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Roots of the Deli

A visit to eastern Europe reveals the origins of the cured and smoked meats, matzo balls, pickles, and other beloved staples of Jewish delicatessens around the world By David Sax Photographs by Landon Nordeman

Kosher butchers Gyuri Rosenberg (center, with glasses) and Imre Rona Fleischman (navy shirt), with their staff in Budapest.

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row ing up in Toronto, my knowledge of Jewish delicatessens extended no further than Yitz’s Delicatessen, my family’s once-a-week staple. Yitz’s was our haven of oniony matzo ball soup, briny coleslaw, and towering corned beef sandwiches; a temple of worn Formica tables, surly waitresses, and hanging salamis. The dishes I ate there became my comfort food, and as I grew older, I started seeking out other Jewish delis wherever I went: Schwartz’s and Snowdon in Montreal (where I learned to appreciate the glories of smoked meat); Rascal House in Miami Beach (baskets of sticky Danish); Katz’s and Carnegie and 2nd Ave Deli in New York (Pastrami! Knishes!). By the time I finished writing the book Save the Deli, my battle cry for preserving these timepieces, I’d visited

 ’      in

Europe, but I hoped to find their inspiration close to two hundred Jewish delis across North America, with stops in Belgium, France, and the UK. I’d become the deli guy, the expert people came to with questions about everything from kreplach to corned beef. But for all my knowledge of Jewish delis, the roots of the foods served there remained a mystery to me. I’d learned that the word delicatessen derives from German and French and loosely translates as “delicious things to eat.” And I knew that when they began appearing in New York and other North American (continued on page 93) At left, a server at Caru’ cu bere in Bucharest. Facing page, matzo ball soup from Fülemüle in Budapest (see page 102 for a recipe).

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The family of home cook Eszter Bodrogi in early-20th-century Budapest. Facing page, apple, walnut, and poppy seed pastry (see page 107 for a recipe).

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(continued from page 88) c it i e s in the 1870s, Jewish delicatessens were little more than bare-bones kosher butcher shops offering sausages and cured meats. But as the American Jewish experience evolved away from that of eastern Europe’s, so did the Jewish delicatessen’s menu. Its flavors assimilated, and it turned into an American sandwich shop with a greatest-hits collection of Yiddish home-style staples: chopped liver, Dav id Sa x is the author of Save the Deli: In Search of Perfect Pastrami, Crusty Rye, and the Heart of the Jewish Delicatessen (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2009). He lives in Toronto.

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knishes, matzo ball soup. A few years ago, I visited Krakow, Poland, to start seeking out the roots of those foods. Once a major center of European Jewish spiritual life, Krakow’s Jewish population now numbers just a few hundred. The city’s historic Jewish quarter is largely supported by tourism, and while some restaurants, like the estimable Klezmer Hois and Alef, serve up decent jellied carp and beef kreplach dumplings that any deli lover will recognize, others traffic in nostalgia and stereotypes; how could I trust the food at an eatery with a gift store selling Hasidic figurines with hooked noses? There were once millions of

Ashkenazi Jewish kitchens in eastern Europe. The foods of the shtetls were regional, taking on local flavors, and when European Jews came to America, that variety characterized the delicatessens they opened. You got pastrami at Romanian delicatessens, frankfurters at German ones, and blintzes from the Russians. The delis were all Jewish, but their regional roots were proudly on display. The problem with researching these roots in eastern Europe is that there aren’t many Jews nowadays. The countries I visited on my last research trip are no exception; Romania has fewer than 9,000 Jews (just one percent of its pre– World War II total), and while

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Hungary’s population of 80,000 is the last remaining stronghold of Jewish life in the region, it’s a fraction of what it once was. But I also have a personal connection to these countries: Romania was where my grandfather was born, and is the country associated with pastrami, spiced meats, and passionate Jewish carnivores. And Hungary was the land of my grandmother, with its soul-warming stews and baked goods that inspired delicatessens in America and beyond. What were Jewish cooks preparing over there, in these countries’ capital cities,

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foods, these traditions, have survived Bucharest and Budapest, respectively, and how were those foods related to the deli fare we all know and love? I didn’t expect to find the checkered linoleum and big sandwiches of my childhood deli, but I hoped to find some of its original flavor and inspiration. In t h e su n n y kitchen of the Bucharest Jewish Home for the Aged, cook Mihaela Alupoaie is preparing Friday night’s Shabbat dinner for the center’s residents and others in the Jewish community. Hers is the city’s only public kosher kitchen. Out of the oven come gorgeous loaves of challah bread, their dough soft and Clockwise from top left: a side dish of tomatoes and onions; a young girl with pickles and chopped liver– stuffed eggs (see page 104 for a recipe) at the Bucharest Jewish Community Center; a Budapest street scene; paprika foie gras (see page 104 for a recipe). Facing page, a guest takes some pickled tongue at the home of Rachel Raj and Miklós Maloschik.

Meats of the Deli

that originated with the Turks, pastrama, in various dishes, is still available in Romania, though none of them resemble the juicy, hand-carved, peppery navels and briskets famous at North American delis like Katz’s and Langer’s. Nowadays, you mostly get salted, dried beef or brined mutton. Mrs. Steiner-Ionescu and Mrs. Stonescu remember five or six pastrami places in Bucharest that mostly used duck or goose breast, though occasionally beef. The meat was cured and served cold as an appetizer—never steamed and in a sandwich; that transformation occurred in America. (See “Meats of the Deli,” at left.) It had been decades since the flavors of duck pastrami had graced their lips, the memories fading with

bage rolls filled with ground beef and sautéed onions—and each roll disappears in two bites, leaving only the sweet aftertaste of the paprika-laced jus. As we sit around after the meal, it hits me that it’s nothing short of a miracle that these foods, these traditions, have survived.

Of a ll the Jewish communities of eastern Europe, Budapest’s is a beacon of light. There’s a thriving Jewish quarter in the 7th district, where bakeries like Frölich and Café Noé serve strong espresso and flódni, a dense triple-layer pastry with walnuts, poppy seeds, and apple filling that’s the caloric totem of Hungarian Jewish cooking. Amid centuries-old synagogues and art deco buildings pockmarked with bullet holes from the   war, I encounter restaurants serv   ing beautiful versions of beloved  , deli staples: Cari Mama, a bakery and pizzeria, is known for cinnabut their regional roots mon, chocolate, and nut rugelach that disappear within hours of the were on display shop’s opening each morning. Across the street, CZECH mi 100 POLAND 0 in a courtyard conREPUBLIC UKRAINE taining the Orthodox IA Dniest 0 km 100 O VA K er SL synagogue, is a resBudapest taurant called Hanna. HUNGARY Founded after the war R O M A N I A as a soup kitchen for CR O AT IA Danu impoverished surviBucharest BOSNIA vors of the Holocaust, AND 44°N SERBIA HERZ. it’s now a communityBULGARIA owned center for Yid30°E dish kosher cooking the surviving generation. where you can get everything from “It’s strange,” Fernando Klabin, matzo balls and kugel to beef goumy guide in Bucharest, said the lash. With its wainscoting and next day. “It’s as though history was chandeliers, it feels partly like a erased. The Jews never existed.” In house of worship and partly like the yard of Klabin’s small cottage the legendary New York kosher an hour outside of Bucharest, his restaurant Ratner’s, complete with friend Silvia Weiss is laying out sarcastic waiters in tuxedo vests, dishes on a makeshift table. Out and young boys in oversize black comes a tartly sweet vinegar cole- hats and long side curls, learning slaw, a dill-inflected mushroom the art of kosher supervision. Down a covered passageway salad, a tray of bite-size potato knishes she’d baked that morning. is the Orthodox community’s We eat sarmale—finger-size cab- kosher butcher, where cuts of beef, M

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sweet, with a crisp crust. “The three main ingredients—air, earth, and water—are symbolic,” says Mihaela, brushing her black hair from her face. “When you braid the three strands of dough, you tie them all together.” Because budgets are tight, bringing in prepared kosher food from abroad is impossible, so everything in Mihaela’s kitchen is made from scratch. In the summer, fruit is boiled down into jams and compotes, which go into sweets year-round. In the basement of the facility there are shelves stacked with glass jars of homemade pickles—garlic-laden kosher dills, lemony artichokes, horseradish, and green tomatoes—that she serves with her meals. Later that night, about 75 people sit down to the weekly feast in an airy auditorium at the nearby Jewish Community Center. Children gather around for the blessings over the candles, wine, and bread, as everyone noshes on the creamy chopped chicken liver Mihaela piped into the whites of hardboiled eggs. I sit with Ghizella Steiner-Ionescu and Suzy Stonescu, two talkative ladies of a certain age who regale me with tales of the Jewish food scene in Bucharest before the war. They tell me that along Văcăreşti Street, the community’s main thoroughfare, there were dozens of bakeries, butchers, and grill houses, where skirt steaks and beef mititei (grilled kebabstyle patties) were cooked over charcoal. Though none survived the war, I realize that these foods eventually found their way onto deli menus and inspired other Jewish restaurants in the United States, like Sammy’s Roumanian Steakhouse in New York and similar steak houses in other cities (see “Deli Diaspora,” page 98). I ask about pastrami, Romania’s greatest contribution to the Jewish delicatessen. Not so much a specific dish but a method of pickling, spicing, and smoking meat

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A butcher slices kolbasz sausages at Budapest’s kosher butcher shop.

The meaty appeal of most newworld Jewish delis stems from that fact that most began as kosher butcher shops. In fact, you can trace the most common deli meats— pastrami, corned beef, pickled tongue, and salami—to venerable eastern European traditions, all of which began, in part, because the practice of salting meat is a requirement of kosher certification. The method for making pastrami dates as far back as the Byzantines, and in Romania curing meat with salt and spices remains a favorite way of drycuring mutton and beef. Romanian Jews adopted this preparation, mainly for goose breast, which was served cold and thinly sliced as an appetizer. When Romanian Jews settled on New York’s Lower East Side, beef was more plentiful and replaced goose as the protein of choice, and pastrami started to be served hot, as a sandwich, so that the local garment workers could eat it on the job. Making pastrami—from either the brisket or the navel, both tough, sinewy, cuts of beef—involves a series of processes: salting; rubbing with a mix of garlic, pepper, coriander, mustard seed, and sugar (among other seasonings); and smoking. The meat is then steamed until tender, and sliced, preferably by hand. The tradition of making corned beef and pickled tongue likely originated in England or Ireland in medieval times; it was later adapted by Ashkenazi Jews in Germany. Briskets and whole tongues are left to marinate in salty brine infused with garlic, sugar, and bay leaf. After a week or so, the meat is removed, rinsed, and boiled until tender, then sliced hot. The old-world meats that most closely mirror what you find in the United States are the ground-beef sausages and salamis, often made in regional styles: frankfurters in Germany, paprika-heavy kolbasz in Hungary, mititei sausage in Romania. Placed on rye bread and topped with mustard, these beautifully seasoned meats are a highlight of Jewish delis around the world. —D.S.

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chicken, turkey, duck, and goose are brined in kosher salt and transformed into salamis, knockwursts, hot dogs, kolbasz garlic sausages, and bolognas that dry in the open air. Once upon a time, Jewish delis in America all looked like this: places to get your meats, fresh and cured, straight from the butcher’s blade and the smoker. The salamis are fiery, coarse, and downright intense. In America’s delis you find one type of kosher salami. Here, in Budapest, you can get dozens. The city’s Jewish restaurant scene boasts a refined side, too, which I experienced at Fülemüle, a popular place run by András Singer. On the day I visited, Singer explained to me how Jewish food culture had changed over the years. He, for example, grew up in a house where his Holocaust-

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survivor parents shunned Judaism. The only thing that remained of their culture was the food. His mother served cholent (a slowcooked meat and bean stew) nearly every Saturday, but often with pork. “They left the religion behind,” says Singer, “but kept the food. This is how it was. Until the 1990s, Jewish life was very quiet.” With democracy came cultural exploration and a newfound sense of Jewish pride. Singer opened his restaurant in 2000, with a focus on updated versions of Jewish classics. He serves half a dozen variations on Clockwise from top left: potato knishes; a cattle market in 1920s Poland; lunch at Fernando Klabin’s cottage near Bucharest (cabbage rolls in the foreground; see page 102 for a recipe).

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Deli Diaspora T    N A   and western Europe offer a delicious link to the Jewish foodways of the Old World. These places are run by owners committed to keeping the flavors of the past alive and to satisfying the die-hard customers who come in asking for a side of kishke (sausage made with matzo meal, spices, and rendered fat) or a plate of ptcha (jellied calves’ feet). The eight places below traffic not only in the Reubens and egg creams we all know, but also in unique dishes and great variety you won’t find at most delis. —D.S. 2nd Ave Deli Its variety of Yiddish kitchen classics, as well as stellar smoked meats, makes this the quintessential Manhattan kosher deli. The 2nd Ave (which reopened in December 2007 on 33rd Street after closing in 2006) is one of the few delis in the United States to carry rolled beef, a subtly spiced, tender cold rolled pastrami. It also holds the distinction of being the only deli to serve ptcha, which was prized in eastern European shtetls, and will scare off all but the most devoted Yiddish gourmand. (162 East 33rd Street, New York, New York; 212/689-9000; 2nd avedeli.com)

bers of the Hungarian Satmar dynasty of Hasidim, the most fervently religious and insular of Orthodox Jews. That traditionalism finds its way into the food, including an unparalleled variety of kugel (baked puddings), from sweet noodle to apple, and Gottlieb’s famous cholent: a stick-to-your-ribs stew of beef, potato, and beans. (352 Roebling Street, Brooklyn, New York; 718/384-6612) Maison David Charcutier Michel Kalifa is an artist with kosher meats, interpreting the traditions of Yiddish cooking with French flair. At his 93-year-old shop (originally owned by a Polish immigrant named David Cohen), you’ll find silky cured goose breast, air-dried veal that tastes like prosciutto, chopped liver laced with foie gras, salamis thin as pencils and others thick as baseball bats. (6 rue des Ecouffes, Paris, France; 014/278-1576) Romanian Kosher Sausage Co. In Chicago—a town known for its sausages—this store in Rogers Park is beloved by religious Jews and religiously devout salami eaters. Deli meats still retain their original national styles, including Polish hot dogs and Hungarian salamis, fired up with paprika. (7200 North Clark Street, Chicago, Illinois; 773/761-4141)

B&K Salt Beef Bar In Britain, Jewish delis serve salt Sammy’s Roumanian beef, a barrel-cured beef Steakhouse Once, there brisket that’s brined for two weeks, boiled until soft, and were dozens of Romahand-carved. The resultnian Jewish steak houses ing sandwich, slathered around America, but with fiery English mustard, 35-year-old Sammy’s, on is thicker and softer than New York City’s Lower East Side, is the last of its American corned beef, and kind: a carnivore’s temple B&K, which opened in the mid-1960s, has undoubtedly done up in wood veneer, the finest in London. It also with a syrup jar of chicken schmaltz sitting on each makes pickled tongue that’s table. Hard-to-find delicaunbelievably tender. (11 Lanson House, Whitchurch A counterman at Schwartz’s in Montreal, Canada. cies include karnatzlach, Lane, London, England; a charbroiled beef-and020/8952-8204) garlic sausage, and gribenes, pieces of chicken skin, fried in chicken fat, that are the perfect accompaniBrent’s Delicatessen A favorite in the San Fernando ment to Sammy’s chopped liver with fried onions and Valley for its homemade kishke, beef intestine filled shredded radish. (157 Chrystie Street, New York, New with schmaltz and matzo meal, then broiled until it’s York; 212/673-0330) brown, crackling, and gloriously greasy; it’s a sausage that derives from Jewish cooks’ kosher adaptation of a Schwartz’s Famous as a temple of Montreal smoked Slavic blood sausage. Of all the kishkes in all the delis meat, 82-year-old Schwartz’s is less well known for around the world, this one is a league apart. (19565 being the one remaining delicatessen in North AmerParthenia Street, Northridge, California; 818/886- ica to brine, spice, and smoke duck and geese according 5679; brentsdeli.com) to Romania’s original pastrami tradition. The birds are available only by custom order, but the results—spicy, Gottlieb’s Delicatessen This glatt kosher delicatessen smoky, crisp, and tender—are well worth the effort. in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn is run by the (3895 Saint-Laurent Boulevard, Montreal, Quebec, third generation of the Gottlieb family, who are mem- Canada; 514/842-4813; schwartzsdeli.com)

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cholent, a dish that, like matzo ball soup, is eaten all over Hungary by Jews and non-Jews alike. He’s also fond of goose, once the principal protein of eastern European Jewish cooking but practically nonexistent in American Jewish kitchens. Singer’s matzo balls, served in a dark goose broth, are made from crushed whole sheets of matzo mixed with goose fat, egg, and a touch of ginger, lending a lively zing. Every other matzo ball I’d ever eaten originated with packaged matzo meal. Crumbling the matzo by hand, a timeworn method abandoned in America, turns each bite into a surprise of random textures. A Je w ish food revival was a plot point I hadn’t expected to discover in Budapest, and it made me think of deli fare in an entirely new light. Back home, Jewish food is frozen in the past: at best, it’s the homemade classics; at worst, it’s processed corned beef, overly refined “rye bread,” and packaged soup mix. But here the cuisine is exciting, dynamic, and utterly refined. I encountered restaurant owners, bakers, food writers, and bloggers who have been breathing new life into dishes that nearly disappeared during Communism. One night, in the tiny apartment of food blogger Eszter Bodrogi, I watch as she bastes goose liver with rendered fat and sweet paprika until the lobes sizzle and brown. Since 2007, Bodrogi has been chronicling her adventures in kosher cooking on her blog, Spice and Soul. Though initially worried that a Jewish food blog would attract anti-Semitic comments (the far right is resurgent in Hungary), the somewhat shy Eszter now courts 3,000 daily visits online, to a fan base that is largely not Jewish. “People connected with me on a personal level,” she says, as she slices the liver and lays it on bread. “The food helped humanize Jews in their eyes.” She hands me a plate. For liver

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lovers it’s sheer nirvana, at once melty and silken. It’s this elegant face of Jewish cooking that has largely vanished in North America. At a deli in New York, you’ll get a scoop of delicious chopped chicken liver, but never something this gorgeous, this fatty, this fresh and decadent. Never goose. The next night, at the apartment of Miklós Maloschik and his wife, Rachel Raj, tradition once again meets Hungary’s new Jewish culinary vanguard. Twenty-nineRachel Raj preparing dinner in her kitchen in Budapest.

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year-old Raj (pronounced Ray) is Hungary’s equivalent of her American counterpart: a high-octane food television host who had a show on Hungary’s food channel called Rachel Asztala, or Rachel’s Table. The couple own and operate the hip bakeries Café Noé and Bulldog, both built on the success of Rachel’s flódni (reputed to be the best in town). In the kitchen, Miklós doles out shots of pálinka, homemade fruit brandy, the first of many on this long, spirited evening. The table fills with a mix of foods, some familiar to Jewish deli lovers

(salmon gefilte fish, potato kugel, pickled and smoked tongue with horseradish), others that were part of deli’s forgotten roots, like roast duck, and the “Jewish Egg”: balls of hardboiled egg, sautéed onion, and goose liver. It’s a meal that tastes thousands of miles away from those I’ve had at Jewish delis, and yet there’s laughter, good Yiddish cooking, and a table full of Jews who hours before were strangers but now act like family. It may not be pastrami on rye, but it pretty damn well captures the heart of the Jewish delicatessen.

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=K?:; Bucharest and Budapest Dinner for two with drinks and tip Inexpensive Under $10 Moderate $10–$60 Expensive Over $60 8K9>7H;IJ"
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Rembrandt Hotel Smârdan 11 (40/21/313-9315; rembrandt.ro). Rates: $110–$150 double. A small, well-run boutique hotel, with spacious rooms and all the necessary AV features (wi-fi/cable), in the happening heart of the old city. M^[h[
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Caru’ cu bere Strada Stavropoleos 5 (40/21/313-7560; carucubere.ro). Moderate. This Gothic cathedral of a beer hall, complete with dark wood, frescoes, and freshly brewed pilsner, serves some of the best grilled mici sausage and lamb pastrama in Bucharest. 8K:7F;IJ"
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Continental Hotel Zara Dohány utca 42-44 (36/1/815-1000; continental hotelzara.com/en). Doubles from $77. This new hotel brings luxury to Budapest’s Jewish quarter with an expansive marble lobby (formerly a bathhouse), flat-screen TVs, a fitness center, and a rooftop lawn with lounge chairs. M^[h[
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Café Noé Wesselényi 13 (36/1/7873842; torta.hu). Inexpensive. This coffee shop and bakery serves what is widely reputed to be the finest flódni in all of Hungary, along with coffees, cakes, and other pastries. Hanna Dob utca 35 (36/1/342-1072; kosherhanna.hu).Moderate.A communityowned institution for more than half a century, this glatt kosher restaurant serves Yiddish standards like noodle kugel and cholent, as well as kosher Hungarian specialties like beef goulash. Don’t miss the kosher butcher and sausage maker located next to the rear entrance of the courtyard. Fülemüle Kofarago utca 5 (36/1/2667947; fulemule.hu). Moderate. One of the finest Jewish restaurant experiences in the world, with highlights like “Jewish Egg” (chopped egg with goose liver), cholent with smoked meat, and matzo balls in goose soup.

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J 8 M < L I % : F D  

NO.  

 J 8 M < L I % : F D  

NO.  

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Challah (for a recipe, see page 104).

Coleslaw (for a recipe, see page 104).

Cholent (for a recipe, see page 102.)

Rugelach (for a recipe, see page 107).



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NO.  

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