The fellow with the loud shirt? Hendon, surely. He had a chunky “chai” around his neck.

On another holiday, Martin and I were eating breakfast when our ears were assaulted by the sound of a man at the next table barking into his mobile phone. “Look Mervyn, I’ve already planned for 12,000 square feet and that’s it,” he told the caller (and the rest of us).

It was time for some sly practice. After stealing a picture on my mobile I duly dispatched it to a friend who knows everyone. Her response was so fast it defied the laws of physics. I got a name, the wife’s description, where they lived and why the married daughter was unhappy with them.

Of course sometimes there is no need for caution. If you spot a man in a suit and a baseball cap you’re on pretty safe territory, right?  Go in for the bagel. ​