A "Schmaltzy" Evening in Greenwich Village

A tagine pan, a hand-crank meat grinder, and borscht…all rather pedestrian things, but to some of the storytellers at “Village Schmaltzy” these evoke a storehouse of memories. Memories of eras and people, now long gone, but still impactful enough to counsel and advise from the beyond. The stories have embedded themselves into lives like a sign left by a signet ring on a dollop of hot wax that was dripped onto the flap of an envelope. These memories left their mark, and on a misty, drizzly evening in New York City, they flooded the room and enveloped us as a group of people who work with food, write about food, and just love food, listened and related them to the stories in our own heads.

One of the pleasures of working from home is that on days that are chilly, damp, and grey, you can huddle in your home office and thank your stars that you don’t have to venture out into the wilds. And so it was for me a few nights ago, until I remembered that I had purchased a ticket to “Schmaltzy.” How could I pass up an event sponsored by The Jewish Food Society, an organization that wants to preserve Jewish heritage through food and bills this event as being “kind of like the Moth, but with knishes?”

David Lebovitz

It was more than appropriate that this foodie event was held in a Greenwich Village brownstone known as the Salmagundi Club — the name salmagundi being attributed to a stew that was served to the many artists and students who were members back in the late 1800s. We were a group of about 50, drinking our “Schmaltzy Cocktails" in a grand room in this very regal Italianate-style building, standing very close together, amidst walls that were covered with paintings. And there, out of the corner of my eye, I spied David Lebovitz. He was not a speaker, but like me, a listener and an eater. When you work with food, you never tire of hearing about.

How could I pass up an event sponsored by The Jewish Food Society that bills itself as being “kind of like the Moth, but with knishes?”

We were promised five dishes and five stories from Greenwich Village residents for whom food is life, with the stories being the “amuse bouche” of the evening. The wonderful appetizer was most definitely the iconic New York Times restaurant critic, Mimi Sheraton. The diminutive Ms Sheraton (I don’t know why I expected her to be “bigger”) regaled us with her memories of her days living on 12th Street amongst other culinary notables like Madhur Jaffrey and James Beard. “Most everything is celebrated or mourned over a meal,” she said, adding that when her mother would hear of a death in the family, her response was usually, “I’ll call the butcher.” Her remembrance of cold borscht on a hot day, when she announced to her parents that she was going to marry Clark Gable (she was eight at the time) was priceless, and the vision of the pink borscht splashing out of the bowl when her disapproving father banged on table brought back memories similar to the “loud” meals in my own parents’ home.

Mimi Sheraton

I don’t believe that the featured chefs and restaurateurs were truly writers by trade, but as they spoke of the people in their lives who served as teachers and mentors, they waxed poetic. Their words came alive with color and texture and emotion. It’s ironic that those who had the biggest influence on them were not famous by any stretch of the imagination—they were not celebrity chefs—they were family—mothers and grandmothers. Old school educators who taught them by doing and infused their lives, not just with sugar and spice, but with love and care. These speakers came from all areas of the globe—from Israel to Brooklyn, and their teachers came from such vastly different places as Russia and Egypt and Morocco, but the essence of their experiences were similar enough they may well have all grown up on the same street.

Clove Rugelach from Zucker Bakery

Following the heartfelt stories came the fruits of their labor. From Nir Mesika, who cooked shakshuka for everyone at his grandmother’s shiva, we had her Egyptian Sofrito, a hearty short rib and potato stew. Stacey Harwood-Lehman brought her Kasha Varnishkas, glistening with fat and studded with onions and mushrooms. Ed Schoenfeld brought his crackling, crisp Pastrami Eggrolls. Zohar Zohar, who said people love her bakery because it smells like home, brought her chocolate striped Clove Rugelach, and Marissa Lippert brought her grandmother Bebe’s Apple Kuchen. Each dish brought to the event its own flavor and story, but could it be possible that because we knew the story, the flavor was even more heightened? Could it have been that because each bite carried with it a tradition and history that spanned miles and generations that the food tasted even better? Do we appreciate food more when we can almost feel all the symbolic hands that created it? Absolutely! The food we feasted on at “Schmaltzy” was anything but—it was magical. A rainy night did not stand a chance against all that.

Nir Mesika of Timna Restaurant

  

The Great New Jersey Pizza Crawl

As the impending arrival of Hurricane Hermine did its best to throw a wrench into our plans to participate in the “Second Annual Crab Cracking Fest” at Mud City down the Jersey Shore (yes, in my adopted state of New Jersey we say "down the shore"),  we came up with an alternate plan. 

To me, eating crabs, salad, and drinking beer sounded like an activity that would not prevent me from getting into a bathing suit, post-eating fest, but I knew the alternate plan of going on a pizza crawl and consuming copious amounts of dough, cheese, sausage and olive oil would have the exact opposite effect. Regardless, and since it was Labor Day weekend after all, and summer bathing suit season was as good as dead anyway, I acquiesced.

The drive from Jersey City down to the areas we were targeting, Robbinsville and Bordentown, all in the vicinity of Trenton, did not take nearly as long as I anticipated. The dark clouds could be seen above, but my hubby assured me that we were not in the path of the storm. We were on a mission to find the “best” version of “Tomato Pie,” that mysterious delicacy that the area was known for. (I say that lightly, since, I imagine there are other things the area is known for, but they were not on our itinerary.) Our first stop was Papa’s, a very homespun-looking place in Robbinsville, complete with Tiffany lighting and low-maintenance decor. They claim to be “oldest family-run pizza restaurant in the USA," but since we were on a tasting tour and not on a fact-checking tour, we couldn’t validate the accuracy of the claim…and we didn’t care to. We came for the pizza! 

We’d heard Papa’s made something called a Mustard Pie, and that was what we ordered, along with one called Italian Flag—ricotta, spinach, roasted peppers. Both came out of the oven piping hot: The Mustard Pie was a traditional plain pizza with a distinct bite of mustard hiding beneath the cheese. It was different, and while there might be a place for it in the annals of pizzadom, I think I’ll stick with mustard-less pies in the future. The ricotta on the Italian Flag was the creamiest ricotta I had ever tasted. Not spicy at all—probably could have used some hot pepper, but that was my fault, not Papa’s. Bottom Line: The crust on both varieties was excellent; crisp, not too thin. Had I lived closer, the Italian Flag, with a few sprinklings of hot pepper flakes, would be a regular favorite.

Our next stop was Palermo’s. It is off the side of the highway in Bordertown, and so nondescript that we overshot it and had to backtrack to get there. Their Tomato Pie had the thinnest (but not the crispiest) crust of all we'd tasted. The sauce was a bit sweet, and the cheese “layer” was barely discernible, but the combo worked. This was what I envisioned a “tomato pie” would be like. It was not your standard cheese-laden slice, and it was quite good.

De Lorenzo’s in Hamilton was our next stop. It came highly recommended and it was there that we encountered our first glitch. The place did not open until 4 pm and it was only 3 pm. It could be dangerous getting in the way of some die-hard pizza tasters, but in the interim we walked around Bordertown, and brushed up on some Revolutionary War history. When we returned to De Lorenzo's  a little after four, the place was jumping! As unslick as Papa’s atmosphere was, De Lorenzo’s was the exact opposite. We’d heard that they've been in business since 1947, but this was obviously a new location, trying to attract a different crowd. We took our pizza (half sausage and black olive and half plain) to go. 

 I read that De Lorenzo’s “burns” their crust if you don’t warn them, and since we didn’t, they did. I however, like my crust well done, so no worries. I am a fan of this type of pizza. The crust was closer to the Neapolitan-style pizzas you find in Italy; rough and bubbly and alternately flecked with burnt spots. This pizza was more artisanal than the old-school types. The sausage was tasty, but not well-done enough to my liking, which was so ironic since the crust was way past done.

As we toyed with the idea of venturing on, we decided to visit a place hubby had read about that was closer to home: Satillo’s in Elizabeth; known for its Sicilian—And while comparing Sicilian to thin crust is akin to comparing apples to oranges, we rationalized that this was a rather unscientific study anyway (and besides, it's the hubby's favorite). Around a corner, down something like a driveway, Satillo’s had a lot of, shall we say, “character.”  The pizza was huge, and well-done at our request. I am not a real fan of Sicilian—too doughy, but as Sicilian goes, this one was okay. Very saucy, very cheesy. The crust was not as crisp as I liked it, but the melted cheese was nice and stringy when you bit into it. and pulled away. (Pizza mavens will know just what I'm talkin' about.) 

As we headed home, the suggestion of trying just one more place was vetoed by one of us…guess which one. I felt I was supplied with enough ammunition with which to make my recs. And so, here they are:

Best crust: Papa’s 

Best sauce: Palermo’s 

Best all-around: De Lorenzo’s (They also get a star for atmosphere.)

Did I learn anything from this culinary crawl other than that my pants do get tight after eating slice after slice of pizza? Yes…Pizzeria owners are like mothers, they each claim their baby is the best. I've never met a pizza I didn't like, but I have met pizzas I did not love. I'm still partial to NYC pizza, and Motorino is my fave, but I do have to send a shout out to Otto in Harvard Square. Their Butternut Squash Pizza (probably a blasphemy here in NY) still calls my name to this day.

 I predict that I will be coerced into going on more pizza crawls in the future, but not before a few sessions at the gym. I hear they make a mean pizza in Tucson, so I'll add it to the bucket list.

BOOK REVIEW: Blood, Bones & Butter

During the past few months I have been taking a “Food Memoir” writing class, and I've been enjoying it immensely. Not only has it reawakened my interest in writing, but it has introduced me to a wonderful group of people with whom I can now share my feelings, thoughts, and drafts on all things Memoir. Another aspect of the class has helped expand my world of published food memoirs. One of the most recent I have read has been “Blood, Bones & Butter” by Gabrielle Hamilton, owner of the much-lauded New York restaurant Prune. If my writing was one-tenth as good as Ms. Hamilton’s, I would be “money,” as they say.

In this beautifully written book, Ms. Hamilton details her journey, with all the literal and metaphorical twists and turns, that would eventually lead her to the present. It is a truly engaging story, sometimes blatantly gritty and infuriating, sometimes heart-wrenching, and it is crafted to perfection. The pages are virtually dripping with imagery so vivid, you feel as though you are in the story. There were many chapters that left me detesting the author, and thinking that I would never want to set foot in her restaurant. And just as often another chapter would bring me right back to wishing I could dine there immediately. This tale does very little to endear the reader to the writer, but I do recommend this book to lovers of food and lovers of good writing.