One of Groucho’s secrets to success: Faye Goldberg Miller

There’s an old joke about Jewish mothers.

It goes this way: “What’s the difference between a Rottweiler and a Jewish mother? Eventually the Rottweiler lets go.”

So here’s the thing, even though I’m an Episcopalian, I like to think I have a bit of a familial claim on a Jewish mother by the name of Faye Goldberg Miller.

Faye – I’ve never called her anything else – is part and parcel of the family that has given Columbia one of its most enduring restaurants. Groucho’s Deli is celebrating its 75th anniversary this year.

But the history of Groucho’s is not the subject of this column. Faye is. (And I can hear her saying right now, “Oh my God!”)

Faye married Ivan Miller on Dec. 29, 1957 at Emanuel Synagogue in Charleston, where she grew up. Ivan was the son of Harold “Groucho” Miller, who opened the Columbia delicatessen in 1941. (Groucho, I’m told, wanted to wear a red tuxedo to the wedding but the idea was nixed by family.)

“I met my darling in 1955, a girl of 17 years old,” Faye said. “Ivan and my brother, Charles Goldberg, were in the same fraternity, Phi Ep, at USC. I met Ivan at a frat beach party on Sullivans Island. We were both on dates with others. We finally went out eight months later.

“Ivan was 25 years old. He often told his friends he married a younger woman so she could entertain him in his old age. Ivan had a good sense of humor.”

Prior to his death in 2001, Faye had worked by Ivan’s side for 28 years at Groucho’s. She now partners in the business with her son, Bruce Miller.

“Mom has worked at many capacities for over 40 years,” Bruce said. “She was instrumental in the transition from the original ordering (at the counter) format to the wait-staff format. She supported the change and helped train the staff. She was critical in customer relations between gruff Ivan and customers and staff. She has always maintained, contributed to and supervised Groucho’s cleanliness and food standards. Still today, she will bring issues to the attention of the staff like, ‘The chicken salad needs more pepper.’ ”

But here’s the thing Bruce said about his mom that most resonates with me: “Her sweet and cordial personality is still revered by long-time customers.”

Truer words were never said about the lady I consider my “Jewish mother.”

For many years, in the ‘70s and ‘80s, I worked at The Columbia Record and The State newspaper as a reporter and columnist. Almost every day, I made my way to Groucho’s in Five Points for a quiet lunch by myself.

Faye and I struck up a relationship. Inevitably she would comment on what I had most recently written, and no matter how controversial, she was supportive.

And then, I was pregnant with my first child, a daughter. When I joined the long line to place my order, Faye swooped in, taking my order and insisting that I sit down and “get some rest.” I acquiesced, grateful, especially as my mid-section grew to the size of a beach ball. Faye did the same thing when my second child, a son, came along five years later.

So I sat. And I felt especially loved and cared for, even if only for an hour at lunchtime.

Through the years, Faye got to know my family. She took a keen interest in us all. Especially my first child. When I brought Skipper to the deli, Faye always had a cookie and a smile to offer my daughter.

Fond memories.

But the clearest one came after I had left Columbia in 1990, bound for some 20 years west of the Savannah River, in Georgia. My mother, who lived in Columbia, died after a brief illness in 2010.

The family gathered at her home. The morning my mother’s obituary was published in the newspaper, I was waking up in her sleigh bed. Surrounded by her things. Her beautiful desk, with the big calendar penciled in with so many things to do. Things that now would never get done. I could smell the scent of her cologne on the pillow beneath my head. Charlie. I wept for my sudden loss.

And then the phone rang. I picked it up.

“Oh my God, darling, I’m so sorry about your mother. I just loved your mother...”

Of course, it was Faye. My Jewish mother. Holding me up.

And when I returned to Columbia two years ago, and my byline reappeared in the newspaper, the phone again rang early one morning.

“Oh my God, darling, I’m so glad you’re back. How’re the children?”

Of course, it was Faye. My Jewish mother. Never letting go.

This story was originally published February 9, 2016 at 2:30 PM with the headline "One of Groucho’s secrets to success: Faye Goldberg Miller."