Arthur Kirsch // Kirsch Mushroom Co.

ur business started in Poland in 1877. My grandfather, Aron Moshe—after whom I’m named—had a farm. While he was working there, he had the idea to bring mushrooms to New York. In those days, they would string up mushrooms to dry them in the sun. They were flavorful and didn’t go bad, so he started traveling back and forth to peddle them in the States. He probably picked some of the mushrooms in the woods, but he also had others gathering them for him.
“Two of Aron Moshe’s sons, my uncle and my father, came to America to stay. Tragically, the other brothers were murdered in the Holocaust. We never found out exactly what happened to my grandfather; my father received a letter, unsigned, telling him to sit shivah. I don’t know exactly how some family members came here while others stayed there. My parents didn’t talk about it.
“My uncle kept up the mushroom business in Manhattan, and when he passed away, my father took over and opened a store on Rivington Street on the East Side. He stored the goods in New Jersey and had the retail store in Manhattan, where he only sold mushrooms.
“My parents were typical old-time Jewish parents. My mother’s parents also came to America before the war. But no one talked about the war back then—it was just something people kept quiet about.
“I went to Torah Vodaas for elementary school. There was a man who worked there who was a very talented pianist. The Nazis had forced him to play while they killed his parents, and he went a little off the rails after that. To their credit, Torah Vodaas hired him to work as a gopher, delivering letters and messages. But sometimes he’d start screaming in the halls, and the principal would call him into the office to calm him down. That was my first connection to the Holocaust. This was the 1950s; it was a different world back then.
“My father was a hardworking man. He went to work every day, and when he came home, he’d always bring me a little toy or tchotchke. My mother was a typical Jewish housewife. Her parents lived downstairs, so Yiddish was my first language. In fact, for the first five or six years of my life, that’s all I spoke. My family has deep chasidic roots. We’re Ropshitzer einiklach on both sides; my parents are second cousins. I’m not chasidish, but I’m still very connected to that world.
“I was born in Williamsburg and grew up in Flatbush, in the Midwood neighborhood. I had an older brother, and neither of us were involved in the business at all. My brother became a teacher, and I was supposed to go into medicine or law, like the typical Jewish son; I even started at NYU with a pre-med focus. Then my father passed away in 1965, when I was 17. My mother had already passed the year before. I had to change plans. I stepped in and took over the business because I had to. My brother already had his career, and I was alone and needed to support myself.
“I was 17, living alone in our house on East 16th Street in Midwood and running my father’s dried mushroom business. It was a tough deal for me because I didn’t know anything about business or mushrooms. I couldn’t have done it without my cousin, who worked for the company and had learned everything from my father. He mentored me, showed me how everything worked and taught me how to be a maven.
“Back then, there was just a bookkeeper, a secretary, my cousin and me. Almost everyone thought I wouldn’t be able to make it because of my age. When a young kid takes over, 90 percent of the time he rides off into the sunset with a Porsche and ruins the business. But this was going to be my income. That’s why I never thought about selling the business. I had nothing else.
“A lot of business was done on the phone, and when people came into the store, they only saw me and my cousin. They didn’t know who the boss was, so that worked out. I transferred to Brooklyn College’s School of General Studies at night and worked full-time during the day. I graduated with honors in 1971 and received a degree in accounting, but I didn’t go to the graduation or pick up my diploma. My parents were gone, so there was no one to share it with.
“My wife and I got married in 1974, when I was 26 and she was 21. For the first four years, we lived in my house in Brooklyn, and then we moved closer to her parents in Hillcrest. I was a chazzan there at the Young Israel. Eventually, we moved to Bayside and then to Great Neck, which is where we primarily raised our kids.
“I ran the place on Rivington, and then I moved our warehouse to the Bronx in 1986, which is where I’ve been ever since.
“Back when I got into the business, I had to type up orders and invoices on a manual typewriter and mail them. I remember writing Western Union telegrams to government offices, putting them in manila envelopes, and giving them to an RCA Global Communications runner. I’d tip the guy and hope he didn’t stop anywhere before delivering it! I didn’t even know if it had been received until I either got a response or a bill from RCA confirming that it was sent. It was mind-blowing when the fax machine came along and I knew that the other party and I could look at the same page at the same time. Today, there are many easier ways to get business done.
“After almost 150 years, we’re still a mom-and-pop business. My son helps me with the business now, and my other son is an attorney and helps me with real estate. Every day is different. I’m 77 years old, and I still look forward to going in to work every day.”