Insult comic Jeff Ross’ soft side revealed in ‘Take a Banana for the Ride’

Who knew the Roastmaster General was such a softy?

But in fact, a juicy sentimental blob is what the decidedly disarming “Take a Banana for the Ride” reveals the comedian Jeff Ross to be. Reaching a certain age, and living through the inevitable losses that result, can do that to you. So can a cancer scare.

Ross made bank going after (among many others) Roseanne Barr, William Shatner, Justin Bieber, even Donald Trump (that one is worth rewatching) on his vicious Comedy Central roasts, and Tom Brady’s seemingly intense reaction to one of Ross’ jokes on a 2024 Netflix roast went viral.

Unsurprising then, that most of the audience at the Nederlander Theatre clearly was expecting the two-legged version of “Triumph the Insult Comic Dog” to make an appearance and offer some bespoke insults for those in the premium seats. Go after me, some of them palpably begged.

They got some of what they came for when Ross walked through the house (followed by a camera, naturally) near the conclusion of his 90-minute solo show, hurling improvised barbs as he walked. But that felt mostly like an obligation to fulfill expectations. Ross’ heart seemed far more in telling the many men in his audience, a gender balance very unusual on today’s Broadway, that they should be sure to get a colonoscopy.

That sentiment was part of a deeply personal show that actually was far closer to Billy Crystal’s “700 Sundays” than Jackie Mason’s “Politically Incorrect,” although it did have something in common with the title of that late comic’s “The World According to Me.” And since Ross has a fiddler and a pianist on stage, he also throws in a bit of Mel Brooks with a lively comic ditty called “Don’t f— With the Jews.” Droll.

But the core of this show is Ross paying tribute to his extended family, a group of eccentric Jewish caterers in New Jersey who worked their butts off for decades to collectively semiraise him while offering up the baked meats for four thousand weddings and no shortage of Jewish funerals, either.

Ross clearly has come to realize that his improv chops, which are formidable, were leavened while carving prime rib at Newark’s Clinton Manor Catering, where the waitresses were Scottish and Irish, a Russian dude made the fruit salads, a Hungarian guy the Jell-O molds and ball-busting Haitian guys ran the kitchen and stomped all over the boss’ son. The catering hall also was where his dad nightly put on the tuxedo and the charm and made every New Jersey bride feel like they were at the wedding of the century, even if he had drug-related issues of his own.

That father died when Ross was just 19. Ross’ mother was already long dead and, at that point, his grandfather took over, even living with him after Ross finished college. All of the above, plus Ross’ living sister, are gently roasted in the show, but also palpably loved,. Even Ross’ pooch makes an appearance, howling for supper.

Ross, who is 59, clearly has come to see that he did not achieve anything alone. And, I’ll wager, he has decided that he does not want his creative legacy entirely to be made up of insulting others, lucrative as that surely has been.

That’s fair enough, even if some of his younger Comedy Central fans will, I suspect, think that their hero has gone all mushy: Who trots out their dog every night on Broadway?

That’s not a fair assessment of the show, though, which is directed by Stephen Kessler and actually is far more complex and better written than I think many will anticipate. Ross gets away with such a surfeit of sentiment precisely because of his naturally caustic inclinations; the jokes are sharp enough and the laughs are hard and plentiful enough that all of the schmaltz feels not just charming but well-earned.

Very few comics are self-aware enough to paint accurate and honest pictures of themselves. Ross shows he can. Who knew?

In the end, you’re left feeling that Ross had developed some deep internal need to humanize himself, and if charting how his success did not come without struggle and sorrow was one of his aims, he pulls that off.

Shows for regular middle-class folks, and this is one of those, are vital to the future of Broadway and in a business where producers know women buy most of the tickets and program accordingly, it’s not a bad thing to also have an attraction that targets regular dudes.

“It’s been a dream of mine to perform 90 feet from Port Authority,” Ross says when he first comes out on the Nederlander’s stage. That’s a very skillful and very funny joke, but it’s a joke. The more honest line comes toward the end when Ross says, in essence and unsure whether to look up or down, “I’m on Broadway, Mom and Dad, so I must have done something right.”

That they’re not around to see it, just as they were not around for any of Ross’ career-making roasts, is clearly how his show came to be.

Good for its creator. You can roast on now, Mr. Ross.