“Shrimpers and rice are very nice. Hold tight. Hold tight. Hold tight. Hold tight. Foo-doo-racka-sacka. I want some seafood Mama.” Yes, the inimitable Fats Waller sang the great Sidney Bechet masterpiece, “Hold Tight (Want Some Seafaood Mama) with brio. There are plenty of great food related songs because, well food and music go together like chicken and rice.
HG’s late, beloved father had a favorite performer on the Yiddish vaudeville and musical stage: Aaron Lebedoff (sometimes spelled “Lebedeff”). He was famous for his rendition of “Roumania, Roumania.” In this bravura piece, Aaron extolls the virtues of mamaliga (a Roumanian version of polenta), karnezelach (cigar shaped hamburgers containing abundant chopped onion and garlic) and Roumanian wine. The singer describes Roumania as “ah lahnd a zeeseh, ah shayneh” (a sweet and beautiful land). Forgotten is the fact that this “sweet” land was the site of the terrible Kishinev pogroms in which scores of Jews were murdered.
HG has always been bemused by the fact that once Jews arrived in the United States (The Goldeneh Medina) they looked back on the blood soaked Old Country with misty eyed nostalgia. “Odessa Mama,” “Beltz, Mein Shtetele Beltz,” are just two of scores of immigrant songs celebrating various Old County cities and villages. Even HG’s normally clear eyed father could go on at length about the splendor of Odessa ice cream and the physical beauty of the Belarus countryside.
When HG accompanied his father to the Lower East Side to purchase little HG’s winter wardrobe of corduroy knickers and a heavy tweed mackinaw they often lunched at restaurants that advertised “Roumanian Broilings” in Yiddish and English signs. HG was (and is) very fond of the karnezelach and chicken fat fried potatoes he devoured there. Inevitably, the restaurant sound track had Lebedoff singing his signature song. There were many Roumanian restaurants on the Lower East Side. Only the schmaltz soaked Sammy’s survives. You can hear Lebedoff singing “Roumania, Roumania” on YouTube. Helluva performer. Helluva song.
If you enjoy HG’s teary-eyed musing about New York of yesteryear, you’ve got to read the masterpiece of this genre. HG refers to Pete Hammil’s 1987 article “The New York We’ve Lost” that appeared in New York Magazine. An amazing bit of writing that weaves an entire history of New York into only a few brilliantly written pages. These are the journalists who wrote well about the uniqueness of New York’s people and places: E.B. White, Joseph Mitchell, Jimmy Breslin, A.J. Liebling, Meyer Berger and Pete Hamill. Of them all, Hamill is HG’s favorite because of his eye for detail and wide range. Who else but Hamill could remember the Bushwicks and House of David baseball teams and the Brownsville gym where Al “Bummy” Davis trained under the eyes of Murder, Inc.?
A few days after Valentine’s Day, HG was engaged in finishing the last of dinner’s cabernet with some chocolate truffles (both Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s carry these goodies that go so nicely with red wine). As appropriate in the weeks that surround the Day of Amorous Pursuit, HG’s thoughts turned to the changes brought to courtship by our digital age. Namely, the proliferation of online dating services that promise happy relationships, future mates, etc. And, this led HG to recall Irving Fields, a very old fashioned, eccentric matchmaker in the traditional old country Jewish style. Irving (not to be confused with the pianist of same name) called my public relations office (this was sometime in the 70’s) and told my receptionist that he needed a publicist and HG was highly recommended. Cut to the chase. HG went to Irving’s office on W. 42nd Street. Sign on the door said: “Irving Fields, Matchmaker. Enjoy Matrimonial Happiness.” A helluva consumer promise, thought HG. The office smelled of a vile, flowery scent and was bedecked with nasty artificial flowers. There were numerous wedding photos on the wall.
Irving himself was a beguiling visual. A small man with a thin (obviously dyed) black moustache and a head covered with what first seemed to be a patch of (obviously) dyed black hair. But, what was most astounding was that instead of dyed hair or a toupee, Irving had simply painted his skull with India ink. He was a voluble fellow with a very thick Yiddish accent and he referred to himself in the third person as “Oiving Filds.” He set HG straight about his business: “Oiving Filds brings heppiness — merridge heppiness to good pipple who udderwise would be sed and lonely. A grown man comes to Oiving Fields and wants a lady to fool around wit — I trow him out. Feh!”
HG was impressed by his business scruples. Irving said that a good matchmaker — “like Oiving Fields” — was the key to marital happainess. “You dunt find the right poysin in dentz halls and night clubs.”
Needless to say, HG was richly amused and agreed to conduct a one-month publicity campaign for this odd fellow (HG thought Fields would provide some laughs and a funny story for some of New York’s feature writers—and HG was right. Using a PR expression, Irving got some ink).
Irving was a gentleman. He paid HG is advance and “in cesh.” HG remembers Irving’s parting statement: “If Merilyn Monroe would hev come to Oiving Filds, beliv me, she’d be alive today.”
Dan Fields - Irving Field's Nephew Who Now Runs The Business
When HG is not wallowing in old fogey nostalgia about New York food way back when, he happens to be a guy on the culinary cutting edge. This fact was borne out this week when New York Magazine did an article about the Reuben sandwich just days after HG reported on this much-mishandled treat. New York reported a Reuben now costs $15-18. Wow, that is a meaty escalation. The article was illustrated with photos of some fairly traditional Reubens. But, there were some aberrations: a turkey Reuben and a short ribs Reuben. Pleasant sandwiches indeed — but not, as HG has emphatically stated, Reubens.
Brodetto means “little soup” in Italian. Strange. That’s because there’s nothing small about this Italian fish soup in flavor or the number of sea ingredients that usually go into the dish. It is HG and BSK’s favorite fish soup. Among those who share their brodetto obsession is famed food wrier Mimi Sheraton. She recently did an article for the New Yorker about her search in Italy for the perfect brodetto. A brodetto can be simple or complex. It can contain a multitude of fresh fish, mussels, clams, squid, shrimp, etc. — or a single fish. BSK believes the best brodetto she ever had was at Little Italy’s Luna Restaurant (long gone) many decades ago. It was Brodetto di Merluzzo — brodetto with filets of delicate whiting. BSK recalls the fish broth was intense with sea flavor heightened by garlic, onions and vinegar. No tomatoes (unusual in a Neapolitan restaurant). There are many brodetto recipes online. Experiment. You will be rewarded with a wonderful soup.
A final note on Luna: It was one of “Crazy Joe” Gallo’s Manhattan hangouts. No liquor license. But, you tipped your waiter and he brought you a bottle of rough and ready chianti in a paper bag. You drank it out of a water glass.Other than the brodetto, the gangsters and the paper-bag Chianti the best thing about the Luna was its mural of the Bay of Naples. This type of primitive — yet bravura — mural was standard in many New York Italian restaurants and pizzerias. Must have given employment to many immigrant artists. But, what made the Luna mural memorable was the fact that the artist had pierced the canvas and backed it with lights giving the effect of twinkling stars over the Bay. Waiters proudly pointed out the effect if a hungry customer hadn’t noticed it.
HG would be derelict in his culinary duty if he didn’t point out two bright spots in the dim haze of present-day Little Italy. Di Palo’s Fine Foods at 200 Grand. Just great. While best known as one of the great cheese stores in the world, Di Palo continues to expand into offering the best salume, prosciutto and everything else Italian. A wonderful landmark that continues to thrive. Don’t be discouraged by the lines. The staff is very efficient and knowledgeable. The other bright spot is Caffe Roma at 385 Broome. Open since 1891, this institution is still run by descendents of the original owners. Have some espresso and a cannoli (best in New York). Take home a pound of pignolia cookies. This is a great spot for dessert after a Chinatown meal with friends.
A little to the north of what is traditionally termed Little Italy — and now called NOLITA — a little renaissance seems to be brewing with restaurants re-interpreting traditional Italian American fare. The bright star of the bunch is Torrisi Italian Specialties and its sister sandwich and lunch spot, Parm NYC. Initially started as a higher end lunch and sandwich place, Torrisi has become (according to critics and other folk) one of the most exciting restaurants in New York. HG has yet to try, but certainly will be tempted on his next trip to NY. Also noted (by SJ) is the great pizzas being churned out by Rubirosa NYC on Mulberry Street.
It’s sad. Manhattan’s Little Italy used to be a great place to eat, drink and stroll. No more. Now it’s filled with tourist trap restaurants, tour buses and various kitschy pastiches of homage to The Sopranos,The Godfather and Goodfellas. Nonetheless, Vincent’s Clam House (now named the Original Vincents Restaurant) survives at the corner of Mott & Hester. This was an HG favorite (and a favorite of many men closely monitored by the FBI). Superb scungilli (sea snails) salad. Scungilli was always pronounced “skuhnjeel” and the salad was composed of the sliced snails, very good olive oil, abundant chopped garlic and a squeeze of lemon. HG would shake some hot pepper flakes over it. Skuhnjeel, shrimp and clams were also served over linguini in a fiery marinara sauce. Good stuff late at night. Especially after some heavy boozing at Lower East Side bars. Vincent’s was traditional, patronized by the Little Italy establishment and visited by police, politicians and rough and ready gourmands from all the boroughs (and Joisey). Then a competitor arrived on Mulberry Street in 1972 — Umberto’s. Brooklyn gangster Joe “Crazy Joey” Gallo visited the interloper on April 7, 1972 and absorbed many bullets which left him decidedly dead. There were theories, of course. One was that he had offended the proprieties of Mafia executives. Culinary theoreticians said the rub out was inspired by his abandoning Vincent’s for Umberto’s Well, Umberto’s still exists a few blocks north of it original location. The food has descended, HG hears, but it is an obligatory stop for tour buses. The eatery is well decorated with news stories of the Gallo hit.
HG’s favorite skuhnjeel and hot sauce joint was not in Little Italy but in Chinatown on the corner of Mott and Bayard, unlikely location for a very Italian place but it thrived for decades. HG was first invited there by two Made Men (as HG’s Mom would say: “Don’t ask!”). There was a polite inquiry: “Do you like it hot?” HG responded positively and was presented with a bowl of red sauced shrimp and linguini. HG was rendered speechless as sweat poured into his eyes and scorched mouth. The Made Men were amused. If you fancy Italian sea food in the tradition you can try Vincent’s in the Howard Beach section of Queens or Vincent’s in Carle Place, L.I. HG doesn’t know if either has any connection with the Little Italy original. And, if you want to do some skuhnjeel at home you can obtain the frozen variety (harvested off Rhode Island) from Ruggiero Seafood in Newark or you can still find it fresh in the fish markets in Arthur Avenue in the Bronx or in Chinatown on Grand Street between Eldrige and Forsyth. Ignore the canned stuff (mostly Asiatic snails) and too mushy.
HG’s delightful pal, Lynn S., sent along a funny YouTube short film called A Reuben By Any Other Name. In the film, two contentious Jewish couples argue about the proper construction, history and etymology of the Reuben sandwich. Permit HG, a sage in such matters, to make the final decision. The Reuben sandwich is now ubiquitous, served virtually everywhere and, for the most part, very badly prepared. During HG’s days in New York the Reuben was only served at the classy Reuben’s Restaurant and Delicatessen (long departed) at 6 E. 58th Street in Manhattan. Arnold Reuben opened the first Reuben’s Restaurant in 1908 (there were a number of moves before the final landmark on E.58th). Legend has it that an actress working with Charlie Chaplin ordered the combination in 1914 and the Reuben was born. HG had it many times at that delightful eatery with crisp French fries and kosher dill pickles. It was the best.
Okay. What are the ingredients? Grilled Jewish rye bread coated with Russian dressing. Corned beef. Sliced swiss cheese. Sauerkraut. Like many great things, the ingredients are simple. But, in order to have that great sandwich — favored by significant figures like Charlie Chaplin, crime boss Arnold Rothstein and showman Billy Rose — all the elements have to be of top quality, the proportions need to be perfect and finally the bread needs proper grilling (not toasting!). Don’t cut corners and you’ll be rewarded with a classic taste of American regional cooking.
HG misses the high caloric New York breakfast treats of yesteryear. Greenberg’s Sticky Schnecken Buns. These honey, nut and cinnamon drenched little guys were more addictive than heroin. Sold by a shop — William Greenberg Jr. Deserts — on Madison Avenue, they were expensive and madly delicious. It took self discipline not to demolish an entire box before they were brought home. When the effects of weed smoking brought about a passion for sweet goodies, all senses cried out for the Greenberg’s product. Apparently Greenberg’s son is alive and well and making these wonderful buns according to his father’s recipe which are for sale HERE.
Croissants from the Sutter bakery on Greenwich Avenue in The Village. Flakey, crisp, outrageously buttery. Much superior to anything in Paris. BSK was partial to slices of Zito’s bread (from the old Bleecker Street bakery which closed in 2004) drenched with honey. With softly scrambled eggs, HG liked buttered Jewish rye or Pechter’s (or Stuhmer’s) pumpernickel (obtainable at Zabar’s).
Sometimes nothing tasted better than a warmed (not toasted) bialy liberally smeared with Daitch’s cream cheese (or Zabar’s scallion cream cheese). HG never fancied bagels. HG is concerned that bialy baking has entered a period of decline (are the old masters dead or basking in Florida sunshine?). Have not had a truly great bialy in years. Sadly, bialys shipped recently by HG’s much loved Russ & Daughters didn’t have that old time oniony zest. (SJ will interject now. The old time great bialy still exists at Kossar’s Bialys on Grand Street. A serious treat when warm from the oven and eaten whole right from a brown paper bag. Says SJ: You wouldn’t order fish from a baker, so don’t order bialys from an appetizing store.)
Possibly the best breakfast treat of all was the “pletzel.” This was a roll covered in baked onions. Good? As my Mom would say: “Nu,nu, don’t ask.” These were on the table at Jewish dairy restaurants like Ratner’s and Rappaport’s on the Lower East Side and at Jewish bakeries throughout The Bronx. Gone, all gone. HG’s eyes grow misty.
Yes, It’s cold and snowy in the lovely Italian city of Bologna. Some 18 inches of snow drifted down upon the city, smashing every meteorological record for the region. Gifted Daughter Lesley R., who resides in Bologna, reports that the Bolognese are puzzled. There are no snow plows. Few snow shovels. Some folks are trying to attack the drifts with brooms and the city is almost completely shut down. The photographs Lesley R. has sent show a bleak, frozen city and HG hopes that she is able to keep warm and full by stocking up from the few shops that have managed to open.
A storm in Bologna of all places has caused HG to muse about cold weather food. No, not the food prepared at home, but the food HG ate on the street or at lunch counters when the winds whistled from the Hudson, Harlem and East Rivers. During the Great Depression, little HG ate “Hot Mickeys” (roasted potatoes) shared with his buddies over an improvised wood fire in an empty lot. HG also bought, for a penny or two, hot sweet potatoes, chicken fat doused chick peas (“hayseh arbis”) that were served in a paper cone and the ubiquitous roasted chestnuts sold by street vendors. In later years HG favored the big bowls of steaming cabbage soup sold in bleak Ukrainian diners on the Lower East Side. Glorious Pho, a byproduct of the very inglorious Vietnam War, had not yet arrived.
But, the best cold beater HG ever had was on a chill December day in Bologna. This was a glass of espresso, liberally enriched with grappa, and topped with almost three inches of whipped cream. Virtually all of HG’s senses were warmed and delighted.
