Yesterday I reported that President Obama ordered a deli sandwich with mayo, assuming it was for him. I was wrong, and shouldn’t have assumed that. A Save the Deli source in the White House corrected the error. I’m quoting his email here:
“Fear not! I was also horrified when I first learned about this, and checked, turns out it was actually Kendrick Meek who ordered corned beef with mayo. The President ordered his with mustard (Axelrod’s influence, no doubt!). The confusion happened because technically the President ordered both, since he paid.”
My apologies to the President, his family, and America for the error. Allowing Congressman Meek to order his sandwich with mayo is still a minor sin (a time for leadership, if there ever was one), but my presumption blew mayogate way out of proportion.
I suppose this is a good time to announce that I’ll be leaving New York and moving back to Canada at the end of the month. No, I haven’t been exiled for dragging the President’s name through the mud. Just married to a lovely woman from the homeland. I’ll miss you NY, and your delis, of course.
Despite the fact that President Obama has been seen eating corned beef, on rye, with mustard at Manny’s Deli in Chicago, despite the fact that I actually visited the White House, and saw a signed photograph of Manny’s in Obama’s chief advisor’s office, despite the fact that this advisor, Lower East Side deli maven David Axelrod, runs much of the show inside the administration…the President of the United States made that cardinal sin of all American politicians…
He ordered his corned beef sandwich with mayonaise. Oy.
It has been widely reported that President Obama and U.S. Rep. Kendrick Meek stopped by Jerry’s Famous Deli on South Beach after their fundraiser at the Fontainebleau. Never mind that the Prez ordered one of two corned beef sandwiches with mayonnaise (oy!) — the biggest political sandwich blunder since presidential candidate Kerry went to Philly and asked for a cheesesteak sandwich with swiss cheese!
Like George McGovern and Bobby Kennedy before him, Obama made the mistake of asking for mayo, that technically kosher, but spiritually treyf condiment so abhorred by true deli lovers. But the New Times heaps further scorn for his choice of deli: Jerry’s Famous Deli, the big business deli that destroyed the Rascal House, Wolfie’s, and much of South Florida’s deli legacy.
I know it’s just a trivial matter of picking out a deli, but I’ll bet Bill Clinton’s aides would have seen to it that when he was going to make a comment about supporting small business, he’d do so in the confines of an actual small business, with real working class small business owners hugging him and glowing with appreciation (actually, he’d be hugging them, but you get the point).
Here at Save the Deli, we think the President still has a chance to regain our trust. I’ve just been informed that a new Jewish deli is opening in the DC area. The Uptown Deli is opening soon in Bethesda, MD, that military rich suburb outside DC, where the Prez surely goes to visit his doctor. Its owner, Howard Wasserman, is promising authentic Jewish deli fare, and he is doing something the President can surely support: opening a small business at the height of this recession. Pay Howard a visit Mr. Obama. For our sake and yours.
Uptown Deli
7905 Norfolk Ave
Bethesda MD 20814
301-961-5787
I’ve been told I’m kind of funny, which is the best compliment for me to hear. As a kid, my greatest dream was being on Saturday Night Live, and I spent a lot of time in front of the mirror imitating Dana Carvey characters. All of this helps explain my late exit from virginity.
But this Sunday I take to the esteemed stage of the People’s Improv Theatre (the PIT) in New York, as a guest on the Foodstuff Show with Brett and Ben, the funniest comedy duo focusing on food in the world (and yes, the only one). The Foodstuff Show came about this summer because actors, comedians, and budding diabetics Brett Wean and Ben Masten wanted to drain the seriousness out of food, and inject it with a big dose of laughter. They’ve got musical guests and comedy guests, and each show one food guest. That’s me this Sunday night. We’re going to be talking deli, and I’m told that I have to make the audience laugh or they’ll go on Amazon and bombard my book’s rating with one star reviews.
And a special musical guest. I’m not allowed to say who he is, but if you’re a fan of this band, you will certainly know him (or her).
And me, talking and joking about deli. Or maybe being dead serious and pulling an Andy Kaufman. Either way, should be fun.
It’s already being hyped in the Village Voice as “laughs for a slightly more refined palate”.
8pm on Sunday, August 22nd
Tickets $5 BUY THEM HERE
The People’s Improv Theater,
located at 154 West 29th Street, between 6th & 7th Avenue
When my fiancee and I met with our rabbi months before the wedding, he explained why the ceremony to sign the engagement contract (bedeking) and the actual marriage take place so close together. See, once they were separated by a year, but if something happened to the man during that year, the woman would never be able to marry. He could be drafted into the Tzar’s army, murdered by anti-Semites, or, in the words of the rabbi, “run off with a Polish milk maid”.
Basically, it’s been made Shiksa proof.
Yes, Shiksas, those tempting and beautiful women of the non-Jewish faith and lineage. Though other ethnic women (black, Asian, Latin American) technically count as Shiksas, what we’re really talking about here is white chicks. Think Betty Draper, or at least Annie Hall. Jewish men fall for Shiksas for many reasons, and often, these lovely women throw themselves into Jewish life with aplomb.
Such is the case with Tori, who blogs by the name The Shiksa in the Kitchen. Her husband is Israeli, keeps kosher, and so Tori has committed herself to delving into the world of Jewish food and cooking as completely as possible. There’s a cookbook on its way, and her blog is filled with photos, recipes, videos, and adventures in Jewish eating around the world.
Here she is at Katz’s…so her deli cred is bona fide:
Now, if we could only find her male equivalent. The Shaygets Garmento?
Considering San Francisco doesn’t have a kosher delicatessen, in theory, all its delis are treyf. But that doesn’t seem to be clear enough for Evan Bloom and Leo Beckerman, who will soon open Treyf Delicatessen in San Francisco.
Now before you call the local rabbi and start protesting, know that the name is tongue in cheek only. While not kosher, Treyf is going to be a classic Jewish deli in every sense, with nary a slice of pork in sight. The project’s evolution is outlined on the duo’s blog sfdelicatessen.blogspot.com, which includes the following mission statement:
It is our belief that San Francisco (and the Bay Area), home to some of the finest food and restaurants in the world, needs some good pastrami, pickles, and Babka (among other things). While we appreciate the Deli that exists here, we long for steaming hot, housemade pastrami cut by hand; would plotz for some earthy, shmaltz laden Kasha Varnishkas; would die for a decent black and white cookie.
There’s even photos detailing the home curing and smoking of their pastrami:
This looks promising. There’s been so much potential for a great roots delicatessen in San Francisco, though many have failed in recent years (the California Street Deli in the JCC, or the SF-NY Kosher Deli coming to mind). Could this be the one that hits it big? The actual opening is still months away, as Bloom and Beckerman seek out investors for the deli. If you’ve got some cash kicking around (and who doesn’t these days), perhaps this is a safer bet than those CDOs you’ve been eyeing.
Well amigos, it’s time to return to the roots. Back to Eastern Europe for me, as I leave for Romania and Hungary, reporting for a magazine to be named later. Should be fun. Hopefully I’ll find the lost temple of smoked meats. Or something.
Have a little story in Tablet today about the Romanian Jewish Steakhouse of yore:
In Its Prime
Recalling the heyday of the Romanian-Jewish steakhouse
With smoke from backyard grills perfuming our cities, the appetite once again turns to steak. This summer’s been extra meaty, thanks to Steak: One Man’s Search for the World’s Tastiest Piece of Beef, by journalist Mark Schatzker. To find out what makes a great steak Schatzker visited ranches and breeders across the United States, Japan, Argentina, and Europe, breaking down the science and culture of cattle rearing for taste with tremendous wit and detail, even going so far as to raise his own cattle. Having lived in Argentina for a few years (where I once ended the Yom Kippur fast with a barbecue), I know my way around a grill and a cut of beef, but I now see that I’m a rank amateur compared to Schatzker.
In the book, Schatzker documents a love of steak that he inherited from his father, a Polish Holocaust survivor who ate his first steak at a small-town northern Ontario restaurant in 1952 and hasn’t tasted anything as good since. The father’s experience was similar to that of many Jewish immigrants: In North America, they found that beef, a seldom-eaten luxury in Eastern Europe, was relatively cheap and readily available at local supermarkets. As newcomers settled into suburban houses with backyard grills, steak became a symbol of prosperity, a way of sharing in the affluence bestowed by citizenship in a new country.
Outside the house, the embrace and consumption of steak as emblematic of the American Dream manifested itself in the popularity of Romanian Jewish steakhouses, a culinary hybrid that’s all but extinct today. According to food writer Arthur Schwartz, whose grandfather was a waiter at Brooklyn’s Little Oriental steakhouse, Romanian steakhouses, many of them kosher, flourished around Delancey Street at the turn of the century, later moving uptown to the garment district (Lou G. Siegel’s was most famous) and out to the suburbs. In New York, he estimates there were a dozen or more at their peak in the 1950s, with several dozen spread out across the country in cities with large Jewish populations. They were a step up from the workingman’s delicatessen, a destination for a night out on the town but still within the reach of families who saved a bit.
Unlike the boiled, stewed, or even baked steaks cooks would prepare in Poland, Russia, or Hungary, the Romanians knew how to grill, and in the United States they created restaurants where the main course, of flame-grilled marbled rib steaks or juicy skirt steaks (also called Romanian Tenderloin) would be complemented by favorite appetizers including chopped liver, knishes, and gribenes, fried chicken skins, that would be shared by the table along with the ubiquitous buckets of coleslaw and kosher pickles. The closest you got to salad was chopped liver tossed with sliced radish. There would be karnatzelach, a garlicky beef sausage made with baking soda, which gives it a springy texture and delectable crust.
The only establishment of this ilk still standing is Sammy’s Roumanian Steakhouse, on New York’s Lower East Side. Ample shtick is served there along with the food—a keyboardist plays bar mitzvah music, everyone gets a T-shirt—but the setup is genuine: rec-room basement décor, sarcasm-tinged service, bottles of seltzer and jars of liquid schmaltz on the table, some of the finest chopped liver known to man, and flame-broiled cuts of meat loaded with sautéed onions. It is greasy, filling, overpriced. It is a blast.
As Jews climbed the socio-economic ladder, their steakhouses began to emulate those of the WASPs. Out went the cramped, rec-room look, and in came dimly-lit palaces of wood paneling and plush carpeting, often in the suburbs to which Jews moved in increasing numbers. Cocktail bars took a spot by the front, along with coat-check girls. Traditional dishes like p’tcha (jellied calves feet) were replaced by double-baked potatoes and iceberg salads. Kosher concerns faded, and non-kosher cuts like sirloin and filet were added to menus, as well as pork chops and shellfish. At Moishes in Montreal, one of the few high-end Jewish steakhouses still operating, waiters wheel out dessert carts at the end of the meal piled high with profiteroles and hot fudge sundaes.
Whether you visited Seymore Kaye’s in Queens, Duke Zeibert’s in Washington, or dozens of similar joints in Miami, Detroit, Chicago, Cleveland, or Toronto, these were the haunts where real-estate machers and garmentos rolled deep in mink and sable and the parking lot overflowed with Cadillacs. This was Jewish dining at its most extravagant—with restaurants that belied their customers’ eagerness to be fully assimilated. Diners got French service, with tuxedo-jacketed waiters in white gloves, but the Yiddish taste remained, and the breadbasket was filled with challah rolls, pumpernickel, and fresh rye. Women in pearls picked at chopped liver, but there was a jovial atmosphere of back-slapping and kibitzing, and it never felt stuffy.
The Romanian-style steakhouse slowly died out, replaced on the low end of Jewish steak consumption by Israeli shish kebab restaurants and at the high end by fancy glatt kosher steakhouses, such as Prime Grill in Manhattan. Both iterations lack Yiddish kitchen flair. One is a multicultural mishmash, with less herring and more miso-glazed black cod, and the other is resolutely Middle Eastern. Fine dining for the younger generations of Jews now means sushi or Italian, and steak no longer means freedom as much as it means fat.
Back in May, when New York got all riled up about signing Lebron James to the Knicks, the Carnegie Deli named a sandwich after him. Here’s owner Sandy Levine holding up the Lebron James MVP (pastrami, corned beef, brisket, and turkey, American cheese, lettuce, tomato stacked on rye bread):
Now that James is going to Miami, flame indeed is fleeting. As gossip site TMZ reported, Carnegie has dropped Lebron’s sandwich in disgust.
In related news, Bob Greene of CNN.com, uses the Stage Deli’s sandwiches to explain the fleeting nature of celebrity.
Writes Greene, who interviewed owner Steve Auerbach:
The triple-decker sandwiches at the Stage have traditionally been named for famous men and women. The idea is to appeal to customers whose eyes will be drawn to an item on the menu because of the celebrity associated with it.
So I asked Auerbach about the No. 8 — the sandwich called the Katie Couric. It features turkey, ham and swiss cheese.
It wasn’t always known as the Katie Couric, Auerbach said. Its name was changed in recent years from what it was formerly called. Diners, it seemed, were no longer quite as attracted to the old name of the No. 8:
The Marilyn Monroe.
Same with the No. 18 (turkey, chopped liver, lettuce, tomato, onion). It’s a hit, in large part because of the bigger-than-life New York figure for whom it is named: Alex Rodriguez. The A-Rod sandwich appeals to a new generation of customers who might not feel as strong a connection with what the same triple-decker was called until not so long ago:
The Joe DiMaggio.
So there you have it. One day you’re on top of the world, named as a sandwich, and the next you’re cast off the menu by Katie Couric. Such is the nature of the spotlight. Still, it will take a lot to unseat the Woody Allen’s of the sandwich naming world. If you do happen to get a sandwich named after you, do not handle it like Larry:
Last week I wrote about Diana, the counterwoman at Brooklyn’s Mile End, who broke the schmaltz ceiling for women in delis who are slicing meats. I asked you to provide me with evidence of another woman with a knife in her hand and pastrami in her heart.
Now, Brad Rubin of Chicago’s Eleven City Diner has answered. With not one, but two counterwomen, who happen to be sisters. Below is Gladis. Her sister Maria also works behind the counter. I’ve asked Brad for her Maria’s photo too.
A few years ago, the only smoked meat you could get in Toronto was the kind brought in from Montreal.
Then Caplansky’s entered the scene. Then the Stockyards started selling a pastrami sandwich. Then Goldin’s smoked meat appeared around town, and at the Free Times Cafe. Opinions and preferences began to fly. Each claimed their top spot. Their fans fought hard on the foodie blogs and message boards.
But now, the battle is going public. Because on July 25th, at 1pm, Caplansky’s, Goldin’s, and the Stockyards are bringing out the knives and the briskets, converging on the Wychwood Barns farmer’s market, and having an old fashioned duel for smoked meat supremacy.
The best part is that the proceeds will go toward the Stop, a wonderful organization combating hunger and malnutrition in the city, via education and advocacy in the kitchen and garden.
This is going to be huge. Get there early and get there hungry.
Where: Wychwood Barns, 601 Christie St. (Barn #1)
When: Sunday, July 25, 1 to 5 pm.
How much: Free. (Food and drink available for purchase; all proceeds go to The Stop.)
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