I

t was that time of the year again: “Dinner Season.”

’Tis the season to be eating, traveling, and wondering how long you have to stay at a dinner without appearing as if you can’t wait to leave.

All of these various dinners are vital, as they sustain the yeshivos and organizations that allow all of us to educate our children and support our people. One of the most essential dinners on a national and perhaps even international level is the Agudath Israel of America dinner, held this year on Tuesday May 29.

The Agudah is a vital organization that advocates on behalf of Jews in so many areas of Jewish life, in America and beyond. They are indeed worthy of my attendance.

My trips to the Big Apple are as rare as my trips to the fruit market to buy a big apple. In both instances, I never feel the want to schlep. Yet, even this Passaic-based rabbi makes exceptions. Off I went on a Tuesday afternoon to the megalopolis of the United States: Manhattan.

When I arrived, with the help of my astute and prudent partner (namely my wife), I was able to find parking only two blocks away from the Hilton Hotel, where the dinner was being held.

This incredible feat of frugality meticulously machinated by my marriage mate saved me over $30.

The Hilton charged $50 for parking for the evening event; the lot arranged by my wife cost me a measly $16!

I was already smiling at my money-saving parking phenomenon when along came a sudden gust of wind — exacerbated by the whoosh of a double-decker tour bus — that blew my hat right off my head.

I watched in horror and disbelief as my Ferster Quality Brandolino (sorry, I don’t wear a Borsalino; please don’t think less of me) flew off my head and into the chaos of buses, cars, taxis, and trucks on 57th Street.

I watched incredulously as my fedora attached itself to the underbelly of a taxi, which expeditiously and in high gear sped off toward Fifth Avenue, my hat disappearing in a haze of fumes and smog.

As I digested the gravity of the situation, I was unsure of what my next move should be.

How could I attend an Agudath Israel dinner hatless yet frocked?

Adding additional trauma to my already problematic predicament, I was to be seated on the dais. How could I sit on an elevated dais of an Agudath Israel dinner, not “hat in hand,” but rather, entirely hatless?

I decided to be a man — and an honest one, to boot.

I arrived at the dinner and bashfully explained my lack of full attire to Rabbi Chaim Dovid Zwiebel, who graciously and literally took the hat off his own head and placed it on mine.

But his humbled hat was no match for my full head, and we both realized that hatless was preferable to an incongruous headpiece.

And so it was that I attended the Agudah dinner, awkwardly sitting hatless among the true Torah leaders of America.

As I looked down at the men sitting at the tables, I saw men with hats and without hats. I saw black yarmulkes and suede yarmulkes and even a knitted yarmulke or two.

There were even men without any yarmulke at all.

An epiphany took hold of me as I sat hatless, peering down from the dais: “Never judge a book by its cover, and never judge a man by his hat or lack thereof. After all, you really never know where he’s coming from!”  (Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 713)