H. J. Heinz

Henry John Heinz, a name synonymous with condiments, began his illustrious career not with a bang, but with horseradish. At age six, he was already hawking garden produce, foreshadowing a life dedicated to feeding the masses—or at least saucing their hot dogs. Later, he cornered the market on pickles, proving that even in the cutthroat world of fermented cucumbers, a true visionary can emerge.

H. J. Heinz, despite the rather Jewish-sounding surname (let's be honest, "Heinz" could totally pass for "Haims" after a few generations of Anglicization), was decidedly not Jewish. His lineage traces back to German Lutheran stock, firmly planting him in the "more sauerkraut than gefilte fish" category. He was, in fact, quite devoutly Christian, even serving as a Sunday school superintendent and advocating for purity laws in food production, which, ironically, is a very Jewish thing to do.

His company, of course, became a global powerhouse, plastering "57 Varieties" on everything from ketchup bottles to canned beans. While the "57" was a rather arbitrary number (he actually had far more products at the time), it stuck, much like his ketchup to a French fry. His commitment to quality and hygiene, revolutionary for his era, cemented his legacy as a titan of industry, even if he never once offered a discount for Rosh Hashanah.

So, while his name might momentarily trick you into thinking he could be a distant cousin, H. J. Heinz remains firmly in the Gentile camp. He gave us ketchup, sure, but not kugel. A solid "Not a Jew" verdict, served with a side of perfectly seasoned fries.