My mom played mah jongg in the 1970s. Her mom played in the ’60s. And her mom as far back as the ’40s. And although they never tried to teach it to me, the game somehow seemed to be a part of my consciousness, on the fringes of my Reform, California suburbia Jewish upbringing. It was one of those things I didn’t really know “why” it was Jewish, but it was — kind of like bagels.
Plus, my brother and I really loved zinging those tiles 15 or 20 feet across our living room carpet.
Since I started working at j. in 2008, I always thought in the back of my mind that I’d like to give mah jongg a try. I never pursued it, but finally the opportunity presented itself: a mah jongg event last month co-hosted by the American Jewish Committee’s San Francisco office and the Asian Week Foundation (read our story on page 4). The flyer included one key line: “Instruction offered for non-players.”
OK, two key lines: “Free food and wine will be provided.”
So, not knowing an iota about the game or how to play, I showed up at 5:45 p.m. after a long, deadline-day shift at the office, tired but eager and ready to learn. That’s when I discovered my first mistake. Don’t arrive late to your first mah jongg lesson. Already I was an hour behind the eight other people at the learner’s table, and Toby Salk, the nice Jewish instructor, seemed genuinely bummed; she wanted to get me up to speed, but she also had to continue onward for the others.
“There are billions of rules in Jewish mah jongg,” Toby said. “It’s endless really.”
Great. She said it takes 10 to 12 hours to learn how to play. Ugh. I had only two hours to do it. The other beginners — an even split of four Jews and four Asians before I showed up — at least knew a white dragon from a dot at that point. I didn’t. Words like “bam” and “Charleston” and “pung” danced around the table. I was in a fog.
I was handed an official National Mah Jongg League, Inc. card ($7 retail) with about 50 different mah jongg combinations on it. There were hundreds, maybe thousands, of numbers and letters on it, and three different colors. It looked like a World War II secret code. And just because one part of a sequence was numbered 1223 or 777-99 on the card, that doesn’t mean you had to have those exact numbers on your tiles (I think).
It seemed a bit like gin rummy, but about 1,000 times more difficult. Hey, I like to play games — I’m addicted to Scrabble — but I prefer the kind you can learn in five or 10 minutes.
During a break, I read the free literature. Some of it described the “American style” (Jewish style) of play, some the “Asian style.” From the latter: “Mah jongg excels [sic] other amusements in that it tends to develop one’s thinking power and intellingence [sic] and is quite different from other harmful gambling.”
I did learn a few details, such as red tiles are called “crak” and any time you see a bird on a tile it’s a “1 bam” (bam is short for “bamboo”). But my “intellingence” needed about 15 more hours of priming. I felt like I was on “crak.”
“My goal for tonight is to give people an idea,” said Toby. “A foundation.” I didn’t come close to that.
I did, however, come away with two things: one, a full belly, thanks to an overflowing buffet of Chinese food (followed by rugelach and black-and-white cookies for dessert!); and two, a newfound respect for my mom and my grandma and their suburban housewife friends who actually learned this game and could play it while eating fancy hors d’oeuvres, gabbing, and — in the case of some of the ladies — smoking and drinking.
They must have been playing some sort of simplified, easier version, I hypothesized. But, no, Toby assured me, there is no such thing.
Actually, there sort of is. And it’s “Jewish” too, invented in Israel. My relatives in Toronto used to play it constantly.
So now that my mah jongg days are over … Rummikub anyone?
Andy Altman-Ohr is a j. copy editor who lives in Oakland. Reach him at [email protected].