My early years dealing with the smokers were humbling as well as humiliating. I may have been a lawyer, but to them I was still a kid. They couldn’t believe that I had willingly given up a professional career to work in the fish business. Hadn’t they all worked so hard so that their children could become lawyers and doctors? It occurs to me now that seeing what they perceived to be my professional failure may have stoked their fear for the security of their own kids. So they weren’t going to make this process easy for me. No free ride for the third generation of the Russ family. Often they tried to game me by seeing if I would buy or reject bad fish they slipped into a pile.
Grandpa Russ and me at my bar mitzvah, in 1958. That was probably how the smokers saw me in 1978, as well.
The process of selecting fish is complicated. You need four of your five senses, all operating at the top of their form. Smell: A bad fish lets you know it’s bad, that it’s past its prime, even before you have laid eyes on it. It has an off-putting smell that makes you wish you had a cold. Sight: It is expected, even appreciated, that the colors of fish, particularly wild fish, vary greatly. But some color issues are disqualifiers. Bruises and blood spots on the sides of smoked salmon indicate that the fish may have been abusively caught and may have thrashed around in a seine net for days. Yellowing on the belly area may be evidence of “freezer burn.” Uniform, bright, Day-Glo colors might be attractive but suggest the presence of chemical dyes. Feel: How the fish feels in your hand will translate into how it feels in the mouth, that is, its texture. By touching the fish ever so gently, you should be able to identify and reject those fish that are undercured or overcured, to tell whether the fish is fresh or has been frozen, and to determine whether it will be tough or tender, firm or mushy. Taste: Finally, the trained purveyor should have developed a palate that will confirm that these fish, which have passed all other sensory tests, are worthy of sale to consumers. The smoke should be naturally rich and deep, not sharp and tasting of chemicals, and the salt should be balanced throughout the fish and should enhance rather than mask the flavor.
It took me about five years to become a true smoked-fish expert and to earn the fish smokers’ respect. I was relieved that it hadn’t taken the ten years my father had predicted. When Niki and Josh came into the business, their internships were five years as well.
The Herring Pairing
What would Grandpa Russ have thought about this event? He arrived in America in 1907 and began selling herring for five cents apiece from a pushcart on the Lower East Side. Now look what his great-grandchildren had come up with.
“Who the hell is going to pay sixty-five dollars to eat herring for three hours? Are you crazy? Your great-grandfather must be rolling over in his grave.” That was my response when I was first told by Niki and Josh about the Russ & Daughters Herring Pairing, an event that was created to be an annual celebration of the arrival of the season’s first catch of Holland herring. “And what the hell is a herring pairing, anyhow?”
“Dad, you just don’t get it,” sighed Niki. “It’s not just about herring.” I have to admit I didn’t get it at first. “And by the way,” she added, as proof that I didn’t know what I was talking about, “we’re already sold out.” Niki and Josh loved to point out that I had become a dinosaur in this business. Here was a perfect example.
On an early summer evening several years ago, three hundred people gathered at the Astor Center, a culinary arts venue in Lower Manhattan, where they paid sixty-five dollars per person to sample eight different types of herring, each paired with specially selected vodkas, whiskeys, and other more exotic spirits.
Chef Wylie Dufresne, famous for his molecular cooking, created a soup made from herring frozen with liquid nitrogen and then pulverized; he garnished the soup with nasturtium flowers. Composer, musician, and performer John Zorn played his original compositions of New Age klezmer music. Individual tables were set up to display each of the various herrings: schmaltz, matjes, and rollmops; herring pickled in cream sauce, in wine sauce, in curry sauce, and in mustard and dill. There was an ice sculpture (in the shape of a fish, of course) on which the first-of-the-season Holland herrings were displayed. A photographer was taking sepia-toned portraits for those who wanted a memento of the evening. And the Russ family was there to serve and to schmooze. The crowd was a mix of celebrities from the art, literary, and culinary worlds; most were longtime or enthusiastically new Russ & Daughters customers. No tourists, no curiosity-seekers. This was an event celebrating herring, Russ & Daughters, and New York itself. And there I was, watching three hundred people sliding herrings down their throats with the gusto of sea lions being fed at Sea World. It was beautiful. Everyone there was happy to share the evening, the food, and their stories.
Perhaps out of need but more likely out of guilt, Niki gave me an assignment for the evening: I would speak to groups of thirty attendees at a time culled from the main crowd. I was to do this three to four times during the evening. I should not be “too preachy, or too schmaltzy,” Niki instructed. “Keep it short, maybe fifteen to twenty minutes for each presentation. And light, not too much information. Be informative but don’t be long-winded. You know what to do, Dad.” I was flattered by her trust in me, but, actually, I didn’t. Although the Russ family has been selling herring and smoked fish for more than one hundred years, a celebrity-filled, media-friendly herring-pairing event was not part of the family tradition as handed down by Grandpa Russ.
While talking to the first group of guests, I saw their eyes glaze over and their hands furtively checking iPhones as I lectured on the life cycle and mating habits of Clupea harengus, the North Atlantic herring species. To regain the attention of my audience, I dropped the herring biology lesson and instead told the story of our family: how herring brought Grandpa Russ to America; how his three pretty daughters had to sell herrings in his store rather than go to college; how their husbands were expected to do the same; how they worked six and seven days a week, ten to twelve hours a day, so that their children wouldn’t have to sell herring for a living; how the store remained on the Lower East Side when most of the customers had moved away and the neighborhood spiraled into despair; and how well-educated members of the third and fourth generations worked in other professions before feeling the emotional tug of the family business and returning to carry on the Russ family traditions. Suddenly, I had everyone’s attention. My presentation was a hit.
The evening’s great success made a simple statement that everyone who attended recognized: No matter how the world around us is changing, there is something lovely and meaningful about people getting together to share a food experience, and there is something special about a family that is dedicated to sharing their herring products and their lives with others. There will always be herring to sell on the Lower East Side, and there will always be a Russ around to sell it. I think—no, I’m sure—that Grandpa Russ would have kvelled at this evening’s event, because it was herring that had brought him to America, herring that enabled him to provide for his family, and herring that made his customers happy.
In Danish, herring is called sild. In Swedish, sill. In French, hareng. In German, Hering. In Italian, aringa. In Spanish and Portugese, arenque. In Polish, sledz. In Russian, seld. In Greek, righa. In Turkish, ringa. And in Japanese, it’s kadoiwaski. Most cuisines have some version of herring in their culinary lexicons. Herring is adaptable and versatile, lending itself to various food preservation techniques—salting, drying, smoking, pickling, and even burying it in the ground. And it can be prepared in a multitude of ways: chopped, fried, baked, pickled, and immersed in sauces.
Throughout the world, eating herring and smoked fish at a gathering of friends and family is not uncommon. The Jews call it forshpeis, the Swedes call it smörgåsbord; both mean “appetizers.” Sometimes the herring cultures cross paths.
From Humble Herring to Haute Cuisine
In the early 1990s I received several invitations to dine at the Swedish consulate on the Uppe
r East Side. The consul and his wife, extremely charming people, were promoting Swedish products in the United States, and they were eager to have some of their fish and cheese products sold in our store. Dinners at the consulate always began with starters of cheese, herring, aquavit, and song. I discovered that there were herring preparations beyond the pickled, schmaltz, matjes, and chopped versions available at Russ & Daughters. Until those dinners, I thought the only sauce for herring was cream sauce, but I soon became a fan of herring in curry sauce; in mustard and dill sauce; in sherry, ginger, and lemon sauce; and in tomato and fennel sauce.
I had long been thinking that herring deserved to be restored to its rightful place in the pantheon of fish. In Northern Europe herring played a role in the creation of political and economic alliances (the Hanseatic League, an alliance of cities and their merchant guilds, dominated trade from the thirteenth to the sixteenth centuries), caused wars (England vs. the Netherlands, 1652–54), and is used to this day in symbolic offerings to monarchs (the first herring of the season is formally presented each year to the Dutch royal family). I wanted to reverse the general disdain in which herring is held by second- and third-generation Jews. (“Ugh! Don’t make me eat herring!”) I had a dream that I could become the Ray Kroc of herring, that there would be McHerrings in every community. Millions of people would pass through the Arc de Herring.
At one of the consulate dinner parties I asked to meet the chef who had prepared the herrings. Out of the kitchen came Ulrika Bengtsson. She was dressed in her chef’s whites, but she could easily have stepped out of a Swedish travel brochure: twentysomething, blond, and beautiful. Her personality was equally attractive: she was smiley, animated, and positive. There were lots of reasons to fall in love with Ulrika (professionally, of course), but my heart was forever hers when she prepared her family recipe of herring in parchment for me. (See recipe on this page.) Potatoes, onions, and butter are layered between pickled herring fillets on parchment paper. The parchment packages are folded and crimped at the edges, placed on a baking sheet, and then baked for twenty minutes. Ulrika told me to stand directly over the parchment package when it was removed from the oven and opened. The aroma carried by the rising steam filled my nostrils and then headed directly into my soul. Ulrika may have been smelling her childhood in Sweden, but I was experiencing the aroma of my roots. In the early years of the last century, a Lower East Side housewife would buy a herring wrapped in newspaper, take it home to the tenement apartment, and then add potatoes and onions before putting it into the coal-fired stove. What emerged was dinner for the entire family.
I wanted to share my passion for herring with others. Soon the herring showcase at Russ & Daughters had not five but fifteen different herring preparations. We got newspaper and television coverage. During the Swedish Midsummer Festival, Ulrika, in traditional Swedish dress and with a garland of flowers in her hair, appeared on the Food Network to promote our herring products. When customers came to the store, I eagerly watched for their reactions to the new offerings and the expanded display. Their expressions ranged from disorientation to disdain. I stood behind the counter and offered samples, suggestions, and my shpiel: “Buy one of each and serve it to your guests on black bread or crackers. The Jews call it forshpeis; the Swedes call it smörgåsbord.” The most frequent customer response was “Interesting,” which would be said flatly and without much conviction. They reluctantly tasted my offerings but bought the herrings they were used to: schmaltz, matjes, pickled in cream sauce, or chopped. I gave it six months and then reduced the fifteen herring offerings in our showcase to five. Ulrika went off to create her own eponymous restaurant on the Upper East Side.
Fast-forward to 2002, when the esteemed New York Times journalist R. W. (“Johnny”) Apple Jr., who had retired from writing about international affairs, was traveling and writing about international foods. In an article titled “Herring, the Fish That Roared,” he wrote about eating herring in Scandinavia. He advised readers who couldn’t get to Norway or Sweden to visit “Ulrika’s restaurant for a herring meal” and Russ & Daughters, “the city’s herring-to-go headquarters.” The power of The New York Times as the newspaper of record is legendary. And it turns out that this power also extends to shaping food tastes. Suddenly, the same customers who had chided me for stepping outside my traditional culinary boundaries were asking, “What happened to the herring in curry sauce you used to have?” We didn’t become the McHerring sellers of my dreams, but Russ & Daughters did go back to selling more than five different types of herring and herring preparations. We increased it to ten, though, not back to fifteen. We do know our customers.
All Kinds of Herring: What’s Not to Like?
In the beginning there was schmaltz herring. In German and Yiddish, schmaltz means “fat.” The Clupea harengus from the cold waters of the North Atlantic were especially fatty, abundant, and suitable for preserving by submerging them in salt brine and packing them in large wooden barrels. (Due to health regulations, the barrels are now made of plastic, not porous wood.) From the 1600s to the 1900s, the Dutch and the British largely controlled the North Atlantic herring trade. Today it’s Iceland and Norway. Nowadays the British are better known for their passion for kippers, salted and smoked herring that they eat with “bangers” (sausages). Oliver Sacks, the famous English neurologist, writer, and all-around genius, has said that his favorite meal is a schmaltz herring from Russ & Daughters. He was raised on schmaltz herring in England, where his father, a physician, ate them every day. This family was onto something. Unlike the fat in meat, which clogs the arteries, fish fat is high in cholesterol-lowering omega-3 fatty acids. This probably explains why on Sunday mornings Russ & Daughters is filled with cardiologists waiting to buy herring.
Schmaltz herring—salt-cured, barrel-stored fatty fish—not only became a staple on every Eastern European Jewish table as an inexpensive source of protein but also became a part of Jewish folklore, and even provided inspiration to some Jewish artists. When asked to describe his childhood, the Russian-born artist Marc Chagall said, “It smelled of herring.” No wonder. His father worked in a salt herring factory. His mother stocked herring in her small grocery store. Herring even appears in some of his paintings, as flying fish. Now Marc Chagall’s granddaughter is a Russ & Daughters customer. Across the counter, we have discussed the commonality of our ancestral roots: herring.
Matjes means “maiden,” and it refers to young, pre-spawning herrings generally fished in the North Sea. The Swedes marinate them in brown sugar and cloves, which imparts a sweet-and-salty flavor. The Germans preserve them in vegetable oil, while the French prefer to smoke them and serve them over warm potatoes.
But the premier herring experience has to be the Hollandse Nieuwe. This is the spring catch of Dutch matjes herring, which is prized for its high-fat, low-salt content and its buttery texture. Traditionally, the Dutch auction off the first barrel of fish caught every year. The proceeds of the auction are donated to charity; the barrel of fish is presented to the Queen. Recently, the first barrel fetched €50,000, roughly $61,000. For all of its gastronomic glory, matjes herring is the street food of Amsterdam and other Dutch cities. Sold by vendors from stalls, it is served in a hot dog–style bun and covered with chopped egg and onion. A purist, however, will hold it by the tail and lower it into his or her open mouth.
Pickled herring follows Jews of European background from the cradle to the grave. Cut-up pickled herring fillets, smothered in cream sauce and onions, are often served at brises, baby namings, bar and bat mitzvahs, weddings, and funerals. Its versatility allows it to be accompanied by a wide variety of sauces: wine, cream, mustard and dill, curry. The origins of some of these sauces are cloudy. The Jews thought they had invented herring in cream sauce, but it was really the Swedes. The Swedes claimed to have invented herring in mustard and dill, but it was really the French. The Swedes did in fact invent somstrumming. No one else would have thought of it: canned herring buried in the ground and not eaten u
ntil the can is fully swollen. Getting past the smell is considered a Swedish rite of passage.
Displayed on a top shelf in the front of our store is an old piece of equipment. When I ask customers to guess its use, rarely do they get it right. It’s an apple peeler/corer, used in bakeries for apple pies or strudel. At Russ & Daughters, it was used for three generations to core and peel apples for chopped herring salad. Granny Smith apples—the only kind to use, according to Grandpa Russ—impart a tart-tangy counterbalance to the sweetness of the pickled herring. We’ve been selling our old-fashioned chopped herring since the 1930s. Some consider it a spread and schmear it on rye or pumpernickel bread. Others serve it on a plate garnished with chopped hard-boiled egg and a dollop of sour cream, or with raw or pickled onions and boiled potatoes with chopped dill. However you serve it, chopped herring remains one of the true great noshes.
Bagels, Lox, and Cream Cheese
A Martian crash-lands his little spaceship at the corner of Orchard and Rivington Streets on the Lower East Side. When he climbs out, he sees that one wheel is missing. He decides to look for a replacement and notices a group of stores. As luck would have it, he passes a store that has a lot of appropriately sized wheels in the window. He goes inside. Moishe is at the counter.
“I would like to buy a wheel,” the Martian says.
“We don’t sell wheels,” Moishe replies.
“Then what’s that in the window?”
“Those are bagels.”
“What do you do with them?”
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