Earlier this week, I was sipping a margarita and eating tapas with a new colleague at an outdoor restaurant on West 23rd Street in Manhattan , when I heard an unfamiliar thud. This thud was followed by the sound of a body hitting the ground, and the clattering of eyeglasses on pavement. I turned to see a bearded man quickly stand up, put his yarmulke back on, and chase after an assailant who was walking a golden retriever.
Then I heard a woman exclaim, “Oh my god, he hit the rabbi.” The croquetas and patatas bravas no longer had our attention. Our night was taking a very sharp turn.
The young hostess at El Quijote was outraged. The Spanish restaurant is located next to the Chelsea Shul, a neighborhood synagogue founded in 1865. Apparently, Rabbi Chezky Wolff is a well-known figure and the thud turned out to be the sound of an L.
L. Bean tote bag connecting with his head less than five yards from where we were sitting. We’d been patrons; now, suddenly, we were witnesses to a potential hate crime and assault.
Immediately, customers in the restaurant jumped to their feet. A Black man gave chase. A British woman and her friends expressed outrage.
And my colleague—a journalist—took off to see what was happening down the street. There was a real sense of indignation on the terrace. “This is New York City,” the British woman said, “and there’s antisemitism all around us.
” After the initial confusion, details started to fill in. Wolff had followed the tote bag-wiel.
