Carrot Top

So I just noticed that there is a Second Avenue Deli Cookbook due to those bizarre double pink lines. I'm going to have to order it. I met Abe Lebewohl one year when I was executive chef for Goldman Sachs. Somehow I'd gotten snagged into planning and organizing the menu for this large corporate/Congress mixer in DC that was titled "The New York State Festival". Featuring all the foods of New York, and my job was to decide which foods would represent the state at the party for 1200 people which was to be held in Washington, DC. The cast of characters soon turned this charming extravaganza into something that resembled an Oscar Wilde drawing room comedy.There were the vendors of foods from New York who seemed to be like scavenging crows diving endlessly upon me, their prey, in their telephone calls, letters, and presentations of products that they wished to sell to the function to represent the state (and themselves, bien sur). There were the representatives of the representatives of Congress, each seriously intent upon making sure that their District was represented in its foods *as much* if not more than the votes it held in the larger scheme of NY. All I can say about that scene is that it reminds me of the line that one should never see how either laws or sausages are made. Never a corporate meeting had I seen (and I'd seen many) where the claws and nails of determination to *win* came out with unending vigor, regardless of any sense of the thing. All proportion went right out the window with nary a whimper within that group. I did what I do when I want to run fast, I smiled. A lot. I smiled because *we* (me, as representative of GS) supposedly liked doing this for some reason. "We" had the role of treasurer for the function, in the form of a very nice fellow who handled all the corporate dollars that were put up for this thing, who was head of the DC office at the time. His name, strangely enough, was Judah. Though we called him Judd. So I smiled and smiled. And planned the menu so that finally, everyone was happy. I presented it to the chef of the hotel, an old-school German guy who was at least twice the size of me, who spoke in barks. I introduced myself and told him my name, told him I was exec chef of GS, told him my role in this thing. He glanced at me up and down as we stood in the large kitchen of the hotel and he smiled a long slow smile as the minions (a chef like he was always has minions) scurried around us. He smacked his cleaver down upon a slice of veal to flatten it. "So are you staying the night?" he growled out, looking at me as if I were a schokolade-kirschenroulade which he could not decide which part to take a bite out of first. Talking to him about the menu was close to impossible. He might as well have just been sitting there batting his eyes nonsensically for all the effort he put into having a conversation about the food. But then, in the midst of this cast of characters, comes Abe Lebewohl. Nobody had given too much of an argument over including Jewish Deli food as part of the menu, and nobody had given too much of an argument that Second Avenue Deli would be a great place to source that food, rather than undertaking the idea of having Chef Attilla try to corn some beef. I telephoned Abe at the deli to talk about what would best be included for this part of the menu, and to discuss cost. Ah. He was the voice of sanity and reason within the comedy. He made wonderful suggestions, including suggestions of quantities, which otherwise I would have had to struggle with. What a nice menu he planned. He was warm, he was helpful, he made it so easy. He made me smile for real. We got to the part where I needed to know what he would charge. "No" he said. "This is on me. I'm happy to do this so that people can know this food." I was floored. I argued a bit but of course finally gave in. Then there was more. I brought up the subject of delivery to DC. Naturally, we wanted the food to be fresh and good, so the logistics would take some planning. "I'll bring it myself" he said. And so he did. And he did not want compensation for plane or cab fare for either himself or for the guy he brought along to help carry the stuff, which was of course heavy, lots of food. I'm happy to say that Abe Lebewohl's Second Avenue Deli food was one of the most-enjoyed parts of the festival that night, from people's comments as I walked through the crowd. He made a lot of people very happy, regardless of whatever agendas they were there for, fighting strong. And it might be that not all deli owners are like Abe Lebewohl. But if they are not, please don't tell me. I don't want to know. Abe Lebewohl. He was a mensch. ....................................................... And now I am all out of deli stories.

Looks like I've got to grab my tent and pack it in the back of the SUV with the kids and start travelling. I can use the time to practice my new-found vocabulary words you've taught me in your post above. Thanks. ........................................... I have a nice Abe Lebewohl story to tell you, but have to go do some other things rather than sit here in front of the computer, strangely enough. Will post it later.

They sort of remind me of those red-apple slices from the southern American cooking canon - you don't see them too much anymore, but they are round cored apple slices (gosh, are they pickled? maybe, or maybe just poached) which are then set in a marinade that includes red-hots cinnamon candies (or so I seem to remember, but all this is just vague memory so I do hope someone jumps in here to add some intelligence ) that makes them bright red when finished. Served as a side, sort of like a pickle. What does all this have to do with Kool-Aid pickles? Hmmm. I'm just thinking that in addition to the Kool-Aid in the recipe, maybe some sorts of candies like red-hots could be added too, for extra savor. The only one I can think of at the moment is lemon drops, but then I don't hang around the candy counter too much so I have a lack of candy ideas to choose from in my mind.

A more honorable task would be hard to find. My personal deli-less hell is Blacksburg, Virginia. And given some of the experiences our town has been through lately, to know that there was a good deli "close enough" would be a boon to all. I'll keep my fingers crossed and my ears perked in case you do come up with something. Very nice website you've got there, by the way. I liked the photo of your Mom and her remaining half-sandwich.

You have a fantastic and truly unique eye and visual sense, Harlan. And obviously the technique to back it all up with. Kudos on these photos! I think I would recognize your work anywhere. And that's saying a lot considering the amount of photos we all see each day. Thanks for posting.

There are no Jewish delis where I live. There are no Jewish delis often where I travel. I've looked, and longed, and hungered. I went to my first Jewish deli when I was barely fourteen years old, on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. My boyfriend was Jewish, and older than me, and he ate the usual deli things plus those things that might be considered arcana for the casual lightweight diner dabbling in Jewish deli food. My God, the smell of those pickles set in the center of the table in their practical utilitarian silver bowl. I can honestly say that even thinking about those pickles, my mouth will still literally water sometimes, of its own doing. Yes, those pickles were nocturnal-salivation worthy, even ah . . . too many years to want to add up and list, later. The first thing we ate was matzoh-ball soup. It was okay. Very different than anything I'd ever eaten before, as the daughter of a single-mother-non-cook-WASP. Then we had some sandwiches. WASPs do not know how to make a sandwich, I realized, when I saw these sandwiches. What I had thought was a sandwich while growing up (a slice of bologna on white bread with yellow mustard, hey hey) was a parody. It was a parody of how life should be. Roast beef on rye. Good, good, very very good. We shared. And another. A combo. Corned beef, tongue, and turkey I think. With coleslaw and Russian dressing. On rye, of course. The bread was soft and warm and yielding to its fillings, as if it loved them itself. The bread curled round the meats like a mother's arms round a new baby, coddling them, offering them up, saying "Look, how beautiful!" Yes, they were beautiful and if the nature of Divinity has a taste, it exists in a well-made Jewish Deli corned beef, tongue, and turkey sandwich with coleslaw and Russian, pickles, of course, on the side unending in the bowl before us. We had stuffed peppers. Sigh. Comforting. We had stuffed derma. To this shiksa, interesting. Not only the taste, you know, but the idea, too. We had Dr. Brown's celery soda, of course, and cream soda too. We waddled off into the night after that meal and I felt warmed and good, with the food, the smells, and the banter of the place. You are right, so very right, to say the delis must be saved. I think they should not only be saved, they should be grown and made to prosper in every nook and cranny of the Universe. ................................................................ About six months after this meal, I met my father for the very first time in my life. I also discovered, at that time, that I was half-Jewish, as he is Jewish - which my mother had not ever mentioned to me as I was growing up. Our first meal together, he took me to Gage and Tollner. For some reason I ordered Lobster Newburg. This was pre-Edna Lewis. It was dreadful. Our relationship never prospered. And years later, it is my theory that it all could have been better if only he had taken me to a deli.

Pas moi, dearie. Though I am enjoying being in the same sentence as those two dolls. I'm guessing that's a cull potato from the great state of Maine.

You're talking sweet tender baby butterleaf, sparrowgrass? I think you're talking sweet tender baby butterleaf.

Mmm. There is a sense of "I came, I saw, I ate" and there the story ends, in many reviews. Okay, I think to myself, so tell me something new. But there is a different sense felt, with some writers of reviews. One can imagine that, rather than have their head buried deeply in their plate they lift their eyes and look around. They look out to the horizon. And there they see things that have something to do with what they are putting in their mouth. And then they tell the story. Sure, the story itself can always be argued with as to whether it fits one's own version of reality. But at least the story is written, is read, is there, rather than just another bite of food. Food without story. Isn't that really just fodder? Chomp. But the point Heather mentions about "good writing" matters too. If I have a choice, I'll shop where the style says something different. I'll shop where the lines (the lines of the clothes, of the car, of the sweet red bell pepper) give me a giggly little pinch of visceral pleasure. Same with reading reviews or criticism. I like to read reviews that one would never, ever, associate with what used to be called "The Women's Page" of a newspaper. The name "Women's Page" . . . it doesn't exist anymore, maybe, but the genre of writings that would be there and named that, does. And it's all just a bit too damn cozy, with a sense lurking round the edges of horses chewing oats with blinkered eyes, the cold steel bits edging sideways back and forth in their large wet mouths. For my taste, anyway. I understand there are those who like it that way, though.

The thread used is too thin (i.e. cheap) to sustain the pull against the heaviness of the fabric of the bag, Chris. Generally the way described above of removing any seam from any fabric works. *Unless* the universe has it planned to make it difficult, as makers of charcoal bags obviously do, for you and for everyone else who is destined to try it. But it does add to the "He-Man" image of charcoal itself as cooking fuel to see guys grunting and gasping and squeezing up their eyes in exasperation and elbowing those arm muscles around doing their he-man best to get that bag open every time the charcoal grill comes out. Scissors, my man. Scissors. They even come attached to Very Manly Swiss Army Knives. That way you've got it all covered. High-Tech Low-Tech Guy. They even have pockets in some modern jeans that you can carry your mini Swiss Army Knife around in. P.S. "Cowboy Charcoal"?

Here's something interesting that I received in my e-mail today that "aspiring food writers" might like to take a gander at - a call for submissions for foodwritings on culture and history:

I think we are. I know I am.

The last two people that quoted me that line ascribed it to Twain and to Benjamin Franklin. Now you say Fitzgerald. Maybe these guys should get together around a dinner table and sort out who *really* said it. I've decided to go with the quote "When we risk no contradiction, it prompts the tongue to deal in fiction." By the same author who wrote "Where yet was ever found a mother, who'd give her booby for another?" John Gay. But back to boring reviews. Gee, they do seem to happen.

I'd never heard of it till yesterday (though apparently it's been around for several years ) when going to Sonic (under duress) they had it advertised on the menu. Big big sign. It sort of appalled me, so I tried to order it. The thing is, they had it as a "slurpie" which made me laugh as "slurpie" sounded funny in conjunction with "full throttle fury" and I laughed so hard the guy taking the order could not understand me. So I gave up and ordered root beer instead. Then I came home and googled it and found that lovely ad. Apparently they also have "sugar-free" Full Throttle and will be releasing something called "Full Throttle Mother" in August. (I'm guessing that's pronounced "muthuh" not "mother".) Still, I think I'll have to try it to see what it feels like to let my inner man out. At the very least, it might have me jumping around playing air guitar and howling. And how much fun is that.

So does it do it for you?

Nay, Sir Charles. U Troll Non. It was just that I happened to remember this from several days ago, which I enjoyed at the time. But that was on Friday and of course we know one must believe Ten Impossible Things Before Breakfast each Friday, (and on Mondays and Wednesdays, too, for those of us who are so inclined) so I am assuming that your charming review simply was part of a Friday morning madness. Michelin never need know of this.

Was Charles was advocating those? ← It sounded rather close to it, to me. Stars plus minimum verbiage, anyway. But I'm not sure if I believe he really meant what he wrote.

I'm hoping someone can tell me . . .does anyone know . . . has any statue been erected to a critic yet?

So much food sucks because that is what people are willing to pay for. Large, sucky portions on large, sucky plates served by large, sucky (or small sucky) servers who are only doing their job "till they can find something *better*". Interesting article in the NYT today, Top Chef Dreams that talks about how much it costs a cook to enter the field thinking of it and wanting it to be a "profession" rather than a "trade". We are an industrial country with industrial practices going on in all fields. If we want our food to be quality and artisan, we'll have to pay the actual price it costs, not only in the cost of the raw foodstuffs of excellence (unless we decide to eat beans and onions only, which are rather inexpensive) but also in that well-trained professional cooks will cost us more on our tab when their salaries hit the plate in the taste of the food. In other words, we get what we pay for and the majority of "us" want to pay for what we are getting. Or actually "we" probably want to pay less if it were only possible. Excuse me for a moment. I have to answer the phone. It's probably someone inviting me to the "all you can eat for some exciting price" buffet. You have those near where you live, don't you?

Here's something that might have something to say about whether restaurant reviews are boring or pointless: Jonathan Gold wins Pulitzer Prize Interesting, regardless of what one thinks about the political side of the Pulitzers. Or what one thinks about the political side of anything. There are some reviews attached to the piece that show the writing that earned the Pulitzer: Flesh and Bone Heh. More than simply adorable. Now obviously the more pop and sizzle the restaurant has, the more pop and sizzle the reviewer has to work with. And there's a lot more pop in the big cities, for the most part, or nearby any metropolis, except for rare circumstances. I can't think of a restaurant within one hundred miles of my house that would make me want to pop and sizzle, myself. But that is where art comes in. We work with what we have in life. And make of it what it can be, and make of ourselves what we can be as a result. It can't be the restaurants faults if the reviews are torpid and lame. It is the restaurants faults if they, themselves, suck. But if a poet can make mystery or marvel of a piece of grass or a cardboard box on a street, then surely a reviewer or critic can make something from words out of even the most yawn-inducing place to eat, something to read that would not be "boring or pointless". After all, that's the job they chose to do. To give readers knowledge. In an entertaining fashion. But if it is not done well, and if the reviews do end up seeming boring or pointless, then I would have to say that a guide with stars would do the exact same job for a reader seeking this "knowledge" (which is actually simply educated opinion so one has to trust both the education level of the reviewer specifically pertaining to this field, and also their personal opinions and tastes) and would do it even quicker.

Or more people who know how to really write a love letter that'll knock more'n your socks off.

Busboy's original main point (if I am reading it right) is that there is a mediocrity inbred into reviews here in this place and time, often, because of the format set upon them by the standard policies of the newspapers/journals that print reviews (those newspapers/journals having set a recipe upon the idea of "review" in a way). He was crying out, in an uncaring world, ( )( ) for the betterment of the species, which would lead to a more interesting world with far far better things to read than currently are tossed at our feet often enough, as reviews. Inclusion of cultural information. Variance of format. Maybe some history or sociology tossed in here or there. More of the "behind the scenes" of what's on that plate. For food can and does go much further than just the stomach. For those who care to think about these sorts of things. A friend just wrote me something about writing (which of course reviewing anything is, it is writing). He said that he hoped that I would find my energies interestingly directed to "streams of thought that will, sometime or another, lend differences to reader's days". Isn't this what one really hopes for from something read? That the words would be streams of thought that will, sometime or another, lend difference to a readers day? If a review or any piece of writing does that (in whatsoever way), then to me it is a success. And in thinking back, I can think of pieces of writing that might slip right through me, like a grape popsicle among many grape popsicles. Unless there is something "more", something special, something that sparks that grape popsicle into something somehow more than it really looks like or tastes like, sitting there in its bland white paper wrapper, then that grape popsicle is really not going to lend a hell of a lot of difference to my day. But then, there are ways of writing of that same grape popsicle that would make it become important, marvellous, mystic, or even just so plain interesting that I could not then stop thinking about it, after reading of it written this way. So here is to the restaurant review that roars and dances. And shame on any format that disallows them from doing so.

One of the few places in the US that you can be sure of getting a bit of tongue offered you is in a good Jewish deli. Here are some directions on how to go about getting the tongue you want, on your plate. Nice topic, le petit boucher. Looking forward to seeing your next set of photos.

Looks like the Greenmarket is still open Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays over by the courthouse. Just let me keep living vicariously here through my posts, guys.

They taste terrible, to me. It was just the effort involved in balancing the layers and getting to her without mixing up a single perfect one, that I was thinking of.