Heal Thyself: The Call of Katz's

I am exhausted. I am styling food for a television show, working with a pedigreed production company -- the kind that plays hard and works harder -- and puts out an impressive product. My typical day starts at 7:30 AM and ends after 8PM. I don't take lunch; I don't sit; I spend a great deal of time wondering if now is the right time to go to the bathroom, or if I could hold it for another hour and a half so as not to disturb taping.

I'm having work nightmares (Will the cilantro droop!? Have we secured enough flounder for the fish sticks?! Is this the correct size bottle of mayonnaise!!??), and barely making it through 6 hours of sleep. But I have one day off a week, and this is that day.

I can't simply have a bagel, or whatever is convenient and nearby just because I'm hungry, exhausted and overworked. Exhaustion isn't a permission slip for easy. My spirit will heal in proportion to the goodness of the food I put into my body; I just know it.

If I had a Jewish Grandmother who was able, I would sit at her kitchen table and let her love me up with kasha varnishkes, sweet breads and fricasee. But mine boxed up her kitchenware years ago, and her dementia makes her confused by who I am, let alone what she can feed me. If I was to go to her house and open her fridge, my options would be grape jelly, strawberry jelly or margarine, all stolen from the local diner and recently liberated from a wadded up tissue in her pocket.

But I need that Grandma love, and so I go back, back to before my time, to the place where my grandmother was born. I go to the Lower East Side, to Katz's, for a pastrami on rye.

When I get there, the place is packed. Katz's is a cafeteria hall filled with dining degenerates; the same crowd I've seen in the grandstand at Belmont. It's solidy working class, yet ethnically colorful. The only thing this crowd has in common culturally is sweatsuits, bling, girth, and a love of Jewish deli.

I stand behind a 6 foot 6, 350 pound black man who is holding his round, 7-year old daughter's hand, and asked if he was on line. "I been coming here thirty years, and there ain't never been no line so I don't know what you're talking about." He wouldn't look at me, and angled his body so that I was forced into the aisle where I'd bob like a buoy.

A dusty, flanneled unshaven white man in front of him turned around, "Yeah, well I got you beat by ten years." The old-timers were so busy cockfighting their tenure that neither answered my question.

There's a sign on the wall that says. "Each cutter has his own line. Find the shortest one [and get on it, dummy]." so I scoped out my five cutters: An old Jewish man who, though cute, took almost as long to make a sandwich as a good brisket takes to cook; Two young and fast Latino men, with square gold-and-diamond studs in their ears; An effeminite Asian man and a Black man who reminded me of Chef on South Park. I went with the centermost cutter, a Latino man who was handing out the biggest pieces of pastrami for tasting.

I got to the front of his line, asked for the fattiest pastrami he could find. He smiled, went back to the steamer, and came back with a 5-pound piece of meat dangling from the end of his fork. He smacked it on the cutting area in front of him, and started slicing. He used long graceful strokes, from the butt to the tip of his knife.

The outside of the pastrami was caked with black spices. When the cut slices flopped down, the hard black crust yielded to a bright pink center. Slice, slice. Black, pink. As he cut, puffs of steam rose from the meat. It was Lower East Side morning mist, and it was glorious.

He gave me a center slice to try -- a big one, and smiled when I grabbed it like a barbarian. I looked at it for a while; how do they get that pinky color? It was as vivid and tender as a virgin's labia. Aha; this is why this hall of meat is filled with fluffy men who appear to deny themselves little. Now that I think about it; I'm not sure I'll ever look at pink roast beef or slow cooked pastrami the same way again.

I let out a soft moan, and the cutter continued assembling my sandwich; layer upon layer of melting meat, at least half a pounds worth, but probably more. A schmear of spicy mustard, all nestled between two slices of soft rye that would return to dough if I took more than 20 minutes to eat my sandwich, which I did.

I walked to a table, but not before I got myself a plate of pickles (sour, half sour, and green tomato), a can of Dr. Brown's Cel-Ray tonic, and a chocolate egg cream. Though I needed to stand on two additional lines for the drinks I did so without hesitation; that taste of pastrami reminded me that what's worth eating is worth eating well.

My table would be in the center, not far from where Sally had her memorable meal. I was deep into my first bite when Carlos, an attractive Latino man, and his 6 year old daughter sat down with me. "Do you mind?" he asked. And before I had a chance to answer, "My partner and I are opening a grocery store down the street. I see you like good food; come and see me there. Here's my cell number. I'm also a personal trainer and I'd like to help you work off that pastrami." And off he went, like a puff of pastrami smoke.

Time would pass, and more friends would share my table. Two tall, strikingly attractive Catholic brothers would order sandwiches of their own (painfully, they ordered their lean pastrami on a baguette, and with hard, cold Swiss cheese slices that would be neither warm nor melty...). I summoned a Christlike generosity to forgive the goys their culinary oys.

We would spend the next few hours eating the Lower East Side -- I'd show them Russ & Daughters where we'd buy some chocolate babka for later. They'd return the favor by introducing me to Iberian ham, freshly cut, at Despana. We'd sit at a Carrera marble table in the back, and suck on the just-sliced pork. We'd leave, and tear apart the babka on the street. We laughed with food giddiness as a nippy end-of-winter's dusk snuggled next to us.

I walked around my Grandmother's neighborhood of sixty years ago until the gaslights ignited and the sidewalks filled with tonight's revelers. I bought myself some almost-spring tulips and made it home with time to walk the dog before falling into a deep, cozy sleep.


Katz's
205 East Houston St. NY, NY
Pastrami on Rye

Walk in, take a ticket (and *don't* lose it or you'll be charged $50 bucks). Egg creams are on the right, by the grill (where you can also get an oustanding hot dog -- load it up with kraut). In the center are the meat cutters; pick the one you like. I aim for the fastest, but you can select based on age, looks, skill, or smile. Get the fatty pastrami on rye with mustard. The $1 fee for lean meat is a moron tax; avoid it. Ask for lots of pickles.

On the left, you can get fountain beverages, Dr. Brown's and beers. Further left, there are desserts -- cakes, chocolate pudding, plus you can get sausages and salamis to go (or to send). If you don't want to deal with the drama, you can sit against the wall and order through a waiter. But that's like going to Belmont and only hanging out in the Owner's Club dining room, away from the grandstand. You're in an old school cafeteria now -- mingle with the riff raff and let them show you how it's done.

Spring is for Fertility! You with me, Peeps?

Eggs. Rabbits. Eggs. Rabbits. Eggs.

Rabbits?

Ever since the Cadbury bunny laid an egg I’ve been confused. I know that rabbits don’t lay eggs; they lay other little rabbits. When I was little, I watched a friend’s pet rabbit give birth to a baby bunny. And then I watched her eat him. And to think my mother was worrying that Judy Blume would make me grow up too fast.

Nope, mommies eating their young was scarier. But I digress.

I confessed my rabbit/egg confusion at a dinner party last night. And, as happens at dinner parties, a man I’d known for less than 30 minutes offered to explain my thinking to me. He contended that my confusion was little more than my desire to link the seasonal glut of pagan fertility symbols. Rabbits are the penultimate fertility symbol (as in “man, those two go at it like…”). Which would make the egg the ultimate fertility symbol.

The egg is where it all starts. The egg, the sperm, the kid. Easter is about dipping eggs, coloring eggs, hiding and seeking eggs. (And Jesus’ rebirth.) The egg, not surprisingly, also shows up on the Seder plate, where it represents sacrifice (my people can find a cloud on every silver lining). And from what I understand about putting one’s eggs to use (ie. having a kid), it’s all about sacrifice anyway.

So here we are again, full circle, like an egg. Pagan rituals offering a metaphor for the undiscussed favorite springtime ritual, copulation, and dressing it up in a sugary shell that suits a religious context. Is it any wonder we love spring?

As a nod to the chicken (creator of the egg), those brilliant artisans at Just Born harvest acres worth of my favorite springtime treat, the Peep. For me, it’s the ramp of the candy world; a seasonable item that knows no season, given that it half-life is the better part of a century.

Like the first time I see a pumpkin on a stoop, or hear a pre-Christmas songs on the radio, I get tingly on that damp winter day when I walk into Duane Reade and am greeted by the the candy aisle. It’s redone like a newborn’s bedroom. Pink! Yellow! Purple! The towering white chocolate bunnies, the rainbow of jelly beans, the green grass in the Easter baskets.

My knees grow weak. After I re-apply my lipstick and take my fingers through my hair, I seek out my seasonal lover; my little yellow man with his gauzy sugar-crunch jacket and spongy center. I see him, he sees me; our bellies go slack. I take him in my hand and he looks up at me; it’s been too long.

And, with apologies to the year-round aspirations of Just Born; I must admit; what I love most about my Peep is that our time is short but sweet. If I had to eat him daily, like say, a vegetable, his corn syrupy cloy make me tire of him. His tender arrival and just-in-time departure is what gives our love it's spring.


Marshmallow Peeps
No recipe, folks. Just go to your local drugstore and buy ‘em. And don’t worry; unlike other seasonal items like ramps or morels, they keep for years. Avoid the temptation to pickle your Peeps.

Tips for Rich Men: Pear Tatin

Minneapolis/St. Paul was better than a girl could have dreamed. I'll sum it up with one little thing: Whenever I purchased a local cup of coffee, be it at a posh restaurant, a coffee shop or a breakfast joint, there was only one creamer option. No soy nonsense, no 2%. And every time, that solo container contained half and half. Period. Minnesotans demonstrated a culinary savvy not found in have-it-your-way New York. They do flavor right.

Earlier this year, I began writing a weekly food column for thestreet.com. So far, I'm having a lot of fun, and fitting in quite well with Jim Cramer's brash, bold, opinion-filled web site. After some bizarre post-Valentine's Day dating incidents, I found myself with enough copy to fill piece offering 10 Dating Tips for Rich Men.

Let me just say this, rich men: Y'all scare me sometimes. Here are some tips for how to date the kind of women who prefer you don't stick dollar bills in their clothing.


Pear Tart Tatin
by Allison Fishman, The Wooden Spoon
Serves 8

An indulgent dessert with extraordinary presentation; I've simplified pear tatin to it's basics. An impressive but simple recipe; gild this lily as you will.

1 (16-ounce) package Fresh Direct, Dufour or Pepperidge Farm puff pastry
6 tablespoons (3/4 stick) butter, room temperature
1 1/3 cups sugar
4 to 6 large pears (Bosc preferred, Anjou OK), peeled, cored and halved
1 egg, lightly beaten
Crème fraîche, sour cream, or vanilla ice cream

1. Melt butter in a 10-inch-diameter ovenproof nonstick skillet with sloping sides (skillet should be at least 1 3/4 inches deep). Reserve 2 tablespoons sugar; sprinkle remaining sugar over butter. Place skillet over medium-low heat and cook until butter melts, sugar begins to dissolve and mixture starts to bubble, 10 to 12 minutes.

2. Remove skillet from the heat. Arrange pear halves in the skillet, pointing the tips toward the center. Arrange as many of remaining pears as will fit, in 2 circles in center of skillet. Sprinkle with 2 tablespoons sugar.

3. Set skillet over medium-high heat; boil until thick medium amber-color syrup forms, repositioning skillet often for even cooking and adding remaining pear halves as space permits, about 45 minutes (syrup will continue to darken during baking). Remove from heat.
Meanwhile, position rack in center of oven and preheat to 425 °F.

4. Roll out puff pastry on floured surface to 10-inch round; place over pears. Press pastry down around pears at edge of skillet; brush pastry with some of the egg mixture.

5. Bake tart until pastry is deep golden brown and cooked through, about 20 minutes. Transfer to work surface; cool 1 minute. Cut around edge of skillet to loosen pastry. Place large platter over skillet. Using oven mitts as an aid, hold skillet and platter together tightly and invert, allowing tart to fall onto platter. Carefully lift off skillet. Rearrange any pears that may have become dislodged. Cool tart 30 minutes.

5. Cut warm tart into wedges. Serve with crème fraîche.