Arnold Loeb: More than a meat maven, a nice man
In 30 years of writing obits, I have never phoned a bereaved family and been asked to come over to the house to talk as they sit shiva, or observe the weeklong mourning period.
Yet when the daughters of the deceased made the request Monday, I immediately agreed. This was, after all, Mr. Arnold Loeb, owner of the Romanian Kosher Sausage Co. at Touhy and Clark.
Yes, I had already eaten lunch, I thought ruefully, driving over. Still, I couldn’t help but imagine the spread: the corned beef, the pastrami, the tubs of chopped liver —
Romanian chopped liver. Shivas are normally awash in food. But this. Perhaps, our business complete, I could assemble a heaping plate to take home. Would that be bad form?
Daughters Katharine Loeb and Karen Levin, dressed in black, met me, and took seats on mourning chairs with the widow, Lynne Loeb. Orthodox Jews sit shiva on special low chairs, a symbolic returning to earth.
For all the shivas I’ve attended, I’d never noticed the chairs. Nor picked up on another tradition. I looked at the bare table, mentioned cold cuts. Chutzpa.
“The tradition is, people are supposed to bring us food and serve us,” Katharine explained, good-naturedly.
Arnold Loeb’s father, Eugene Loeb, started the business in Bucharest, Romania, making sausages in his mother’s kitchen.
“Much to her dismay at times,” Karen said.
The Loeb family survived World War II intact. In 1946 the family moved, first to the Dominican Republic, sending their only child ahead to Chicago, where he had uncles.
Arnold Loeb, 83, who died Feb. 27 of pancreatic cancer, went to the Illinois Institute of Technology and became an electrical engineer, later patenting a wind energy invention he created, Katharine said.
“I remember flying kites with him. I was little and didn’t realize it was part of a science experiment.”
Arnold’s father followed, opening Romanian Sausage on Kedzie near Lawrence in 1957. Arnold eventually joined the business. When not working, he attended synagogue religiously.
“He always started his day at
shuel, every morning,” said Lynne, who married Arnold in 2009. (His first wife, Betty, passed away in 2003.) If someone had no way to get to synagogue, “he made sure he got there. And if we went out of town, he would network to make sure someone picked up that person.”
For her husband, she said, doing good works is the definition of being Jewish.
“His description of an Orthodox Jew is: ‘Before someone has to ask for help, see that they need it first,’ ” she said. “‘Meet their needs before they have to ask.’ He lived that.”
Arnold Loeb was scholarly, but not severe.
“He loved jokes — one of his favorite things, hearing jokes,” said Katharine. “He always had a joke ready.”
That was a relief — I told the family my intentions: not a traditional obituary, but a column with prominent mention of deli meat. They didn’t object.
What always impressed me about Romanian are the stern signs posted before holidays, urging people to order in time or face the unthinkable disaster of not having the delicacies their guests expect.
“He was strict with people because he didn’t want to disappoint them when it was too late to get what they needed,” said Karen.
Most U.S. cities are not blessed with a source of really good kosher meat. Shopping at Romanian, I always seem to be behind somebody from Des Moines spending $500.
“People come and tell stories about the person who died,” said Katharine. Some, from out of town, are stocking up before flying home.
“All the TSA agents know the products. They say, ‘Is this Romanian?’ ” she added.
“My husband told me that TSA agents have come to the store, wanting to see what is this special product people are taking all over the place,” said Karen. “They came there to buy some.”
Karen’s husband, Richard Klein, who has worked in the business since 1980, now runs the place. Romanian was closed Friday for the funeral and under certain Talmudic interpretations should have remained closed this week too.
“There’s an issue with doing business during the shiva period,” said Katharine. “But the rabbi determined that because it’s such a fixture in the community ...”
Not only for customers, but for the 20 employees needing paychecks. A way was found: selling the business during the shiva week, symbolically, to Rabbi Zev Cohen.
Leaving the house, I drove east on Touhy until the familiar sign came into view. Inside, the antique coolers, the aqua brick. I put a pound of garlic hotdogs and a kishke in my basket and went to the counter, where a half-pound pastrami was secured. Plus a rye bread, because it was right there, by the cashier. I told her I was glad they remained open despite Arnold Loeb’s passing.
“Did you know him?” she asked. No, I said. What was he like? “He donated a lot of money to charities,” she said.
What was he like as a boss? “A nice man.”