Delicate Essen
So after cramming in as many gourmet goodies as physics will allow, the di Bruno brothers have decamped from their two teeny storefronts on 18th St. to a newly-renovated zillion square foot facility around the corner on Chestnut Street (my glorious new street). I was in the Green St. consignment store trying to find new slacks to cover my expanding thighs (courtesy of di Bruno brothers) when I received a furtive phone call on my cell from David; could I meet him in 5 minutes to tour the new store??? Is the Pope a Nazi? Of course I could. I grabbed my new purchases ( a pair of Ralph Lauren red-checked jeans which might make me look like a tablecloth in bargain-priced Italian restaurant, but they fit and a room-for-expansion Eileen Fisher outfit which is very elastic and has a looooong overjacket to cover whatever new cellulite may be coming my way) and rushed directly across the street to the Taj Mahal of Tasty Tidbits--the new and improved di Bruno's.
They must have added a brother or two in the meantime because this Mecca of Morsels is vast, gorgeous, and doesn't bear much relationship to the previous baby-sized stores or even the Motherstore in the Italian Market. Think Dean and DeLuca's and then take it to the third power. Luckily my favorite counter men and women are still working, but they look a tad spiffier, better coiffed, smilier. Maybe it's because they have enough oxygen now with the expanded space. In any case, I helped myself to a few freebies including a piece of raw milk Machego cheese from Spain and a part sheep/part cow's milk buttery soft cheese made in Vermont that was offered to me, on a substantial-sized toothpick, from the Vermonter himself who described it in such detail that it began to sound pornographic. I tasted a tad and it was.
But cheese they had before, although not in such profusion, such excess, such magnificence. What they did not have before, and what brought tears of joy and a little nostalgia to my eyes, is an authentic Jewish smoked fish counter. I started to experience tachycardia from happiness. My mind immediately went back to a very different time, a gentler time, a cheaper time...let's say 1957. In my dissociated state, I am standing in front of Murray's Delicatessen on 54th. St. south of City Line. Our dreadful dentist, Dr. Glauser, has an office above. I think trolleys are going by, but they may be buses already. Murray's on a Friday or Saturday was a place to teach you patience. Jewish people crowded in there as if they were about to glance the coming of the Meshiach. You took a plastic black number, milled around, and chatted with your neighbor who was pressed up against you in a way that would have been uncomfortable but we were all "landsleit" after all. The challenge was that while you got number 98 they were only up to 11!. That gave you plenty of time to look at the perfect kippered salmon, the fattest smoked whitefish, the pinkest salty lox (no Nova for the Forman family please; nothing is too salty for us). You could get delicious sweet butter from a big roll by the pound cut off for you; cream cheese was from a block as well, no foil wrapper and gummi-bear additives. You could also rehearse your bagel order which wasn't too hard because in the old days, my young 'uns, there were only a few authentic kinds. I seem to remember only plain (the pale ones), egg (the startling yellow ones), and poppy seed. I believe the everything bagel, the marble bagel, the pumpernickel bagel came later. Such goyishe innovations as the blueberry bagel and the chocolate chip bagel would make my grandmother Anna's ashes turn over in their urn.
It was a Friday back in the mid-50's that the following event occurred; this is a true story. My mother, grandmom, and I were at 54th St. together to do our errands and we squeezed into Murray's where Mom obtained her number. It was way low. My mother attempted to push her way, or was pushed forward, leaving Grandmom and me hanging back a bit. I was vitually invisible, being so short and Grandmom wasn't a whole lot taller. After quite a while my mother announced to us that she had other errands to accomplish, so she gave the holy number to my grandmom and she told us she'd be back to meet us later. With my mother gone, Grandmom began her usual sotto voce litany of Yiddish mutterings. "Darf sein meshugge" [ you have to be crazy] and "We'll be waiting here for a year and a vetchera" [i have no idea what a vetchera is but it's a long long long time] and "the gesalzens [ lit: salty things; refers to smoked fishes and lox]better not be dry" etc etc.
Finally, after a vetchera, our number was called. Grandmom held it aloft and the counterman looked down at her and said, with confusion, "Hey you're not the lady who was waiting her before". Without missing a beat, my grandmother retorted, " Yes I am; this is how much I aged while I've been waiting!" Waves ofgiggles started around us and the counterman was laughing so hard he turned red. I was so proud of her. When my mother returned, the story was retold and was subsequently retold many times; everyone who had ever shopped at Murray's loved it and it grew better and more embroidered with each recitation. That was my family's way.
The smoked fish counter at the new improved diBruno's on the new improved Chestnut St. is more antiseptic than Murray's. It's sparser and more artistically laid out. But I see some fatty smoked sable, some juicy-looking kippered salmon. The line is considerably shorter and the Jews are a lot more American looking and a lot younger. No bubbehs in housedresses like my grandmother. Apparently even men do their own gesalzen shopping now and it appears from the fancy sweatshirts that in the years since 1957 a lot more Jews are making it into the previously-restricted ivy League. But the young guy standing next to me, an obvious foodie, asked if the fish was from Russ and Daughters in New York. I was ecstatic when I heard the proud answer. "Our fishis from Marshall's in New York; Russ and Daughters gets THEIR fish from THEM!" I was so overcome that I had to leave without buying anything.
I'm planning on going back today or tomorrow to spend a lot of time and not a little money buying a kvuhteh pound of sable, a heff of kippered salmon, a pound of lox, make that belly lox, mind you sonny, and slice it real tin, varry varry tin pliss, end vill tek a dozen beggels, plen and mit mohn (poppy seeds). I shouldn't have any trouble channeling Anna Miller these days. What with my own arthur-itis and my loss of height from osteoporosis, my sensible shoes, flat chest and not so flat thighs(she's the one who started it all as her great-granddaughters found out when they reached puberty) it shouldn't be hard at all.
MAZEL TOV and AUGURI to di Bruno Brothers in your new digs; THINGS ARE LOOKING UP!
They must have added a brother or two in the meantime because this Mecca of Morsels is vast, gorgeous, and doesn't bear much relationship to the previous baby-sized stores or even the Motherstore in the Italian Market. Think Dean and DeLuca's and then take it to the third power. Luckily my favorite counter men and women are still working, but they look a tad spiffier, better coiffed, smilier. Maybe it's because they have enough oxygen now with the expanded space. In any case, I helped myself to a few freebies including a piece of raw milk Machego cheese from Spain and a part sheep/part cow's milk buttery soft cheese made in Vermont that was offered to me, on a substantial-sized toothpick, from the Vermonter himself who described it in such detail that it began to sound pornographic. I tasted a tad and it was.
But cheese they had before, although not in such profusion, such excess, such magnificence. What they did not have before, and what brought tears of joy and a little nostalgia to my eyes, is an authentic Jewish smoked fish counter. I started to experience tachycardia from happiness. My mind immediately went back to a very different time, a gentler time, a cheaper time...let's say 1957. In my dissociated state, I am standing in front of Murray's Delicatessen on 54th. St. south of City Line. Our dreadful dentist, Dr. Glauser, has an office above. I think trolleys are going by, but they may be buses already. Murray's on a Friday or Saturday was a place to teach you patience. Jewish people crowded in there as if they were about to glance the coming of the Meshiach. You took a plastic black number, milled around, and chatted with your neighbor who was pressed up against you in a way that would have been uncomfortable but we were all "landsleit" after all. The challenge was that while you got number 98 they were only up to 11!. That gave you plenty of time to look at the perfect kippered salmon, the fattest smoked whitefish, the pinkest salty lox (no Nova for the Forman family please; nothing is too salty for us). You could get delicious sweet butter from a big roll by the pound cut off for you; cream cheese was from a block as well, no foil wrapper and gummi-bear additives. You could also rehearse your bagel order which wasn't too hard because in the old days, my young 'uns, there were only a few authentic kinds. I seem to remember only plain (the pale ones), egg (the startling yellow ones), and poppy seed. I believe the everything bagel, the marble bagel, the pumpernickel bagel came later. Such goyishe innovations as the blueberry bagel and the chocolate chip bagel would make my grandmother Anna's ashes turn over in their urn.
It was a Friday back in the mid-50's that the following event occurred; this is a true story. My mother, grandmom, and I were at 54th St. together to do our errands and we squeezed into Murray's where Mom obtained her number. It was way low. My mother attempted to push her way, or was pushed forward, leaving Grandmom and me hanging back a bit. I was vitually invisible, being so short and Grandmom wasn't a whole lot taller. After quite a while my mother announced to us that she had other errands to accomplish, so she gave the holy number to my grandmom and she told us she'd be back to meet us later. With my mother gone, Grandmom began her usual sotto voce litany of Yiddish mutterings. "Darf sein meshugge" [ you have to be crazy] and "We'll be waiting here for a year and a vetchera" [i have no idea what a vetchera is but it's a long long long time] and "the gesalzens [ lit: salty things; refers to smoked fishes and lox]better not be dry" etc etc.
Finally, after a vetchera, our number was called. Grandmom held it aloft and the counterman looked down at her and said, with confusion, "Hey you're not the lady who was waiting her before". Without missing a beat, my grandmother retorted, " Yes I am; this is how much I aged while I've been waiting!" Waves ofgiggles started around us and the counterman was laughing so hard he turned red. I was so proud of her. When my mother returned, the story was retold and was subsequently retold many times; everyone who had ever shopped at Murray's loved it and it grew better and more embroidered with each recitation. That was my family's way.
The smoked fish counter at the new improved diBruno's on the new improved Chestnut St. is more antiseptic than Murray's. It's sparser and more artistically laid out. But I see some fatty smoked sable, some juicy-looking kippered salmon. The line is considerably shorter and the Jews are a lot more American looking and a lot younger. No bubbehs in housedresses like my grandmother. Apparently even men do their own gesalzen shopping now and it appears from the fancy sweatshirts that in the years since 1957 a lot more Jews are making it into the previously-restricted ivy League. But the young guy standing next to me, an obvious foodie, asked if the fish was from Russ and Daughters in New York. I was ecstatic when I heard the proud answer. "Our fishis from Marshall's in New York; Russ and Daughters gets THEIR fish from THEM!" I was so overcome that I had to leave without buying anything.
I'm planning on going back today or tomorrow to spend a lot of time and not a little money buying a kvuhteh pound of sable, a heff of kippered salmon, a pound of lox, make that belly lox, mind you sonny, and slice it real tin, varry varry tin pliss, end vill tek a dozen beggels, plen and mit mohn (poppy seeds). I shouldn't have any trouble channeling Anna Miller these days. What with my own arthur-itis and my loss of height from osteoporosis, my sensible shoes, flat chest and not so flat thighs(she's the one who started it all as her great-granddaughters found out when they reached puberty) it shouldn't be hard at all.
MAZEL TOV and AUGURI to di Bruno Brothers in your new digs; THINGS ARE LOOKING UP!
