The Second Avenue Deli Cookbook (43 page)

Note:
Some of the items used in this recipe (notably fresh bean sprouts and lo mein noodles) may be a bit difficult to find. A Chinese grocery store is your best bet, but some Chinese restaurants will also sell you the necessary ingredients if you ask nicely.

B
ORN IN
B
YELORUSSIA
, nationally known Jewish storyteller, author, lecturer, and recording artist Roslyn Bresnick-Perry was seven years old when her family emigrated to America in 1929. Her tales, both ancient and contemporary, are peppered with humor, warmth, and wisdom, presenting a tapestry of Jewish life in all its complex vitality. “Stories are magical,” says Perry. “They cross generations, dissolve time and space, and overcome differences and barriers.” This is one of her favorites.

“Food is more than eating,” my grandfather used to say. “Food is for remembering who you are, what you are, and where you came from. And what is more important, with food you follow God's Commandments and celebrate His name.”

Life in the shtetl revolved around religious observances and festivals in
which food played a very important part. When we left Europe, my mother—who had a difficult time acclimatizing herself to her new life in America—held on to the Old Country ways, especially the ways of serving food for the holidays. She followed the routine her mother and her mother's mother had followed.

Every holiday had its own special menu. We knew what holiday we were celebrating by the delectable aromas emanating from the kitchen. My mother kept the Old Country alive for us by her meticulous adherence to what she called “her duty.” This consisted not only of food preparation, but reciting, with great pleasure, the reasons we ate certain foods on particular holidays.

“You should always remember” (every lecture on holiday food began with that phrase) “that we eat hamantaschen, because it is a mitzvah to thank God that the Jews were saved by the beautiful Queen Esther and her wise uncle Mordecai from the terrible wrath of that arch-villain Haman.” “But why are they called hamantaschen, and why are they shaped that way?” I asked. “I don't know,” replied my mother. “They were always shaped that way.”

On Simchat Torah, my mother piled kreplach high on our plates, adding her usual sermon. “
You should always remember
that we eat kreplach on Simchat Torah, because we are happy that God gave us the Torah.” “Why kreplach, Momma?” I asked. “Because,” chanted my father, “kreplach are good and the Torah is good.”

“
You should always remember,
” intoned my mother on Chanukah, “we eat latkes on this day to celebrate the great victory of the Jewish heroes, the Maccabees, over the mighty Syrian legions.” “Why latkes?” I asked. “I really don't know,” my mother snapped, “and I don't think it's so important that you should always want to know
fun vanen di fis vaksn
[from where your legs start to grow]. Why must you understand everything?” My father, noting my disappointment over this rebuff, compounded my indignation by adding, “Chanukah is the season for lighting candles, and it deals with fire; we eat latkes so that the burning of the candles on the outside should correspond to the heartburn you get from eating them on the inside.” In a Jewish family, everyone's a comedian.

His silly answer drove me to find a source of information outside the immediate family. After asking many relatives and neighbors without getting anywhere, I finally found a landsman who said he could explain it all to me. His name was Yudl-Leybke. He was a favorite of all us children—the only one of our parents' friends who deemed us important enough to talk to. “So,” said Yudl-Leybke, “you really want to know why we eat latkes on Chanukah, do you? So sit yourself down, and I'll tell you a story.

“In the spring, all the little animals are born. The baby cows, the baby horses, goats, and geeses. In America, they call these baby geeses goslings, but in Europe we call them
gendzelakh.
So all summer these
gendzelakh
swim around with their momma, they eat little fishes and all kinds of grasses, and they grow up to be beautiful geeses.”

“Geese,” I corrected him.

“All right,” he said, “geeses.

“What are you going to do with so many of them, because the winter is coming? So you take them to the
shecht
[ritual slaughterer] and slaughter them. The nights are getting longer, and what is there to do in the shtetl? So the young girls sit around the stove and pluck the geeses, using the beautiful white down to make feather beds and pillows for their trousseaus. Then the geeses are roasted for Shabbos, and their fat is rendered and made into delicious goose schmaltz.

“By now, it's already Chanukah. Everyone likes to go out to visit each other on Chanukah, to play cards, spin the dreidel, light the candles, sing songs; so what are you going to serve them? Potatoes, we got plenty. So you grate the potatoes, grate in some onion, add salt, pepper, an egg, a little bit of flour or matzo meal, then fry the latkes in wonderful goose fat. Oy, oy, oy! I can still feel the taste of those latkes in my mouth today. Nobody knows who started serving latkes on Chanukah, but if you ask me, whoever did it was a very smart person.”

I must tell you, I was not at all pleased with his answer. I wanted something much loftier. But as I got older, I realized that customs arise for very practical reasons. People, however, need a little romance, a few miracles—and the myth, the legend, the story comes into being.

So why do we eat latkes on Chanukah? We eat them because we have always eaten them. So tell me, would you have it any other way?

MAKES
5
QUARTS

When I was a little girl in Russia, every year at Succoth, I used to watch my grandmother and aunts make sauerkraut, which I loved. They always made vast quantities, which we stored in barrels and ate throughout the winter. Especially thrilling was my part in the procedure. My grandmother would
pick me up and place me on top of the large stone which was used as a weight to bring the brine to the surface. Then she'd say, “
Yets mamele tanz
” (Now, little mother, dance)—“dance and pack the cabbage down firmly so it can ferment and become sour.” She and my aunts would all clap their hands and sing, and I would dance with all my might—for Succoth, for sauerkraut, and for pure joy.

1. Purchase medium to large firm green cabbages, and keep them at room temperature for a day.

2. Wash well, and remove the outer leaves and cores with a knife. Reserve several large leaves. Shred cabbages to about a ⅛-inch thickness, and place in a large bowl. Add salt and sugar, and mix very thoroughly.

3. Place cabbage in a wooden keg, crock, or sterile glass jar, packing it firmly but not tightly. Cover with large cabbage leaves, topped with a piece of cheesecloth. Invert a large plate on top of the cloth, leaving at least 1 inch of cloth around the plate. On the plate, place a substantial weight, such as a heavy stone or chunk of wood, to bring the brine to the surface.

4. Store the crock in a cool, dark room (about 65 degrees) for 10 to 15 days (or longer), depending on the flavor desired. Start tasting after the seventh day to determine the amount of sourness (the longer it stays, the more sour it gets). The scum that begins to form after a few days must be skimmed off daily. When the desired taste has been achieved, transfer the sauerkraut to covered glass jars, and refrigerate. For hot sauerkraut, add 1 pint water per quart and a teaspoon of salt; boil to desired softness.