by Nick Zukin
But it has to be the hearty, heavy, fatty comfort and joy of deli cuisine itself that has always been the main allure of the Jewish deli: the enormous sandwiches, an emblem of prosperity and hospitality, and the long list of menu choices, all offered at wallet-friendly prices. For non-Jewish Americans of European descent, many of the dishes resemble their hereditary foods. “This sort of fusion cuisine rings familiar to other cultures,” says Professor Merwin, adding that the deli’s style of Jewish “soul food” has always struck a chord with and created a point of culinary kinship with African-Americans.
Just as the fortunes of the Jewish delicatessen skyrocketed in the early part of the twentieth century, they crashed in the latter half. The reasons are complex and are explained with unmatchable detail and readability in Sax’s Save the Deli, which I recommend highly to anyone interested in a deeper exploration than I can offer here. The factors behind the deli’s decline are:
1. Assimilation. Jews in America began as an insular community, or more precisely, a set of communities, keeping to themselves as they had become accustomed to doing in their European homelands. Jews married Jews, and they followed the ancestral traditions. But as new generations began to reap the blessings of liberty and many became learned and prosperous, they and their offspring increasingly joined the American mainstream, some consciously rebelling against the old ways. Intermarriage moved from scandalous rarity to commonplace practice. Those following kosher laws and other traditional ways diminished in substantial numbers. Jews live alongside non-Jews and join the same companies, country clubs, and organizations. Jewish-Americans have become Americans first.
2. Suburbanization. As American cities have expanded into the suburbs, their urban cores have languished. The densely packed central city Jewish populations that were the crucible of creation for the deli have dispersed. As Jews have achieved and assimilated, they have moved to the outlying areas to live in houses with yards and plenty of space just like other middle-class Americans. While suburban Jewish delis are not unheard of, the closely knit concentrated neighborhoods that gave birth to the Jewish delicatessen have either disappeared altogether or been repopulated with other, newer groups of immigrants.
3. Prosperity. Professor Merwin offers that the upward mobility of the North American Jewish population has also diminished the deli. The restaurant business—like other less prestigious businesses that Jews traditionally went into out of necessity—wasn’t good enough for their children. Jewish parents who realized the American Dream in the 1950s or 1960s were adamant that their baby boom children go to good colleges and become doctors and lawyers.
4. Dietary Health. Just as the heartiness of a deli diet has traditionally been what people like about it, modern dietary trends favoring healthier, lighter foods have hit the deli hard. Everyone, it seems, is watching their fat, cholesterol, sodium, and carbohydrate intake. The traditional deli menu, full of pastrami, corned beef, salami, blintzes, and bread, has become an increasingly infrequent treat or something to be avoided altogether.
5. Economics. To put it simply, vegetables are cheap and meat is expensive. And the deli menu has always been heavy on the latter, lighter on the former. Compounding the problem is that everyone who walks in the door expects a sandwich the size of their head. Deli owners have been squeezed. On the one hand, they have to pay for all that pricey beef—brisket isn’t nearly as cheap as it once was—while customers still expect a bargain. What deli owner hasn’t heard the kvetch, “What, you expect me to pay $15 . . . for a sandwich?” Just to get by, old-line deli owners have had to yield to the economic equation, buying instead of making their own products and often relying on inferior ingredients.
The Birth and Promise of the Artisan Deli
The factors behind the Jewish deli’s decline inspired David Sax’s battle cry Save the Deli. He believed that the institution was in mortal danger. By his count, New York City is down to a couple dozen Jewish delis, with another handful or two scattered around the rest of the country. But as Sax noted in his epilogue, the deli may be down, but it’s not out. Indeed, I’m prepared to stand on the proposition that the deli isn’t really dying at all. It is diminished and diluted. But in some ways, this is all as it should be.
Katz’s isn’t going anywhere; it is more popular than ever. And the same may be true of the remaining handful of famous old-school Jewish delicatessens. The 2nd Avenue Deli even reopened in 2007 after going out of business in 2006. Other classics, such as the Carnegie Deli, have created clones in Las Vegas. Though the demand will never be what it once was, there is sufficient love of deli food to sustain at least the kernel of the original Jewish delis as they existed during their salad days, so to speak.
But posterity will show that the real savior will be the handful of second-wave Jewish delis that have opened since the dawn of the new millennium. Those running these delicatessens could be the great-grandchildren of the early “deli men.” They share with their forebears a pride of profession, a dedication to quality, and a love of the food. The delis’ names include Wise Sons, Mile End, Caplansky’s, Stopsky’s, and Kenny & Zuke’s, and their stories and recipes are scattered throughout this book.
Their formula for reviving a moribund institution draws on the owners’ Jewish heritage and passion, and their focus on artisanship—the same wave that’s cresting throughout the food service industry. Artisans are at work making great food of all sorts. They are using the best local and seasonal ingredients they can find to create bright and bold flavors. At the same time, they are eschewing cheaper, mass-produced, chemical-laden products. They are seeking to learn the traditional ways, some nearly forgotten. But they are neither naive nor enslaved by the past. As a result, the modern Jewish deli artisans are updating and altering the traditional forms—and they are having fun with it in the process. Sandwiches do not need to be obscenely large to be popular. It is enough if they are made with the best pastrami or Montreal smoked meat you have ever tasted. These artisans know that it’s a good idea to have salads and other vegetables on a well-balanced menu. And if a dish uses traditional ingredients in a nontraditional way, so much the better.
This cookbook is our attempt to capture the spirit of the modern artisan deli. Using these recipes, like the new generation of deli men and women, you can produce great deli dishes at home to feed your family and friends. There are the classic recipes, from pastrami to chopped liver to bagels to rye bread, but we also offer ideas our great-grandparents wouldn’t recognize, such as the Shtetl Toast from our friends at Wise Sons, the Chinese broccoli dish from Mile End, and a couple of the big salads from Kenny & Zuke’s. We also offer more than just recipes: Included here are the stories of the new generation of delis, the thoughts of those who remember the old ways, and the details of a few favorite dishes. This book serves as a repository that will always allow you to re-create the dishes—and the soul—of the Jewish delicatessen at home.
Chapter 1
You can’t make a great chicken soup without a flavor-charged chicken broth. A Reuben wouldn’t be true to its roots without a generous smear of creamy-tart Russian dressing. And so on it goes. The DIY spirit behind Jewish deli revivalism recognizes that there are basic building blocks for creating luscious deli dishes and that those basic components ought to be as lovingly constructed as the dishes they enhance.
To get the most out of your deli dishes, we provide a handful of important foundational recipes in this chapter—recipes for some of the ingredients that recur throughout the pages of this book. Besides the Russian Dressing that’s best in class and a chicken broth (see here) that omits the excessive salt in the canned stuff, we have a recipe for schmaltz (rendered chicken fat, see here), which adds incomparable flavor and richness to the dishes that rely on it. Our Dough for Kreplach and Varnishkes is used in multiple recipes, as are our Roasted Red Peppers and Zesty Zucchini Bread-and-Butter Pickles.
As much as we would love to see you make everything fr
om scratch, it would be ridiculous to say that store-bought is always bad and that you should just skip making a dish if you aren’t able to first prepare all of the basics behind it. We know firsthand that between work and kids and running around, it’s hard enough just to get dinner on the table. Forget the style points. So, use these basics if you have time. But feel free to substitute if that’s all that stands between you and a nice home-cooked deli-style meal. And we promise we won’t tell your mother.
Talking Deli with . . .
Joan Nathan
Joan Nathan is the most prolific writer and readily recognizable name today on the subject of Jewish food and cooking. In 2010, her seventh cookbook, Quiches, Kugels, and Couscous, was released, chronicling Jewish cooking in France. Her repository of recipes and wisdom naturally extends to deli dishes.
Did you grow up in a religious household? How did your upbringing affect what you ate?
Joan Nathan: My family wasn’t very religious. We would go to synagogue on most Friday nights and for the High Holidays, but we didn’t keep kosher. My parents were always interested in good food. I grew up initially in a town in Westchester County [New York] where there weren’t any delicatessens. But my mom was from the Bronx, so we would go there once in a while to get bagels. I remember that my dad used to say that we could tell if our neighbors were Jewish by whether or not they ate bagels. Beyond that, we would sometimes eat dishes that reflected my parents’ roots: Polish in the case of my mother and German for my father.
Honestly, though, my family’s usual diet didn’t reflect our religious heritage. My mother was a first-generation American and wanted to eat American food. And my father could have cared less about eating Jewish dishes.
Do you have any specific deli memories from growing up?
Joan Nathan: I remember one place, Behrman’s in New Rochelle, the town over from ours. I don’t know if it’s still there. But I recall going there with my mother and I remember their huge sandwiches. They had great corned beef and my mother loved their Reuben.
How about any currentdeli favorites?
Joan Nathan: Well, I live in Washington, D.C., now and, I hate to say, there are no good Jewish delis here. I’ve heard that a couple kids are working to start one of the new-style Jewish delis, which would be wonderful. But if I want to eat deli, I still go to New York City. I’ve been to Mile End in Brooklyn and it’s very good. I love their kasha varnishkes. I’ve spoken on a panel in San Francisco and it’s great to see all these new delicatessens doing what the old places did: making their own meats from scratch, for example.
What is the future of the Jewish deli?
Joan Nathan: The Jewish deli has to be reinvented. I’ve already mentioned the idea of going back to the roots of Jewish deli food in America: making things from scratch instead of buying products from others. I also think the future of the deli means drawing from the whole Jewish culinary experience, not just one part. This is nontraditional, but the tradition needs to be reexamined. There are so many non–meat eaters these days, and there are lots of vegetarian dishes that can be pulled from the Sephardic tradition or even from Israeli cooking. I think of an Israeli dish called shakshuka, made from roasted red peppers, that I love. There’s matzo brei, too.
Fundamentally, most people aren’t interested in just eating giant sandwiches any-more. They want to know about the ingredients in the sandwiches. They are concerned about what they are putting in their mouths. The Jewish deli needs to respond to that concern. It’s good to see that some of them are doing that.
Homemade Chicken Broth
Makes 16 cups
One of our favorite culinary reference works, The Prentice Hall Dictionary of Culinary Arts, defines broth as “a flavorful liquid obtained from the long simmering of meats and/or vegetables.” That is an understated description of this deeply flavored, golden-colored extraction that results from a daylong stay on your stovetop. We like to use wings because they are not too fatty but still provide an intense chicken flavor for a soup base and a good yield of meat (roughly 4 cups) that can be reserved for another purpose. Why not put both to good use in our recipe for classic Matzo Ball Soup?
4 large carrots, peeled and halved
1 large yellow onion, quartered
4 cloves garlic
2 bay leaves
½ teaspoon black peppercorns
4 to 5 pounds chicken wings
Put the carrots, onion, garlic, bay leaves, and peppercorns in the bottom of a large stockpot. Put the chicken wings on top of the vegetables. Add 4 quarts water, completely covering the chicken.
Place the stockpot over medium-high heat and bring just to a simmer, without letting the water boil. Decrease the heat to medium-low to maintain a simmer. Using a large spoon, skim away the foam and particulate matter that rises to the surface. Continue to simmer the broth for 1 hour, skimming the surface of the broth frequently.
Remove the stockpot from the heat. Using sturdy tongs, gently remove the wings from the broth, trying not to stir up anything that might cloud the broth. Place the wings on a rimmed baking sheet and set aside until cool enough to handle, about 30 minutes. Once cool, remove the chicken skin and bones from the meat, reserving the meat. Using tongs, gently return the bones and skin to the broth. Place the stockpot over medium-high heat and bring just to a simmer. Decrease the heat to low and simmer the broth for 5 to 6 hours, skimming as needed and adding a little water to keep the bones covered, until the broth is flavorful and light golden in color.
Meanwhile, using your fingers or two forks, shred the meat. Transfer the meat to a covered container and refrigerate it for up to a week to use in chicken salad or soup.
To strain the broth, place a large fine-mesh sieve or colander lined with cheesecloth over a large heatproof bowl. Slowly and carefully strain the broth. Do not strain the very last of the broth that contains a high proportion of sediment. Discard the solids. Transfer the strained broth to a clean soup pot if using immediately. Otherwise, cool the broth slightly, cover, and refrigerate for up to 3 days or transfer to freezer containers and freeze for up to 6 months.
Chicken Schmaltz (Rendered Chicken Fat) and Gribenes
Makes about 2 cups
Schmaltz is the key to great flavor in a wide variety of Jewish deli classics, such as Chopped Chicken Liver and Matzo Ball Soup. Substitutions are often offered in the name of good health, but there is no adequate substitute for the real deal. Schmaltz is what our Slavic ancestors used as their foundational cooking fat, since butter was more expensive and tougher to obtain. Lard violated Jewish dietary laws, and the edible vegetable oils we take for granted today were all but nonexistent. Ask your butcher or grocer to set aside the quantity of chicken skin and trimmings needed for this recipe. Alternatively, purchase 10 pounds of chicken thighs and do the skinning and trimming yourself, using the skinned meat for another purpose. With its long storage life, you can afford to dole out your schmaltz stash judiciously, but by all means use it when the urge strikes to make a dish just the way your bobe did.
2 pounds chicken skin and fat trimmings
1 medium yellow onion, halved and thinly sliced
Place the chicken skin and fat trimmings, along with ¼ cup water, in a heavy-bottomed 2½- to 3-quart saucepan, preferably nonstick. Bring to a simmer over medium heat, and then decrease the heat to low, allowing the fat to render slowly for 1 hour. Stir occasionally to make sure nothing sticks to the bottom of the saucepan.
Stir the onion into the simmering liquid. Continue to cook until the solids are a dark golden brown, 1 to 2 hours longer, stirring occasionally and making sure nothing sticks to the bottom of the pan. Turn off the heat and set aside to cool until lukewarm.
Pour the rendered fat (schmaltz) through a fine-mesh strainer into a container with a tight-fitting lid, retaining the solids (see Gribenes, right). Cover and refrigerate for up to 6 months, or freeze for up to 1 year.
Gribenes
The main by-product of the rendering process is gribenes, the delectable bits of deeply browned, crispy chicken skin. Think of gribenes as the Jewish analog to pork cracklings. After straining the schmaltz, lay out the gribenes on a paper towel and season them with salt and pepper. You’ll end up with about 1 cup. Eat them out of hand as a snack or store in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to a week, reserving them for other uses, such as adding them to Chopped Chicken Liver.
Wise Sons Deli:
College Pals, Kitchen-Centered Harmonies
It’s just past noon on a summer Saturday in 2011 and the line to enter Wise Sons’ Saturday-only pop-up location in San Francisco’s trés trendy Mission District is ten deep. Two gents in front of me—visitors from Montreal—chat about the Wise Sons story.
Fast forward a year and Wise Sons is ensconced full-time in a heymish (homey) 30-seat space in the Mission, and the five-day-a-week lines are even longer than in the pop-up days. A Tuesday booth at the Ferry Plaza farmers’ market supplementing San Francisco’s corned beef and pastrami sandwich supply is also a smashing success.