HUNGRY GERALD

HG’s late mother, a woman who grew up in pogrom plagued Czarist Russia, believed that all non-Jews harbored an ineradicable hatred of Jews. HG found this ridiculous, but understandable given her background, and cited BSK as an example of a non-Jew devoid of any trace of ethnic, racial or religious animosity. “Just wait,” warned HG’s mother. That’s why, after almost a half-century of marital bliss, HG was startled by an incident last week. HG suggested a breakfast of post-Passover matzo brie. (For the uninitiated, matzo brie is an Ashkenazi Jewish staple — a mix of softened matzos and beaten eggs fried into crisp pancakes. When sprinkled with ground pepper and coarse salt, they are heavenly. Alternatively, sweet toothers like them with a pour of maple syrup.) BSK’s response: “Matzo brie is disgusting. Tastes like eggy old pieces of cardboard.” Wow. Could this be latent anti-semitism rearing its ugly head after all these years? HG then recalled BSK’s distaste for the chicken fat drenched food at Sammy’s Roumanian Restaurant in New York and her luke warm response to kishka (a goose or chicken neck stuffed with garlic and chicken fat enhanced matzo meal). And now this blistering attack against one of the cornerstones of the Jewish table…HG responded angrily: “So, BSK if you are through delighting in Mein Kampf you might want to browse the Protocols of the Elders of Zion and embroider your nightie with swastikas.” HG continued in this vein until BSK exploded: “Go on with this craziness and I’ll cover you in tuna melt and freeze you in a lime Jello mold.” HG has desisted. An uneasy peace prevails.

HG has often devoted some lyrical prose to the triumphs of Jewish/ Eastern European/ Ashkenazi cuisine. Smoked fish; bialys and bagels. Savory brisket with lots of gravy. Real pastrami. Matzo ball soup. Chopped liver (don’t spare the chicken fat and top it with grieben–bits of rendered fat chicken skin); tzimmes (a pungent, caramelized carrot stew); karnatzlack (cigar shaped broiled hamburgers studded with onion and garlic). Many other meaty, fragrant, hearty dishes. And, of course, all the “Dairy” delicacies HG posted about earlier.

However, objectivity forces HG to mention some culinary travesties of the Chosen Few: Lungen stew. Essentially, this was cow’s lung stewed with garlic and onions. Tasted like thick rubber bands. Another was (HG spells phonetically from Yiddish): P’tcha. This was a kosher version of the French tete de veau. Nu. Nu. Don’t ask. Don’t even look.

Then there were the vegetables served in Jewish restaurants (kosher and non-kosher). Canned carrotsandpeas. Pronounced as one word. Nasty stuff. Limp string beans. Equally terrible. HG believes this was a bow to American ideas of healthy eating. Sammy’s, the chicken fat-drenched eatery on the Lower East Side, deals in nostalgia and garlic. Outside of fried potatoes and chopped eggplant, there isn’t a vegetable on the menu. Nary a lettuce leaf. Brave Sammy’s refuses to participate in the American version of healthy eating. HG fears Bloomberg may ban it.