Friday Night Rituals

Friday Night Rituals

For most Jewish families in Great Neck, when the sun set on Friday evenings, a candle was lit and Sabbath prayers were spoken. For others, the kids piled into the back of the car and everyone drove to the local Chinese restaurant.

I remember going to the same restaurant every Friday: Szechwan Garden, and being welcomed at the door by Janie, the owner: I wanted to hug her. The room had red and gold paint,hanging paper lanterns, and a pudgy Buddha with a huge grin. After a week of burned and undercooked dinners, coming here was what I anticipated.

We were always seated at the same round table and two bowls of deep fried noodles and duck sauce sat waiting for us. I looked at my family and no one was sulking or frowning. We stopped bickering when we came to this restaurant. It felt like a special occasion.

The waiter gave everyone a menu but it didn’t matter because we always ordered the same dishes: Pu-Pu Platter, Mu Shu Pork, Whole Crispy Fish, Beef with Broccoli, and Szechwan String beans.

First the waiter took our drink order. Mom and Dad ordered Chinese beer. At ten I felt sophisticated ordering a Shirley Temple. It came with a plastic skewer of pineapple pieces and maraschino cherries. I took little sips to make it last. When it was all gone I drank green tea from a tiny teacup.

For us kids, there was nothing as exotic as Pu-Pu Platter. It was a platter of appetizers with a flaming hibachi grill in the middle. The flame added an element of danger. We could burn ourselves or, even worse, set the red and gold room on fire.
On a wooden platter were spare ribs, pork dumplings, egg rolls, crab Rangoon and crispy shrimp toasts. I saved the best for last and the best was shrimp toast.

A shrimp toast was a piece of white bread smeared with minced shrimp and fried. A crispy triangle, it looked dainty, much like a little sandwich at a tea party, but it tasted chewy and delicious. Like everything else, I dipped it in duck sauce.

My brothers and I grilled our already precooked food. My mother and I watched Julia Child religiously and I thought of her as I held the crab Rangoon in the flame of the grill. I was ten years old and already grilling my own food at a Chinese restaurant.

When the waiter carried over a tray with our dinner, my mother exclaimed: ”Look at all this food! It’s too much for us,” while shaking her head.
My parents were always impressed by the size of the portions. For them it was more than a tasty meal, it was a great deal.

For my youngest brother Laurance, the meal was all about Mu Shu Pork. One of his first words was “pork.” (No, we were not Kosher) He liked to spread the hoisin sauce on the pancake and roll it up with the filling. If we had let him, he would have licked the plate clean.

At the end of the meal, when all the platters of food were bare, the waiter brought the bill and a bowl of fortune cookies. I cracked open my cookie to get the fortune before I took even one bite. We went around the table and everyone read their fortunes out loud. Nothing could ruin our mood of contentment. On one night mine read:


"Everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it." Confucius



Shrimp Toast


½ lb. cooked shrimp, peeled and chopped
1/3 C. water chestnuts, minced
1 T grated fresh ginger
2 green onions, minced
4t cornstarch
1t salt
2 T oyster sauce
1 egg, beaten
6 slices of day old bread, crusts removed
2 C canola oil

In a bowl, mix the shrimp with ginger, salt, oyster sauce and egg.

Cut each slice of bread into two triangles. Arrange on a baking sheet. Spread shrimp mixture over each triangle. Refrigerate for 15 minutes.

In a frying pan heat oil to 365 F, drop bread into oil, shrimp side down. Fry until golden brown. Flip over for a few seconds. Remove from oil, drain on paper towels.

Serve with a bowl of duck sauce.

Birthday Chicken

My Aunt Terry was turning forty and my mother and grandmother planned a party in her honor, whether she wanted one or not. Nan came over with the intention of discussing the menu two days before the festivities.

My grandmother knew how to cook. My mother knew how to overcook and undercook.

When Nan arrived, my mother was working in our driveway.
“I’m baking lasagna,” said Mom, without looking up from a crooked side table she was painting white. He new habit was spending Saturday and Sunday mornings cruising garage sales for “gently used” (beat up) furniture. After painting her new treasures white they were stored in our garage for future use.
“Well, I’m cooking leg of lamb,” said Nan. “Terry loves lamb.” She added. We all knew this was true as did my mother but she wasn’t the type to concede anything. Not ever.
They argued back and forth for a while until Nan suggested cornflake chicken. Mom said “Oh fine,” as if backing down and lowering her sword.

While not a personal favorite of mine I was happy they agreed on anything. There was nothing wrong with cornflake chicken. I did have texture. I just couldn’t unite poultry with a breakfast cereal and feel satisfied.

The day of the party arrived. That morning Mom went shopping for twenty pounds of chicken pieces. She lugged the bags onto the kitchen counter and she and Nan went to work. I was given the job of crushing a box of cornflakes with Mom’s rolling pin until the flakes were as small as breadcrumbs.
The next step was mixing yogurt and mayo. Nan dipped the chicken pieces in the mixture and then rolled them in the cornflakes. She spread them out on a baking sheet and put them in the fridge for the time being.

With the remainder of the mayo, Mom made her famous seafood salad. This was basically boiled shrimp and snow peas in mayonnaise.

Condiments can reveal quite a bit about a person. Our fridge displayed a preference for mustard. There may have been seven types of mustard at any one time and maybe a bottle of Heinz ketchup. Rarely was mayo present, unless company was joining us for dinner.

When the guests arrived they drank wine and tried to find a place to stand around the rented tables and folding chairs we had packed into our living room. At my mom’s request I passed platters of egg rolls. The guests dipped their egg rolls in a dish of neon orange duck sauce. They mingled and drank more wine without interruption.

The real excitement was in the kitchen. The agitation between my mother and grandmother kept increasing. It started as little snippy comments and grew to outright anger. Inside our double oven, chicken pieces sizzled.
Nan and Mom rushed around the kitchen island flinging plates. Mom opened one oven, pulled out a hot pan and announced that the chicken was cooked.

Nan disagreed “Those chickens have to cook for one hour and it has only been forty minutes!” This attention to detail was the missing part of my mother’s cooking. She was known for burning or undercooking every meal. Time was not her friend.

Nan didn’t worry about whether time was her buddy; she always used a timer. She knew that those chicken pieces were raw and she had logic on her side.

Mom had a glint in her eye that she seemed to reserve only for my grandmother. “I say they are done! If you had your way you would cook them to death!”
As Mom turned off the oven, Nan stormed out of the kitchen door. I heard her car ignition turn on and she drove off.

Mom then turned to me as if I were her accomplice and commanded: “Let’s get them onto plates.”
Her eyes, already large, looked like huge frying pans and I was afraid to say anything. The chicken parts sat on the counter awaiting their fate. I was young enough that I couldn’t challenge my mother or point out that maybe we should check more carefully.

My grandmother had taught me how to check for doneness so I twisted a leg to see if the juices ran clear. These juices were bloody. I put a fork into a thigh and saw the unmistakable pink of raw chicken.

Nonetheless, My Mom and I plated the chicken parts on my mother’s Tiffany china and proceeded to serve it to our guests.

As far as I know, no one died or was hospitalized after this meal. Since these were my aunt’s friends, they were both polite and prudent. I imagine they drank lots of wine and didn’t touch the food on their plates.

Cornflake Chicken

8 chicken pieces (thighs and legs)
4 cups cornflakes
½ cup mayonnaise
½ cup plain yogurt
1 ½ teaspoon paprika
salt
pepper

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Rinse the chicken in cold water, pat dry and season with salt and pepper.

Crush the cornflakes by placing them in a plastic bag, and running over the flakes with a rolling pin. Pour the crushed flakes onto a plate.

In a bowl mix the mayo with the yogurt and paprika.

Dip each chicken piece in the mayo mixture and then in the flakes.

Arrange the pieces on a baking sheet and place in a hot oven. Cook for one hour.

The juices should run clear when the meat is pierced with a knife.