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!

Gristedes or Waldbaum's?

In my family, it was understood that the end result of the meal depended on where you bought the ingredients and whether you got a good deal.  At meal times, the conversation usually began with the origin of the protein that was being served. It went something like this:

Tasting the brisket she has prepared for dinner, my mother turns to my grandmother and says, "Mom, this brisket tastes like old shoe leather. It is inedible. Where the hell did you buy it?"
Nan appears unperturbed.  She calmly answers. "You asked me to get it at the new Gristedes in Little Neck. It was on sale."  From time to time, perhaps out of boredom, Nan occasionally ventured to grocery stores out of her way.

My mother does not give up.  She needs to assign blame to someone. "It is not fresh! They were trying to get rid of it so they marked it down." She grimaces, pushes her plate away.

"Joyce, how long did you cook it?"asks Nan, raising an eyebrow.  My brothers and I exchange knowing looks. It this is a dual between Nan and Mom, it is now over.

"That doesn't matter! I could have cooked it for two days and it would still be tough!"answers my Mom, defensively.

Nan backs down. "I always say, stick with Waldbaum's." That settled it. For the next few weeks, no one was going to get adventurous.

Consequently, I grew up in fear of brisket and mistrustful of Gristedes. It wasn't until I left home that it occurred to me that maybe the cook's technique or lack of may have had something to do with the food that was served at our table.

Fast forward twenty years and I am living in Bozeman, Montana. My children and I are sitting in our home school classroom on a Friday morning in September. Bow hunting season. My husband comes in wearing camouflage with blood splattered on his legs and arms and a look of contentment on his face.

If we were still residing in Los Angeles, I would be petrified. I would be dialing 911. However, we have been living in Bozeman for two years and there have been some changes in our lives.

We realize that he has shot an elk and dash outside to admire the carcass in the back of his pick up truck.  In the field, the elk weighed five hundred pounds on the hoof.  Peter quartered it and carried out each piece.  He has brought home the head as well, thinking there would be meat in the neck.  In Montana, you have to carry every edible part of the elk out of the field.  The elk's head is tremendous. Without thinking, I touch the soft fur between the elk's eyes and say:" Thanks for the meat."

I send a text message to a few friends, announcing our good fortune. Some of our neighbors come over. There is a lot of blood but no one is bothered.

My phone rings and it is a close friend. I know what question is coming. After congratulating me she asks "Is it a cow or a bull?

It is generally understood that the most tender and flavorful elk meat comes from a female, a cow. Before my friend can assess the complete value of our kill, we have to establish the question of the elk's gender.

"A cow."

"Wow, congratulations!"
Not only do we have an elk to eat all winter but it is a cow.  I've come a long way from my former Los Angeles food cravings: sushi, fish tacos, anything in mole sauce.  There is nothing I would rather eat than elk meat.  O.K., maybe whitetail deer.


One of my favorite ways to eat elk is in a ragu sauce over pasta.  This recipe works for venison too.

Elk Ragu

!/4 C extra virgin olive oil
1 pound ground elk
1 onion, finely chopped
1 carrot, finely chopped
1 celery stalk, finely chopped
6 garlic cloves, crushed
1 8 oz. can chopped tomatoes
4 T tomato paste
2 C red wine
2 cups chicken stock
1 T dried basil
salt and pepper to taste

1. In a heavy bottomed casserole pan, heat the olive oil over high heat and cook the ground elk meat.  When the meat is fully cooked, put it on a plate and set it aside.

2.In the same pan, add more olive oil and cook the onion, carrot, celery, basil and garlic over low heat, stirring frequently.  Add the tomato paste and the chopped tomatoes. After five minutes, add the wine and chicken stock.  Bring to a boil and return the meat to the pan.

3.Reduce heat to a simmer and cook, uncovered for one hour.  The sauce should reduce quite a bit.  Season with salt and pepper.

Serve over your favorite pasta!

First tomato

When I first moved to Montana, a neighbor mused:"Those tomato plants in your garden don't stand a chance."

I had no idea what she was talking about. I knew that a tomato needed healthy soil, lots of sunlight, water, and a pair of strong hands to yank out the weeds.

Turns out there were a few things I didn't know. I guess I didn't expect snow in June. In Bozeman, tomato plants are lucky if they make it into the ground by July first. I also didn't expect summer hail storms. Another neighbor reminded me to build a hail protector(an apparatus of plastic pipes and a tarp) over my garden which I could unfurl if and only if I happen to be at home when a hail storm strikes. If any tomatoes survive the snow and hail, there is still a chance they will be nibbled by deer who wander into everyone's yards after dark.

Given these challenges and my lack of experience as a gardener, the odds of a plentiful tomato harvest were low. Despite this, on August 31st, a single tomato in my garden ripened. When I picked it and sliced it into fourths for my family, it tasted sweet and juicy. It was as perfect as a tomato could be!

As for the rest of the green tomatoes, if they can survive the remainder of the summer, there is still time to ripen. Or else I will make fried green tomatoes.

If I had a whole bowl of tomatoes, I would cook this recipe for my family:

Baked Tomatoes, Goat cheese and Basil
4 rounds of goat cheese
1 1/2 cups of tomatoes, cut in half (any tomato will do but cherry tomatoes are best!)
1/2 cup olive oil
salt and pepper to taste
6 leaves of fresh basil
one large clove of garlic, crushed
Four slices of French bread

Preheat the oven to 400 F
Pour olive oil into a flat ovenproof dish and add the garlic. Put the tomatoes in the oil and then add the goat cheese on top. Add a few shakes of salt and pepper.
Bake for 10 minutes. When done, add slivers of basil.

Serve with toasted French bread.

Close Call

Who wants to eat a live chicken? Apparently, many neighborhood predators. Why not? They strut around their chicken run, plump and potentially succulent..defenseless. Or so I thought...

It was a dark and stormy night, scratch that, it was a full moon and and a clear night. In fact, the moon resembled a great slice of cucumber. Perfect visibility for our neighborhood predators. Sometime after midnight, I was awakened by gawking and screeching sounds from our yard. Peter and I stumbled outside and tried to locate the creatures making those noises. Or what remained... I prepared myself to stay calm if I found pieces of chicken. After all, I knew this could happen. My brain had gone through the scenario many times, especially on nights with a full moon.

I was prepared to defend my hens. If I had a shot gun I would have carried it high in the air. A protective instinct coupled with an angry need for revenge pumped through my veins. As I looked for them, I pictured a huge raccoon carrying away a bloody chicken in her jaws.

With a pocket flashlight I scanned the yard and found three dazed hens in various poses. Molly and Gotterfunken, frantic and squawking and Pearl, glowing in the moonlight, while she sat in a daze, surrounded by an explosion of loose feathers. I could have stuffed five pillows with feathers. The other chickens were hidden in shrubs and trees. Everyone was alive and the only thing to do was to carry them back to their coop.

I would have carried them into the house and given them sleeping bags and mugs of warm tea. However, this wasn't an option. We tried to put them back in their coop one at a time but each time they fled. Who would run back into a burning house?

Three things I have learned about chickens:
1. They are smarter than you think
2. They remember more than you think they would
3. They can escape from the claws of an owl

There was nothing to do but try to go back to sleep. I lay awake for a long time, imagining a snake or rat or coyote or bear that was going to make a second attempt at a chicken dinner. I suspected that as soon as I fell asleep they would all be doomed. Peter was already snoring.

In the morning they were gathered around our basement window, hiding under a clump of daisies. They appeared to be waiting for breakfast but I wasn't playing that game. I wanted them to return to their own turf. I caught each hen and returned her to the coop. I failed. Each one just hopped out.

The chickens would not go near their coop. They wanted new real estate and they didn't need a broker in a shiny Cadillac.

The yard was theirs until I could find a solution. A condo? A penthouse apartment?
I needed time to think it through.

I cooked myself a bowl of oatmeal and brewed a mug of my favorite tea, Lady Grey. Not true. Actually, I asked Peter to cook me a bowl of oatmeal. Why? Because he doesn't measure ingredients, cooks by intuition, and it tastes creamy and delicious!

Peter's Comfort Oatmeal

1 cup rolled oats
2 cups boiling water
1 tablespoon brown sugar (or more if you wish)
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1 tablespoon chopped walnuts
1 tablespoon dried cranberries or cherries

Note:
Before you begin cooking, double the recipe because chickens absolutely love oatmeal.

In a medium sauce pot, bring two cups of water to a boil and add the oats. Reduce heat to a simmer and cook on low heat for about two minutes.

Pour the oatmeal into a serving bowl and add stir in the sugar, cinnamon, walnuts and cranberries. Enjoy!