 The Captain seated behind the Trader Joe's Customer Help desk assures me that both Peppermint Jo-Jos and Candy Cane Crunch Chocolate Bars are strictly seasonal items. Any hopes of dunking chocolate cookies sandwiched with peppermint cream into a cold glass of milk have been dashed. Like most shoppers steering their cart between dairy and produce, I am inevitably drawn to an expansive wall unit in the rear of the store, an area that pre-pandemic, was generously outfitted with coffee urns and small cups so you could caffeinate and shop simultaneously. Those were the glory days. Over time, the wall became a haven for seasonal/feature items. Currently, the area is awash in orange. It seems that each time I peruse this display, the oranges are assembled in a slightly new formation, a marketing ploy created as a subliminal pull of my coat sleeve, encouraging me to buy another bag. These purchases have caused some disgruntlement at my house; namely between other members of the citrus family fighting for elbow room in an already congested refrigerator. Clementines, Satsumas, Blood Oranges, Tangelos, Valencias and Cara Caras leave little room for lemons and limes, let alone Ruby Red grapefruits. Sure, I could leave them sprawling all willy-nilly across the countertops, but I have my hands full just wrangling the mesh bags into a semblance of order. Crafty, I'm not, so repurposing them into kitchen scrubbies or gift wrap is highly unlikely. Freshly squeezed orange juice is a small luxury that my grandmother swore by. I don't remember oranges confined to mesh bags, more clearly I recall my mother pausing by a mountain of oranges at the A & P and hand picking each one, placing them in a large brown paper bag What I vividly remember is the daily wake up call of the Sunbeam juicer, a steady whirr-pause-whirr as the machine reliably separated pulp from juice, always wanting a second glass because it was so delicious. It took a little digging but it appears that in the early 1960s, oranges sold for 89 cents/dozen. As a family dedicated to breakfast sweets, our allegiance was to Jessie's cinnamon swirled sugar buns. Crumb cake was something I enjoyed at a friend's house (hugely popular after slumber parties) but made infrequent appearances alongside my father's Chemex coffee maker. Fortunately, my grandmother had a fondness for the occasional slice of Entenmann's crumb cake, and when she moved to Florida, she would pick one up at the Publix, placing the box on top of her refrigerator for safe keeping. I'm a devout believer in a cake-to-crumb ratio hovering near 50%. Spiking the cake batter with zest and a little orange juice (that has been reduced to concentrate the flavor) plays nicely against the sour cream cake. And though some might protest, you can add a thin layer of fruit or jam or curd, (all in the name of flavor and freeing up fridge space). But most critically, what distinguishes crumb cake from ordinary coffee cake is the heft of the brown sugar crumb. Ask any New Yorker and they'll tell you 
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 Much in the same way an unwrapped garlic pickle permeates a refrigerator, the delicatessen experience is deeply imbued within my soul. Though Katz's on Manhattan's Lower East side is tethered to my youth, I am inundated with deli memories spanning decades, from the vantage point of both customer and waitress. At a very young age I watched my mother navigate Katz's, entrusting me with the required ticket that served as our check. After ordering frankfurters and sauerkraut for the two of us, she then pointed with precision to the meats behind the glass case. With the skill of a surgeon, the deli man hand sliced pastrami, corned beef, brisket and center cut tongue. Wrapping each securely in starched white paper, he handed the packages across the counter. Returning the tightly clutched (and now wrinkled) ticket back to be tallied, my mother paid while I inhaled one last giant gulp of salty air. I loved how the fragrance of Katz's followed us home from Houston Street to Far Rockaway. When my paternal grandmother relocated from Queens to Florida, she introduced me to Wolfie's and the Rascal House, two stand out delicatessens. It was on those late afternoon jaunts that the intricacies of the 'early bird special' and the proper way of concealing the contents of a bread basket in one's purse were revealed. Many years later, I landed a summer job as a waitress at Larry's Deli in suburban New Jersey. Learning the vastly complex menu and the proper way to place an order (without inciting the wrath of the line cooks), acquainted me with crying in the walk-in. The ever-changing menu specials required a knack for memorization and improvisation. The hazards of serving behemoth bowls of matzoh ball soup to diners wildly gesticulating with their hands were too frequent (and painful) to count. It didn't take long to realize that both 'hangry' and well fed diners were often lousy tippers, and that for many, Dr. Brown's Cel-Ray soda was considered essential to the Jewish deli experience. For those not smitten with the herbaceous soda, both Cream and Black Cherry ranked high on the preferred beverage list. The glitzier egg cream, a blend of milk, chocolate syrup and seltzer, was in my opinion, less of a thirst quencher and more of a dessert. Regardless, it was always the egg cream that inevitably overflowed in my attempt to transfer the generously filled glass from tray to table, sending me racing to the wait station for a stack of kitchen towels. Mopping up a toppled egg cream was an exercise in futility; as the river of chocolate bubbles ran rampant beyond the confines of the table top I could feel my cheeks turning crimson. Ultimately, the runaway beverage would land on the white linen trousers of a woman debating cantaloupe with cottage cheese as opposed to the hollowed out bagel with light cream cheese. For a homesick freshman in upstate New York, it was Hal's Deli that played a major role in my college experience. Dodging the dining hall meal plan, a trip to Hal's provided comfort between two slices of seeded rye bread layered with rare roast beef, turkey, Swiss cheese and neon Russian dressing. Post college, I worked for a high profile individual in the entertainment industry who religiously ordered lunch from the Stage Delicatessen. His selection, plucked from a dizzying menu of options, never deviated from one day to the next; a mammoth turkey leg which he consumed with audible enjoyment from his perch at a table overlooking Central Park. Having long since retired my rubber-soled waitress shoes, over-stuffed sandwich emporiums still draw me in with equal parts love and trepidation. The pull of a carbohydrate busting blintz smothered in sour cream is strong. So is the hypnotic fragrance of salty meat wafting over a counter, mingling with the jarring flavor of a sour pickle. Despite recollections of replenishing the pickle station with stacks of hot-from-the-dishwasher, flat-bottomed 'monkey dishes,' my hankering for health salad remains unwavering. The non-specific mash-up of raw vegetables notably driven by cabbage, dressed with sugary vinegar and void of mayonnaise (hence the suggestion of health), was my sustenance between double shifts. What I will never miss are the parties of ten, slow to order, loudly pontificating the virtues of kreplach and the density of matzoh balls. Ditto the customers insistent on extra rye bread with their pastrami sandwich followed by one slice of cheesecake, multiple forks and separate checks. Nightmares are indelibly etched from mistakenly decanted Dr. Brown's sodas and toppled egg creams. Far better to be the one seated on the naugahyde chair eyeing the menu, than the one balancing the unsteady tray. The New York Historical Society's "I'll Have What She's Having" is a traveling exhibition composed of hunger inducing artifacts. A thoughtful curation of neon signage, menus, uniforms, film and photography richly illustrates the delicatessen's rightful place in popular culture. Most critically, the exhibit pays homage to the Ashkenazi immigrants, primarily from Central and Eastern Europe, who influenced and created the delicatessen as a uniquely American institution. Certainly more than one delicatessen influenced my life, as indelibly as borsht on a white paper napkin.     On this Friday the 13th, borrowing some humor from The New Yorker and some gospel from The Silver Palate. Quiche is the ideal breakfast/lunch/dinner/snack to guide you through a season of winter-y produce. Lean into the leeks and onions, scallions and herbs. Most any greens will appreciate a quick sauté, even those formerly destined for salad. Add some fresh herbs to your favorite pate brisee and take the time to blind bake the crust. Pouring custard into a quasi-baked pastry shell rarely leaves you with a well-baked crust. Taking the time to line the shell and blind baking it until raw dough no longer poses a threat is well worth the effort. The custard filling (3 eggs plus 1 & 1/2 cups of dairy), needs little more than salt, pepper, a grating of nutmeg and maybe a hit of @kozliks mustard. Don't skimp on the cheese and even though you might be dodging the wine, fill a festive glass with bitters and some sparkling water. Now pretend it's April (or October) in Paris.   |
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