I'll have what she's having

My internet search history is full of articles like “foods you MUST try in New York City”, which has led to an ever-expanding bucket list of foods I’m determined to eat my way through before I go back home. Now that I’m past the halfway mark I find myself getting more paranoid about leaving without trying something magical and once-in-a-lifetime (and yes, I’m always this dramatic about food). This may explain why I’ve spent the past couple of months greedily ticking off some classics that have been on my list since the beginning. Wonderful things like pastrami on rye, matzoh ball soup, cheesecake… What do these all have in common, beyond being some of the most New York-y of New York foods? They’re all proper old-school Jewish deli classics. And they also happen to have been some of the very best things I’ve had here.

So, how did this type of food become so synonymous with the city? Like all of the other foods I’ve explored in this blog it’s intrinsically bound up with stories of immigration, and the flavours and traditions that various groups have brought with them. The word “deli” itself derives from the German word delicatessen, which roughly translates as “fine foods” (German immigrants are actually responsible for lots of American classics including hamburgers and hot dogs – see my earlier blog post “on a roll”). The word was first recorded in American English in 1889 and these – subsequently shortened - “delis” became an important centre of the community for Jewish immigrants who were subjected to historic and continued prejudices in their new home. While prevailing attitudes may have changed over time (though unfortunately not as much as you would have hoped given all of the news at the moment) the best thing about these foods I’ve tried is the overwhelming sense of community and identity these institutions still provide. Eating in these historic Jewish delis is to enjoy a tangible slice of history along with your expertly sliced pastrami and slab of cheesecake.

Some bread to start?

Jewish cuisine is so diverse it’s difficult to make generalisations about; of course, it isn’t one thing, it reflects the diverse cultures and countries in which Jewish people have lived. However, it can be broadly categorised into historic geographical areas, and much of the food that is now thought of as American-Jewish was brought by Ashkenazi Jewish families from Central/Eastern Europe. Given the historic persecution this group suffered, dishes were necessarily made with fewer, cheaper ingredients. Perhaps this explains why so many of the things I was looking forward to trying were bread-based, a cheap staple in so many cuisines. And first on my list were knishes. Brought to the US by immigrants from Eastern Europe (including Poland, Belarus, Lithuania and Ukraine), these are essentially a thin layer of dough wrapped around a hearty filling - such as mashed potato, cheese or meat – which are then baked or deep-fried. For my first knish tasting, I went to a New York deli titan: Zabar’s. A family-run specialty store set up by a Ukrainian Jewish immigrant, it’s a wonderland of Jewish delicacies and also cites itself as being instrumental in introducing the glamorous Upper East Side of Manhattan to new flavours ever since its founding in 1934. For example, it was the first store in the city to sell things like brie in the ‘60s and sun-dried tomatoes in the ‘70s. Trying my best not to buy everything else in sight, I headed to the bakery counter where they churn out vast piles of freshly baked goods every day, including the sought-after knishes. I chose one with broccoli and cheddar, and – in a nod to the season – one with sweet potato and cinnamon. I was surprised by the quantity of filling in each one; I had expected something more akin to a Cornish pasty (and in many ways they’re similar) but these knishes were really all about the filling, wrapped inside a delicate layer of almost-not-there dough. I much preferred the broccoli and cheddar version, which I thought worked better served cold than the sweet potato, but they were both tasty and suitably hearty to fuel a day of exploring Manhattan. In-keeping with their humble origins and ingredients they were also only $2.98 each, an absolute bargain in one of the most expensive neighbourhoods in the world.

While I don’t think I’d even heard of knishes before I moved here (more fool me), New York’s most famous and ubiquitous Jewish deli offering is surely the bagel. It’s the sort of food that’s now so widespread, its hard to imagine it first being introduced to the US, but of course it was brought by immigrants, specifically by Jewish communities from Poland (the first known instance of a bagel being mentioned anywhere was in a Krakow ordinance in 1610). Aside from the distinctive shape – thought to have come about so that they could be strung up together and easily transported – it gets its specific chewiness from being boiled before being baked. Even accounting for some excellent bagels in the historically Jewish Brick Lane in London, I’ve never tasted bagels quite like those I’ve had in New York, which I think is a lot to do with their freshness. In fact, purists insist that you should rarely toast a fresh bagel, something that should only be done to bring a slightly stale bagel back to life. I don’t always follow that rule (who can resist a bagel that is toasty warm to the point where it makes the cream cheese slightly melt inside?) but I knew I shouldn’t have it toasted at the bagel heaven that is Russ and Daughters…

“The house that herring built” is the wonderful tagline of the Russ and Daughters deli and store, and one that hints at its humble beginnings. Now a haven of Jewish fine foods, it all started with a Polish immigrant named Joel Russ, who arrived in the US and set up as a schmaltz (i.e. chicken fat) herring salesman, progressing to a wagon-and-pushcart seller, to eventually opening his own East Village store in 1914. Fast forward a couple of decades and it became the first US business to contain the words “and daughters” in its name when Russ made his three daughters partners in 1935. Much like Zabar’s, stepping inside is an experience in itself: you’re greeted by glass counters containing mounds of caviar (wasabi flying-fish, whitefish, French trout…), preserved fish (herrings, lox, smoked salmon, peppered mackerel…) and sweet treats (rugelach, babka, hamantaschen…). In deference to its popularity, you must first take a ticket and try to find a space to wait for your number to be called among the throngs of people milling about in the confined space between all the piles of food. While I could have eaten and bought an awful lot here, I went for what most people go for: the bagels with cream cheese and salmon, considered to be some of the very best in an already-crowded NYC market. Typical of American tastes, there are infinite customisable options: which type of bagel do you want? (poppy seed, everything seasoned, sesame?) Which type of cream cheese? (horseradish and dill; scallion; lox; farmers cheese?) Which type of smoked salmon? Any toppings? At the risk of over-complicating things, I went for a plain bagel (to let all the other flavours shine), caviar cream cheese (why the hell not?), Norwegian smoked salmon and slices of fresh tomato. It was one of those times where it lived up to – and perhaps exceeded – expectations. The bagel was beautifully fresh and chewy with thick slathers of the salty cream cheese on each side, and the butter-soft smoked salmon was piled up in generous layers. The tomato was an unexpected highlight: lovely and sweet, it helped cut through all the richness of the other ingredients. It was the sort of meal where I immediately started planning what combination I would order next time.

The main event

Chances are if you think of a New York deli, you think of Katz’s. Perhaps most famous for that scene in When Harry Met Sally, it’s a legend of New York eating and another example of an old-school Jewish, family-run deli. While it has an extensive menu (that has barely changed since it was founded in 1888) it’s most famous for its pastrami sandwiches. Once again, the thing that strikes you most about going inside is the sheer sense of history of the place. I’d watched interviews with the current owner before I went (who is my age by the way… what have I been doing with my life?) in which he’d extolled at length about the importance of keeping everything the same as it’s always been: how you’ll be shouted at if you lose your ticket, how you aren’t allowed to have mayonnaise with your pastrami sandwich, et cetera et cetera … and my first thought was that it felt like a bit of an act for the tourists and a little over-the-top. But I completely changed my mind when I got there. It truly is like stepping back in time when you go inside. Original fluorescent signs scream at you: “Katz’s: that’s all!”, “Send a salami to your boy in the army!” and the walls are crammed full of faded pictures of celebrity customers from over the years. The signs behind the counters look strangely dated, listing a smorgasbord of options including chopped liver, steak cut fries, noodle pudding. I ordered a veritable feast of diner classics including matzoh ball soup, a hot dog, chocolate egg cream soda, potato latkes (I would like to point out at this stage that I was sharing as part of a group of four people) but I was definitely most excited about the sandwiches…

Pastrami is of Romanian Jewish origin, and its name derives from the phrase “to conserve something”; much like all the preserved fish that Russ and Daughters is famous for, it was traditionally a way to preserve beef brisket (or sometimes lamb or turkey). It’s a time-intensive method that involves brining, seasoning, smoking and finally steaming, which results – when done well – in strongly flavoured and tender meat. This was another example of something living up to expectations: the pastrami sandwich at Katz’s comprised a supremely generous tower of sliced pastrami that was nicely fatty, with a beautifully spicy and sweet crust. It came sandwiched between two thin pieces of rye that really serve as a way to safely hold the whole thing together without dirtying the hands. Add a dollop of tangy mustard and it was divine. I also sampled the Reuben, which centres around corned beef. Similar to pastrami, this involves salt-curing the meat (the name deriving from large chunks – or “corns” – of salt) often with additional spices. While this isn’t specifically of Jewish origin, the invention of the sandwich itself is usually credited to one of a number of Jewish delis in New York. Russian dressing, sauerkraut and Swiss cheese are all added to this (notably Jewish, deli-style ingredients). Interestingly, the cheese signals that Katz’s is “kosher-style” rather than kosher, given it includes both meat and dairy within the same dish. I think I may have even preferred this to the pastrami on rye; while the latter was undeniably delicious, it was predominantly just the flavour of the pastrami. I liked that the Reuben tasted more complex, alternately spicy and savoury from the meat, with sweet Russian dressing, rich melted cheese, and the sharp sauerkraut. That’s what I’d order if I went back. Though it’s one of those places where I don’t think you can go wrong. The food was great but it was almost secondary to the nostalgic feeling of stepping back in time to eat somewhere that has been serving the same classic dishes to New Yorkers throughout the years. And I think that sums up the joy of the places I’ve listed above. They’re famous enough that they’re all crammed with tourists, but they’re also filled with locals who have clearly been going there for decades, proving the endurance of enjoying good food in good surroundings in good company.

Zabar’s Deli

Broccoli and cheddar knish from Zabar’s

Some of the cream cheese and caviar choices at Russ and Daughters

Bagel with caviar cream cheese, smoked salmon and tomato from Russ and Daughters

Katz’s Deli

Reuben sandwich from Katz’s