I thought celery soda was just an East Coast thing. Then, I discovered Oakland’s version

I was waiting in line at Nick’s Pizza when a shiny light green can in the corner of the fridge caught my eye. It was a soda I hadn’t thought existed on this coast until that moment: Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray soda. A friend who was with me who was born and raised in the East Bay had never heard of the drink, so I excitedly bought four to make all of my friends try it. 

If you’re not familiar, this is a celery-flavored soda — yes, that stock-y, water-y, crunch-y vegetable in soda form — usually found in the Jewish delis of New York, sipped by American Jews to wash down their brisket-stuffed sandwiches and lox-filled bagels since 1869.

After that first sighting of Cel-Ray in the wild on this coast, I discovered it in more places in the East Bay: Hella Bagels, Saul’s. Eventually, I got used to spotting it in the Bay, and made sure to make all my dubious friends try the soda every chance I got. 

But a couple of weeks ago, I was at Poppy Bagels when I saw something even more surprising to me, a celery soda that wasn’t made by the classic and mythical Dr. Brown’s, but by Mothership Ferments, an Oakland-based company owned by Michelle Fried and Vicky Tu that makes kombucha, vinegar, and hot sauces. This was their celery soda kombucha, inspired by Cel-Ray soda. Their Instagram post said it was created after Fried, a New York native, couldn’t find any Cel-Ray nearby. As a Dr. Brown’s enthusiast, I was hesitant to try this new version when I knew I could find Dr. Brown’s right around the corner, but still, I was intrigued to learn more.

My dad first introduced me to Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray when I was 8 years old. It was 2004, and he brought me to Gershon’s Deli in Schenectady, New York. This was the very deli that had catered his bar mitzvah in 1977, and my father and grandparents still frequent it today.

My dad ordered a Cel-Ray for the family to split, and I liked it immediately — partly because I loved any sugary drink I was granted permission to drink at the time, and partly because of my dad’s enthusiasm for it.

My grandfather, now 93 years old, still remembers the first time that he drank Cel-Ray, or as he calls it, “Dr. Brown’s celery tonic” (which was the soda’s original name before the Food and Drug Administration objected to the use of the word “tonic” in the 1930s). 

The author’s grandfather, Carlson Taub, (left) in a portrait taken around the time he tried his first celery soda at age 10 and (right) in a recent photo. Credit: Madeline Taub

My great-grandfather owned a dry cleaning business and would go down to New York City once a year to get supplies. He’d bring my grandfather and they’d always stop to get some sweet treats. One such visit was in 1942 when he was 10 years old.

“We had chocolate malts, and that was the first time that I adventured into Dr. Brown’s Celery Tonic and it was delicious,” my grandfather recalled with a chuckle.

With all this in mind, I sat down with a bottle of Mothership Ferment’s Celery Soda Kombucha, purchased from Poppy Bagels. Hesitantly, I unscrewed the cap and took a swig. Immediately, the flavor of celery hit my tongue — the kombucha is slightly sweet but still with the classic sour taste. Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray only has celery seed extract, leaving only the slightest celery aftertaste, but Motherships’ version is made with celery from Tierra Vegetables (where Tu also works) and toasted celery seed from Oaktown Spice Shop, giving it a blast of true celery flavor. The kombucha’s base is black tea, they also add a little bit of organic sugar to keep with the “soda” theme.

“Whenever people see celery soda and are able to relate to it because they’re either Jewish or from the East Coast, that’s a special thing,” Fried said. 

Mothership Ferments makes a variety of kombuchas and other products in addition to its celery soda. Credit: Mothership Ferments

Dr. Brown’s has certainly left its mark on me: seeing it at Nick’s that day, 3,000 miles from its place of origin, reignited my excitement for this bottle of Jewish/East Coast nostalgia. Clearly, I’m not the only East Coast-Dr. Brown’s drinking person in Oakland to miss it either. 

People like Poppy Bagels owner, Reesa Kashuk, and Fried, as well as the various shops around the East Bay that carry Dr. Brown’s itself, are proof that while Dr. Brown’s might be an overly sweet, ginger ale-esque bubbly soda, it’s a taste of home for me and fellow Jewish East Coasters. But homes shift, and maybe, just maybe, Dr. Brown’s can be the East Coast classic, and having a West Coast version that is handmade with locally sourced produce isn’t such a bad thing after all.