Meat Mountain

I had been dating my husband for a couple of weeks and it was time for his initiation ritual.  He had already read "The Chosen" by Chaim Potok,  had tasted chopped liver on rye, had met both my Jewish grandmothers.  Together we watched "Fiddler on the Roof" and although he didn't enjoy it (too sentimental) he had agreed that the music was catchy.  Although he refused to watch Barbara Striesand in "Yentl," The next logical destination was Carnegie Deli for dinner. 

On a Saturday night, before going to a movie, we appeared at the door. I felt a nervous sensation.  What if there wasn't a table, what if the wait was too long and we missed our movie, what if he hates the food, what IF?  To distract myself I followed the revolving trays of cheese cakes in the dessert case. They didn't look real and perishable.  Where they made out of plastic or foam?  
The waiter who handed us our menus did not look like a twenty something very attractive gal or guy who had come to NYC to audition for theater.  He looked like a seasoned waiter with a look of resignation.  A professional waiter. His hair was slicked back and his white buttoned down shirt was spotless.
We were seated at a narrow table next to the wall and a man and a woman, probably in their sixties, sat next to us.  When the waiter came with a menu, she waved it away.  "We'll have two orders of roast chicken, well-done, and two egg creams."
They had a playful dynamic as if they too were out on a date.  We struck up a conversation with them and learned they had moved back into the city from the suburbs when they both retired.  "We love the city now that we don't have to work!"
"I'm a retired teacher and my husband is a dentist. Our children live in Westchester."
I loved this image...a devoted couple, their children all grown up, out together because they still had a lot to talk about.  Very sweet.
When the waiter brought their plates of food, the mood of the evening darkened all at once.
"Take this back to the kitchen.  Tell them Mrs. Lipman is here. Mr. and Mrs. Lipman.  I want it burned! Burned!"  Although when she said "Burned!" it sounded like "Boy-nd!"
This soft spoken woman had morphed into a demonic harpie proclaiming "I said BURNED!!!"
Her husband's face mirrored hers.  They were mad and that chicken had better be back on grill or else things could get violent in the dining room.
Surely I could relate to their preference.  I too had been a fan of well done hamburgers and steaks since I was a kid. However, well done is not the same as burned.  Well done and burned were on different levels of flavor.  

The waiter did not look annoyed or perplexed.  He had the look of recognition so many waiters in NYC have when they have seen it all.  "Another pair of freaks" is what he was probably thinking.  He picked up their plates and returned to the kitchen.  They were tough customers but this was NYC so he had seen it all.  At least they didn't take their clothes off. 

Meanwhile, our pastrami sandwich had appeared and it looked like one pound of juicy meat.  It was difficult to imagine the two of us finishing it. The dill pickle on the side was crunchy and tart.  The combined salt content between the two was enough to encourage both of us to drink enough water for a family of ten.

As we chewed our sandwich (three dollar charge for sharing) we were both eavesdropping on the Lipmans.  It seemed they had spun an invisible shield of tension around them.  I found myself earnestly hoping that the cook was burning their chicken beyond recognition so that they would relax again.

The waiter reappeared with two charred pieces of meat.  They may have been chicken at one time but now they look like large burned coals.  I wasn't sure what would happen.

Mrs. Lipman's face relaxed. "This is just how we like it!"  and she morphed back into a petite lady in a pastel cardigan.  Her husband looked like a kindly dentist again too and they smiled at us.
"They know us in the kitchen," she explained.

Carnegie Deli
854 7th Ave.
New York, NY

Matzo Balls

    This is a story about soup.  Matzo ball soup.  My grandmother, Nan, made the best matzo ball soup.  I was an awkward sixth grader with a crush on the popular boy in class when my grandmother offered to teach me how to prepare my favorite soup.
    "I'll teach you how to make floaters, not sinkers," she assured me. The key to a successful matzo ball was its density, and Nan knew how to create a light, fluffy ball.  She wanted to pass on the secret to me.  I needed something to cheer me up, something like a secret recipe.  Maybe she thought it would make me feel special if I knew how to make it myself.  The social order in sixth grade was changing.  New alliances were forming and it worried me.  I'm talking about my friend, Lizzy Richman.
    Over the summer she must have grown five inches taller and curvy.  She towered over most of us.  I noticed her slouching her shoulders and wearing loose shirts.  Despite her efforts at modesty, she had some new admirers: all the boys in the class.
   Eliot Friedman noticed and chose her to be on his team when we played dodgeball at recess.  She was his third choice after Russell and Stephen, his best buddies, so we all knew Lizzy's standing had changed.
    Of course it could have been her height, which can be an advantage in dodgeball.  Lizzy was a giraffe compared to the boys.  Whether it has her cleavage or her height, Eliot was paying attention to Lizzy.
    Then came the day that I stood in front of the pack during dodgeball and it was Eliot's turn to throw.  The ball sailed directly into my face, as if it had radar.  The blood leaked out of my nose and stained my t shirt. Eliot ran over to me and looked concerned.  Not just concerned, but actually worried. About me.  Eliot Friedman was worried about me.
   An aide brought me to the nurse's office.  She phoned my mom and I lay on the bed and thought about Eliot with tissues stuffed up my nostrils.
    I went home early, my nose stopped bleeding, and I practiced what I would say to Eliot in the morning.
    It could have been otherwise, but the next day at school, I didn't exist for Eliot Friedman.  Lizzy, however, was third pick for his team.
    In the larger scope of life, kids get tossed around, embarrassed and, sometimes, humiliated.  Noses bleed.  Feelings get hurt.  Soup can help.  Knowing how to make soup by yourself can really do wonders.
  Although she meant well, my mother's soup was a salty, watery mess.  She tried but she didn't understand matzo ball density. Also, she didn't make homemade broth but relied on a can of College Inn chicken broth.
  Nan knew how to make soup.  She made the broth from scratch and her soups tasted like they had  simmered for hours.  They did in fact simmer for hours.  Nan's soups comforted upset stomachs, colds, fevers and even melancholy moods. Disappointment too.
   Nan taught me how to make matzo ball soup. For this I am grateful.  Did it solve all my problems at school?  No, but it balanced out some of the disappointment.
   Nan even explained the part that really counted in the endless debate about matzo balls: heavy or light?   Another way to phrase this is: floaters or sinkers?  The secret was so simple I wanted to laugh.  Nan looked like she was revealing a great mystery when she told me: "You have to boil the matzo balls in a large pot of water with the lid on. Thirty minutes, minimum. That is it. No more and no less.  Then you add them to the chicken broth."
   Who cares?  There is something that elevates a soup when a matzo ball is fluffy and light. It makes you feel better when you drink it.  A soup can just be a soup or it can have healing powers.


Matzo Ball Soup

5 Cups homemade chicken broth
4 carrots, thinly sliced.
2 stalks celery, thinly sliced.

matzo balls
2 T vegetable oil
2 eggs, beaten
1/2 C matzo meal
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon pepper
3 T chicken broth
chopped parsley for garnish.

In a bowl, whisk the oil and eggs.
Combine the matzo meal, salt and pepper with the egg mixture.
Add 3 tablespoons of chicken broth and mix.
Cover and refrigerate for 15 minutes.
Boil large pot of water.
Form the matzo dough into balls about 1 inch wide and drop them into the boiling water.
Simmer, covered, for 30 minutes.
In another pot, heat the chicken broth to medium heat and add the carrot and celery.
Serve with chicken broth and chopped parsley.

Bagel Run

   On many a Sunday morning my grandmother, Nan, knocked on our bedroom door and announced, "Get up! Time for a bagel run!"
A bagel run did not involve physical exertion but was a ritual of going to the bagel store in the morning after a sleepover at her house. It also involved buying smoked salmon, a newspaper and candy, but the bagels were most important.
   Nan looked like she had been awake for hours.  In fact, I have no memory of every seeing her or my grandfather in their bed.  Strange that their bedspread was always perfectly smooth.  There was no time to sleep, unless you were a kid and then you had better be in bed early.
   She hovered around us, making sure we dressed quickly so we could leave.  My grandfather, however, was calm and somewhat oblivious to the mounting tension.  He didn't want to rush us along and in this way he was a counter balance to Nan.
    After hustling us downstairs,  Nan tossed our jackets at us and pushed me out the door while Red Dog, her Irish Setter, jumped around like a pogo stick.  We could never leave the house fast enough for Nan.
"Hurry up Louie...they need to eat breakfast today, not tomorrow," she said.
  Our first stop was Tabatchnik's Appetizing, a small shop where you could buy smoked fish, chopped liver, herring, pickles and cream cheese.
"I'll have a pound of Nova." said Grandpa.  He meant cold smoked salmon.
"The usual," echoed Marty, who always sliced the fish for us.  I liked him because he gave me and my brother little pieces to taste.  Marty sliced the pink flesh with precision into slices that were as thin as tracing paper.  Mesmerized,  I could have stayed for hours.
   Next door was the newspaper shop owned by an elderly German couple, the Finkelsteins, who were eager to talk about politics with my grandfather. While they talked about Watergate and Nixon, my brother and I discussed the candy selection.  We were allowed one piece each and took our time. I either went with a package of red licorice, a box of Sugar Babies or a Charleston Chew.  You would think we had never seen candy before. 
   By the time we arrived at the bagel shop, the line was out the door.  It was time to focus and decide exactly what combination of bagels we wished to buy.  We knew we wanted a dozen, which came with one free bagel.
"How about three sesame, four onion, two salt, four cinnamon raisin?" suggested Grandpa.
 "I like pumpernickel," I said.
"O.K. Three sesame, three onion, two salt, three cinnamon raisin and two pumpernickel?"
"I want a plain bagel," said Lee.
My grandfather was patient and seemingly unaware of time, yet he knew the unspoken rules of the bagel store.  When it was our turn my grandfather ordered for us.   No one in Great Neck said "please" at the bagel store.  No one said "Thank you."  If you forgot this decorum people might think you were from the Midwest.  You said what you wanted and you moved to the side so the next person could order.  Period.
   My grandfather said, "I'll have two sesame, two plain,  two onion, two pumpernickel, four cinnamon raisin."
The bagel man, who always looked annoyed, said, "You get one free." as if he hated saying it.  He could have been saying, "Please, shoot me in the head and take all my money."
You couldn't just order thirteen bagels.  You had to wait for him to say, "You get one free" and then you requested the additional bagel.
"Salt." said my grandfather.  Then he paid and got change.  No one said "Thank you" or "Have a nice day."
   My brother and I both wanted to carry the warm bag of bagels home.  We had to switch off each week but no one remembered who carried it last so sometimes we each carried it half the time in the car.
  Our total time since we left Nan's house was less than forty five minutes.  Nonetheless, Nan was agitated when we walked in the front door.
 "What took so long?" she said.  I don't think it mattered what time we arrived because her perception was always right and we were late.  Sunday morning was the same as every other morning in Nan's world: a rush for some reason.  There was always a reason and it could change at any time.  After all, she made the rules and invented the problems.
"Wash your hands! People are sick in this town!" she said.
    With clean hands we sat down at the table, each of us placing our candy in front of our plate for afterwards.  Red Dog positioned himself at my feet.  Nan had poured little blue glasses of orange juice for us.
"Drink your juice! You need liquids!"she said.

Nan expertly sliced our bagels in half and piled them high with a schmear of cream cheese and sliced Nova. Then she cut them in half to make it easier to handle.  Yes, she was thinking about efficiency and bagel handling.  Why?  Because we had to eat, even if we weren't hungry.  It didn't matter. We had to eat every morsel on our plates.  If for some reason I said I wasn't hungry, I got the same response.
"Not hungry?  Oh you have such problems.  During the Depression no one had enough for a sandwich, much less a cup of soup!  Your grandfather ate a bag of peanuts for lunch.  Your great-grandmother had to rent out rooms to put food on the table.  And you can't eat a bagel!"
   If this didn't shame me, one look at my grandfather did the trick.  I believed that if I didn't eat that bagel I was somehow responsible for their past suffering.  There is a name for this kind of persuasion from a Jewish grandmother.
 This is why I had a special relationship with Red Dog.  If I couldn't finish my food, he was ready under the table to help me out.  He chewed quietly.  This only happened some of the time because, like most kids, I loved a bagel and salmon. 
  Nan was a tough lady who didn't hear the word"no."  She lived in fear of what would become of me because I ate my mother's cooking.  Nan used to pick up my shirt, without asking, to examine my rib cage.  Then she would shake her head and mutter:
"Why doesn't she eat?" as if talking to no one in particular.  My brother, Lee, kept her satisfied because his chubby belly was a proclamation of health.  I was thin until I went to college and thus a constant concern to her.
   Looking back, I don't ever want to force feed anyone, especially the ones I love.  I still love bagels but in Bozeman they taste like bread.  This just isn't the place for a bagel run.  When I visit NYC I love to eat bagels.  New Yorkers always say that the bagels taste the way they do because of the water and I know it is true.

Primanti Bros.

Something happens to me when I am in Pittsburgh; I walk around craving food that is fatty, salty and smothered in cheese.  As soon as our plane lands at the airport, I start planning our visit around particular restaurants. The sandwich that most epitomizes this desire is the pastrami and cheese sandwich at Primanti Brothers in the Strip District.

It wasn't always like this for me.  Before I experienced Primanti Brothers,  my ideal sandwich architecture was modeled on a NY Deli pastrami sandwich.  The pastrami sandwich at Carnegie Deli is essentially a tower of pastrami (five inches high or more) enclosed by two pieces of rye bread, one of which is spread with mustard.  The simplicity of the construction is very different from a Primanti Brothers sandwich which has a variety of layers, one of which is french fries.  For me, that layer of slightly greasy fries takes this sandwich to a higher level of delicious.

I've come to Pittsburgh with my family to attend my mother-in-law's wedding.  Yes, there will be an elegant dinner, cocktail party, etc. but the four of us have a understanding that we must get to Primanti's ASAP.  Yes, I am the type of mother who makes organic peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for my kids.  Their lunches are whole grain, organic, low fat and hi fiber.  Primanti Brothers allows us forget all that.

Primanti Bros. is open 24 hours but this wasn't always the case.  It began as a sandwich cart in the 1930's and sold sandwiches to truckers on the go.  It opened at 3AM.  What began as a Depression era sandwich shop has evolved into a restaurant that feels like a historic diner, except that everyone comes for the same thing: the sandwiches.

My family and I arrive at 1PM for lunch and the place is jammed.  Seventies era wall murals of Pittsburgh luminaries like Mr. Rogers and Franco Harris provide the decoration.  The tables and chairs are no frills and don't encourage a person to sit for too long.  This is not a lingering place.  People fill up and go.

The four of us sit on stools at the counter in order to watch the action at the grill.  The cook could be my grandmother and she is smiling and chatting with customers.  You get served very quickly and it is fun to watch the orders move from grill to customer.  Even though we don't have long to wait, the anticipation is part of the fun.

The menu on the wall has so many choices that it is difficult to decide what to order.  However, for me the pastrami and cheese sandwich is the queen of all the sandwiches.  Let me describe the layers, starting at the base:

1.The fresh Italian bread is just fluffy enough to absorb the juices of the sandwich but does not get soggy.
2. The pastrami is lean and peppery and doesn't overwhelm the sandwich.
3. The melted cheese balances the brine of the slaw and the sharpness of the meat.
4. The fries are hand cut and a little bit greasy, nice and salty.
5. The coleslaw is sour and a little bit sweet. It's crisp texture plays off of the chewy bread.

These five elements all come together and create a sandwich that is balanced, succulent and unique;  so tall it begs to be squished in order to take a bite.  We also order a fried egg and cheese and it is almost as special as the pastrami and cheese, but not quite.

The four of us quietly savor our lunch,  knowing that these sandwiches are unavailable in Bozeman, Montana, where we live.   I feel grateful that I do not live here in Pittsburgh because I would have health problems from eating food like this all the time.  At any hour of the day or night, this sandwich is so delicious that it leaves you with a craving long after you leave Pittsburgh.

Primanti Brothers
46 18th Street
Pittsburgh, PA 15222

Raccoons

Raccoons are not cute.

When I was twelve, I used to lay in my bed at night and listen to the neighborhood raccoons dig through our trash and tip over the cans.  The clanging woke me up every time.  Sometimes I saw their sinister eyes glinting in the darkness and it didn't help when one of the posse bit off my cat's ear.  She looked permanently lopsided and she was never allowed outside at night again.

Fast forward thirty- two years.  I am living in Bozeman, Montana and I have taken a fancy to chickens.  I'm allergic to cats and Lollipop is just a memory with her orange fur and half-eaten ear.  The baby chicks for sale at Murdoch's have tempted me and Peter and Griffin start drawing up plans for a coop of our own.

We consult magazines and websites like Backyard Chicken, and for Griffin, Design Within Reach, while considering a plan. When Peter and Griffin design our chicken coop, they take the threat of predators into consideration.  It seems safe but to find out if a coop is safe it has to be tested.

Spring and summer are uneventful.  The hens waddle around happily going about their business.  Then on a morning in September the hens look spooked and I find a decapitated chicken in the corner of the run, against the fence.  It was Bronco, my friendliest chicken with her crooked feet.  A rancher had thrown her in for free after we bought five chickens from him.  Bronco layed lots of eggs and even some double yolks.  Bronco was a great hen.

I didn't see the problem and the next night I lost two more hens.  Then I saw that the back lock of the coop had been ripped off and was useless.  I wish I had known but now I was down to two hens and I didn't have the heart to keep them.  A neighbor of mine with a safer coop adopted them and we wrapped Pearl and Flo in old towels and drove them to their new home.

Many people who knew better told me not to name my hens.  "They are just farm animals," said the woman who sold me chicken feed. "You can't get attached to them," she added.

But I did grow attached to them.  They not only had names but distinct personalities and they were a source of entertainment.  Molly, one of the Buff Orpingtons, used to follow me around and try to come into the house at every opportunity.  If we left a window open she would sneak in and roost on the window sill,  She once marched in and roosted on the toilet.

It has been five months since I had chickens and frankly, I miss them.   I think I should give the chicken experiment another try.

Katz's Delicatessen

As I passed through the door the aroma of kosher deli meats tickled my nose--a sweet, peppery, smokey scent--and I felt an urgency to grab my punch card and hurry to the counter.  However primal, this feeling made me nervous as I stood at the counter behind which my favorite childhood food sizzled on a grill: a kosher hot dog.

We were visiting NYC, had just devoured a huge lunch at a Moroccan cafe but it didn't matter.  I was full but it didn't register.
"One hot dog with sauerkraut and mustard please."

In the brightly lit room, the walls plastered with 8x10 photos of celebrities, we managed to find an empty table.  I offered to let Griffin and Rachael sample the treat first but they declined.  Then I took a bite, savoring the crispy skin and the chewy meat inside.  What exactly the meat consisted of I didn't know except that it came from various parts of a cow.  It tasted exactly the way I remembered and I was transported back in time.

In middle school, Saturday mornings meant going to "town" where we walked up and down Middle Neck Road in groups of four or five girls with our allowance money in our pockets.  This being Great Neck, our allowances were generous enough to cover both lunch and a visit to the candy store.  Lunch usually meant Kensington Deli.

Dimly illuminated and dingy, the narrow room had booths on one side and a lunch counter on the other.  It smelled like sweaty kids and hot pastrami.  A lanky man with a permanent toothpick in his mouth tended to us.  He had unlimited patience and I wondered if any of us could make him crack.   "What do you want?" he said.

There were many choices: brisket, tongue, roast beef, turkey, chopped liver, tuna salad.  Perhaps the least interesting item was kosher franks. Every time we went through the same dialogue of indecision: "What are you having?  I don't know..what do you want?"
"I don't know."
"I don't know either. What are you ordering?"
After this routine, I always ended up with the same lunch: two hot dogs with sauerkraut and mustard and a Dr. Brown's Cream Soda.  Sometimes one of us splurged on a knish and cut it into fourths.  The pleasure from this meal was more than eating salty franks and drinking a sugary soda.  It was being a thirteen year old kid and giggling with girl friends who had mouths full of shiny braces, glittery lip gloss and pimply skin.  It was pom-pom socks and Tretorn sneakers.  It was serious questions: "Who is cuter; Jimmy Connors or Bjorn Borg?"
"Who has B.O.?"
"Who likes Corey Miller?"(class president)
"Who shaves their legs?"
"Have you heard that they found rat eggs in Bubble Yum?  It is so true!  I swear!"

Maybe this is why Griffin and Rachael let me taste the Katz's hot dog first, they could see me morphing into my thirteen year old self which either fascinated or frightened them. When Rachael finally took a bite, she looked disappointed. "It just tastes like a regular hot dog," she said.
Maybe she was right, but for me it was so much more.

Katz's Delicatessen
205 E. Houston St.
New York, New York

Kensington Kosher Deli
27 Middle Neck Road
Great Neck, NY

Hopper Hunting

When I was a kid I snacked on bagels.  Bagels covered with orange squares of American cheese melted in a toaster oven. Bagels with Pizza Quick sauce and a slice of rubbery mozzarella. (A bagel with a smear of cream cheese was breakfast)  Hummus and triangles of pita. I ate meat too.  Mini kosher hotdogs dipped in mustard.  I never considered insects.  I thought of insects as annoying (mosquitos) or obnoxious (green flies).
My childhood fell during the era of the mosquito zapper.  Warm weather brought the zappers out of storage and into suburban yards where they hung on the back porch.  Who could forget the zapping sound and the scent of burning insects.  No, I would not have considered eating insects.
Recently, my friend, Cooper, caused me to reconsider my preconceptions when he introduced me to one of his favorite snack foods: grasshoppers.
Cooper invited us over for Grasshopper hunting.  At age seven, he is an experienced insect hunter and excellent company.  When we came to his house, he explained that all you need is a bow and arrow (with a rubber tip) and a field with tall grasses.  He taught us to stalk the hoppers, shoot them and pull their heads off.

I couldn't help but observe that patience helps because it takes time to find the hoppers.  It took an hour and a half to catch a dozen.  

This snack food is ideally for a kid who owns a bow and possesses an adventurous palette, just like Cooper.  How do they taste?  According to my daughter, they taste like turkey.  To me they taste like shrimp flavored popcorn.

Fried Grasshoppers

2 dozen grasshoppers, heads removed
2 T canola oil
salt and pepper
juice from half a lime
ketchup for dipping

Heat the oil in a frying pan so that it is sizzling. Add the hoppers and fry them to that they are crispy, but not burned.

Remove the hoppers and blot the oil on a paper towel.

Put them in a bowl and sprinkle with salt and pepper to taste. Spritz lime juice on top. If you wish you can dip them in ketchup. Enjoy!