Dear Matzav Inbox,

We all heard the story—maybe with slight variations, maybe with different details—but the core of it was the same. A babysitter in New Jersey ordered dinner through Uber Eats. The food arrived. Three frum children sat down and ate it. Only afterward did it become clear that what had been ordered was treif—from the wrong Smash House, not the kosher one.

It’s a shocking story. It’s the kind of story that spreads quickly, the kind people shake their heads over and say, “Gevalt, how could that happen?”

But I’ll tell you what’s even more shocking: this wasn’t a one-off. It wasn’t some bizarre, isolated mistake. It’s a symptom of something much deeper…and much more disturbing.

Since the new kosher establishment opened in Toms River, I’ve made it my business to ask people a simple question. Not a trick question. Not a hard one. Just this: “Whose hashgocha is it under?”

I’ve asked about forty people. People I meet, people I know, people who consider themselves careful, conscientious, Yidden. They were all hocking about the new fast food place, etc. And you know what I found?

Not one person knew. Not one person could name the hashgocha. [The place actually has a good hashgocha. That’s not the point.] The issue is that nobody even thought to know.  [Four people named a certain local kashrus agency. They were wrong.] Nobody cared enough to ask. Nobody felt it was basic information they should have before putting food into their mouths.

How did we get here?

Since when did we become so apathetic, so indifferent, so downright ignorant when it comes to kashrus? Since when is it acceptable to eat “wherever,” as long as it looks good, as long as it’s convenient, as long as it’s on an app?

We used to know. We used to ask. We used to care. A Yid didn’t walk into a place—or click a button—without knowing exactly what he was eating and under whose supervision it was prepared.

Now? “It’s probably fine.” “I think it’s kosher.” “Someone told me it’s okay.” “Everyone is eating there.” “It’s in or near Lakewood, so it must be okay.”

This isn’t about one babysitter. This isn’t about one mistaken order.

This is about us.

If we don’t even know whose hashgocha we’re relying on, then what exactly are we relying on? A logo? A rumor? A guess?

We can do better. We must do better. Because if we don’t wake up to this now, the next story won’t surprise us at all—and that’s the most frightening part of all.

Sincerely,
M. R.

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