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Lenny's Deli steps in to fill the Juniors void

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Last night after seeing a movie at what seems to be the cultural center of West Los Angeles Jewish life — the Landmark Theatres at the Westside Pavilion — we walked over to the new Lenny's Deli.

Lenny's filled the void left by Juniors — and I'm talking about a literal void.  Juniors was 11,000 square feet of real estate at the corner of Westwood and Pico Blvd. For 53 years it served as bakery, deli counter, restaurant, meeting place and all-around noshery for LA Jews.  As Michael Aushenker reported in the Jewish Journal, when Juniors abruptly announced it would shut it doors on Dec. 31, 2012, one regular summed up the feeling of generations of custimers by calling the news, “horrific.”

Then Lenny Rosenberg rode into town.

Actually, Lenny is a pretty familiar face: he owned the Bagel Nosh in Beverly Hills, and tried, unsuccessfully, to take over the cursed Morts space in the Pacific Palisades.   The latter effort foundered for reasons that have more to do with that stretch of property, and the internecine battles over retail in the Palisades.   As restauraneurs from Danny Myers to Joe Bastianich will tell you, a successful restaurant's fate depends as much on the location and the lease as it does on the chef.  Maybe more.

Lenny took over the Juniors space.  He hired back almost all of the deli's 100 laid-off workers.  He updated the menu with more organic foods, vegetarian and healthy options and even put in the now standard line about using local ingredients whenever possible.  That means, I think, the kishke comes from Sherman Oaks. 

We ate at the late Juniors about a month before it closed, and frankly, you could tell it was a deli in the fourth stage of a terminal illness.  The deli counter looked like it had been lifted from Communist Poland, the wait staff moped, the food tasted of salt and apathy.

Lenny Rosenberg has revived the place.  It's not called Juniors any more.  It's called Lenny's.

At 10 pm, many tables in the cavernous space were full.  The place itself was remodeled — new upholstery, new floors — not retro Lower East Side like the delicious, hipster Wise and Sons in San Francisco, just functional, pre-modern San Fernando Valley circa-1990.  

The menu is vast and traditional.  My wife's lox and bagels was very good, my kids ate their meaty meat things — pastrami, corned beef, etc — and liked it.  The sandwiches are of the piled high variety, and come with cole slaw.  I ordered my usual late night deli treat: grilled swiss on rye with Dijon mustard, sauerkraut and tomato.  I told Lenny it's a vegetarian Reuben.  My son wondered why, with five pages of food on offer, I had to order off the menu.

I had wine from a good selection.  The kids had egg creams, which were delicious.  We almost ordered the kishke, but this is 2013, and there's only so much Lipitor I can take.

The food was absolutely good.  Much better than good in the case of the lox, my sandwich and the egg creams and the homemade rugalach.  While Juniors had become a regular let down, Lenny's, I think, will now be a pleasant surprise.

Lenny came over to say hi — he knows me from the Journal.  The man is working hard, hard to make Lenny's succeed.  He's back to running a bakery, a deli counter, a restaurant and a catering outfit.   He instituted actual Shabbat services in a meeting room at the rear of the place.  He looks exhausted, but driven. He's also thin as a rail, which ordinarily I would think disqualifies you as a deli owner, but in his case is probably just the delightful side effects of stress and overwork.

But Lenny's does work.  The booths are back to being filled with the mishmash tureen of film-goers, hipsters, Persian Jews, seniors and soccer families that used to fill Juniors.  Not every foot of the 11,000 suare feet is teaming, but if Lenny can hold out, maybe he'll get there. I hope so.

Because it's good to have a deli on the corner of Westwood and Pico.

The Word of the Day Is Knaidel

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How do you spell knaidel?  M-a-t-z-o-h B-a-l-l.

The word that 13 year-old Arvind Mahankali from Queens, NY spelled to clinch the 2013 Scripps National Spelling Bee championship last night is German for a small mass of dough.  But its most common meaning in America is matzo ball.

Normally the word, which is German and Yiddish, is used in its plural form, knaidlach—because who can eat just one matzo ball?

From Los Angeles to Queens, the only place you’ll see the word is on deli menus. And not just in America: the menu at the venerable Harry Morgans deli – branches in London and Latvia—features Chicken Knaidlach Soup for £5.95.

I feel for the kids who lost out to Mahankali.  They’re home Googling knaidel, finding that it’s spelled in English many different ways: knaidel, kneidel, kneydl. 

There’s just as many ways to make knaidlach as there are spellings.  You use matzo meal, of course, and eggs, liquid, along with a fat and salt.  The liquid can be water or chicken broth or even seltzer.  The fat can be schmaltz—solidified chicken fat—or oil. If you use lard you’re in the wrong cookbook.

You can eat turkey outside of Thanksgiving, and you can eat matzo balls when it’s not Passover.  But the spring holiday that marks the deliverance of the Children of Israel from slavery in Egypt is the time when most matzo balls get made and eaten.  Jews had to flee Egypt before their bread had time to rise, so they are commanded to observe Passover by eating matzo, which is made only with flour and water.  Those matzos, ground fine, become a meal that can be used to make dumplings—which is all knaidlach are.

You might wonder why we eat matzo to remind us how we had to hurry out of Egypt, then make matzo balls, which take a almost two hours to mix, rest and simmer.  You could knock off a few loaves of quick bread, or even some pita, in that time.  The deep theological answer is this: matzo balls taste really good.  

You mix the ingredients, simmer them in soup or water, and the dry, unforgiving shirt cardboard that is matzo transforms into a small, warm bosom, tender and soft.  A knaidel is our small miracle of transubstantiation—maybe that’s why we eat them in Spring.

Great matzo balls should be as soft to eat as knaidel is hard to spell.  There are certain Jews who claim to prefer the kind their mothers made, the ones with a dense core of unfluffed dough.  These sinkers can require a steak knife to cut and a load of seltzer to digest.  I suppose you can get used to them, even come to think they’re delicious, in the same way the Romneys convinced themselves Karl Rove was telling the truth about the Ohio results.  People we trust can feed us crap and we’ll think it tastes like truffles.

As with most simple foods, the important variations are in technique, not ingredients.  If you’ve been blessed to learn how to make matzo balls by watching your grandmother, mother or mother-in-law, and she knew what she was doing, you’re fortunate: it’s all in the details:  Mix the batter lightly, don’t beat it.  Let the dough sit in the refrigerator until it is well-chilled.  Give those matzo particles time to absorb liquid and fat deep into their stiff-necked cells.  Form the dough again with a very light, but confident touch.   Roll pieces the size of a large walnut between your palms, quickly, but don’t rush it.  The rounder the ball, the more attractive—a misshapen ball floating in soup looks disturbingly like brain.  But don’t obsess: you don’t want to press the air out. You’ll get the hang of it.

Finally, once your balls are simmering, DO NOT lift the lid to peak. There are many commandments in the Jewish religion. This is the one I’m most scrupulous about following.

The knaidel maker at the Passover seder is the central object of scorn or praise.  At our seders, where my wife, the rabbi, leads the service, beautifully, I notice that few people will judge her either way.  But that moment when the chicken soup with matzo balls finally arrives, and people pick up their spoons and cleave a knaidel in two, and lift a portion to their mouths, and swallow— that moment is an eternity.  If the soup is hot and the balls are light, and well-salted, the entire table erupts in a semi-orgasmic chorus of ahhs, like the Children of Israel have been delivered all over again.  It is a moment of sheer joy, and relief, and for the cook, a feeling of utter victory and vindication.  

Arvind Mahankali would understand.

 

[RECIPE] Rob Eshman's Matzo Balls

4 eggs

1/4 cup schmaltz (chicken fat) or vegetable oil

1/4 cup chicken stock or water or seltzer

1 cup matzo meal

1 teaspoon salt

1/4-1/2 teaspoon ground white pepper

In a large bowl, mix all the ingredients. Do not overbeat. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate until well-chilled–  two hours or more.  

Bring a large pot of well-salted water to a boil.  Wet your hands. Take a lump the size of a large walnut and using your palms, form into a round shape. Drop into the water, reduce heat to a simmer and cover. Cook for about 40 minutes.  

Remove the balls with a slotted spoon.  Taste one to make sure they're cooked through– they probably will be.  Serve in hot soup, sprinkled with fresh parsley and dill.

7 Rules for Perfect Hummus

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When was the last time you opened a tub of hummus and swooned?  When was the last time a restaurant put a plate of hummus in front of you, and you said, “Oh my God.”

Most of the hummus recipes you come across on web sites, in print, on YouTube—they’re just wrong.   Most of the hummus you buy in stores, or get served at restaurants—it’s just okay.

As hummus gets more and more popular,  its manufacturers are aiming more and more for the middle.  They are substituting variety for quality. You can get mediocre hummus in ten flavors (Avocado! Chipotle!), but try finding just one batch of perfect.

And perfect hummus does exist. Lina’s in the Old City of Jerusalem. Naji’s in Abu Ghosh. Light, almost fluffy, full of fresh flavor, creamy, warm.  It’s not Middle East peanut butter.

I eat hummus every day.  I make it about once a week.   I’ve used recipes, I’ve created my own, I’ve tweaked like Steve Jobs (z”l) on a bender.    Below you’ll find my basic recipe, which I’ve adapted from Erez Komaravsky’s, the Israeli chef and cooking teacher.  (A story on Erez appears in this month’s Saveur, along with the recipe). 

Whether you use it or find your own let these rules be your guide. 

1. Do not used canned  garbanzo beans.   Ever.    Take the canned beans in your cupboard and give them to a food bank. 

2. Fresh ingredients are always better. Always.  Fresh ground cumin seeds, fresh squeezed lemon juice, fresh garlic.  Never used bottled lemon juice, though a touch of citric acid can help. Erez uses a mortar and pestle to grind his cumin.  You’ll taste the difference.

3. Use good quality olive oil. Lots of it.  In the hummus, as well as on top.

4. Don’t forget the pepper.  I use Aleppo pepper, but hot paprika or ground chili works too. 

5. Use water.   This is key.  Reserve the water you boiled the beans in. As you blend your hummus, add the water to achieve a creamy consistency.  Use a bit more than you think is correct, because after it sits you’ll see the water is absorbed.   If you’ve refrigerated your hummus, you can refresh it by whisking in some warm water.

6. Serve warm.  Freshly made warm hummus topped with a bit of mushed-up garbanzos, drizzled with olive oil, and topped with chopped parsley and paprika is the ideal.  And the pita should be warm too.

7. Use a blender, not a food processor. You get a  creamier consistency.

[RECIPE]

Galilee-Style Hummus

[Adapted from Erez Komaravsky. See original here.]

INGREDIENTS

1½ cups dried chickpeas, soaked overnight; drained

½ cup tahini

¾ cup EV olive oil, plus more

¼ cup fresh lemon juice or more

2 tsp. ground cumin

2 cloves garlic, peeled

1 t Aleppo pepper or 1 small fresh hot red chile pepper, stemmed and seeded

1 1/2 t Kosher salt, to taste

INSTRUCTIONS

Bring chickpeas and 4 cups water to a boil in a 4-qt. saucepan. Reduce heat to medium-low and cook, covered, until chickpeas are very tender, 1-1½ hours. Drain, reserving ½-1 cup cooking liquid; let cool until warm, not boiling. Transfer all but ¾ cup chickpeas to a food processor with the tahini, oil, juice, cumin, garlic, chile, and salt; purée until smooth. Add reserved cooking liquid and continue to purée until airy in consistency, about 5 minutes. Transfer hummus to a serving dish. Top with remaining whole chickpeas, drizzle with more oil, and sprinkle with salt.

After a a few minutes, taste and adjust seasoning.  You may need more water for a creamy texture.

Israel à la Tarte Tatin

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Restaurants have souls.

It comes across as much in the food as in the feeling you get from being there. You don’t find it out from the advertising. Otherwise every time you ate in an Applebee’s you’d feel comfy and at home, instead of bored and dissatisfied. You don’t discover it in the marketing. Otherwise every time you ate in a Burger King you’d feel edgy and cool, not gross and sad.

And it doesn’t even come across just from the food. Plenty of places with great food leave you cold. Meanwhile, a place with a warm soul like my late, lamented Benice in Venice, may never get a Michelin star, but leave their diners feeling warm and satisfied.

And that explains why a visit to the small and very French Tarte Tatin Bakery & Café on Olympic Boulevard near Doheny Drive makes you feel like you’re at home … in Tel Aviv. The pastries at Tarte Tatin — pains au chocolat, croissants and, of course, tartes tatin — look and taste like something in the window of a Paris patisserie. They are stacked up behind the counter of the tiny all-white space, and they are deceiving. Because as good as they are, as French as they are, as close to the Patricia Wells-ian ideal as they are — the soul of Tarte Tatin is Israeli.

Chef and owner Kobi Tobiano is an Israeli of Algerian heritage. His little gem of a cafe is the kind of place you’ll find tucked into a side street off Tel Aviv’s Rothschild Boulevard. It has no pretensions. The service can be spotty, sometimes rushed, always familiar. The food aspires, and reaches, an international standard. It is small, it hits way above its weight, and it is full of surprises — just like Israel.

The biggest surprise of all: You’ll find the best Israeli breakfast in Los Angeles at Tarte Tatin.

In that imaginary café off Rothschild, breakfast would mean a selection of craft breads, thick leben cheese doused in olive oil, some feta, olives, chopped tomato and cucumber salad with za’atar, maybe a bite of homemade hummus and a couple of eggs. Order the Israeli breakfast at Tarte Tatin ($16) and that’s what you get, along with dark, hot coffee. It’s all laid out in neat white ceramic dishes, and every bite recalls Tel Aviv. Ask for Tobiano’s smoky hot harissa, as well as for a glass of limonana — lemonade with mint.  

The other surprise is the Tunisian Tuna Sandwich ($11.95), which has become my favorite tuna sandwich in the city. Tucked into a soft, homemade French roll you get olive-oil-packed tuna, slices of potato, a shmear of that harissa, olives, hard-boiled egg, pickles and slices of preserved lemon.

Where do the excellent olives and leben in this Israeli-French café come from?  Tobiano’s Lebanese supplier, of course.  An Israeli chef of Algerian heritage running a French cafe in Beverly Hills using ingredients from Lebanon to make the best Israeli breakfast in all of Los Angeles — of course.  

Tobiano trained professionally as a pastry chef and served as one at Charles Nob Hill in San Francisco. He arrived in Los Angeles and worked as a private chef. Tarte Tatin is his dream-come-true place of his own, and as hard as he works — constantly, ceaselessly — and as much as he bemoans his lack of rest, you can tell he has created a place that exactly reflects the food of his heritage, the foods of his home, the foods he loves. That’s what makes Tarte Tatin special. That’s what gives it its soul.

Tarte Tatin Bakery & Café, 9123 W. Olympic Blvd., Beverly Hills. (310) 550-0011. NOTE: Tarte Tatin is not certified kosher. But it is certified a Foodaism favorite.

Rob Eshman is publisher and editor-in-chief of TRIBE Media Corp./Jewish Journal.

Passover at Malachy's Bar

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For years now I have had a pre-Passover ritual: I drink one last beer before the holiday starts. 

According to Jewish law, for the entire eight days of Passover, you're forbidden from eating or drinking foods made with wheat, barley, rye, spelt or oats.  Those of you into $10,000 Pyramid would by now have guessed the answer why:  these are “Things That Could Be Leavened.”  And at passover leavened bread is a no-no.

All year I have a, hmm, complex relationship with kosher, outside our home.  But during Passover,  for some reason, I'm scrupulou. I do avoid these foods.  Even though this means avoiding one of my favorite foods, beer.

Usually I just put a bottle aside as we’re cleaning the house in preparation for the holiday, and I make it the last grainy thing to toss out—and I toss it right down my throat.

But this year we celebrated Passover in New York City, and in the apartment where we stayed the only beer was a can of Bud Light, which doesn’t have enough beer flavor to last me through the eight day holiday.  Actually, it doesn't have any flavor at all.

I asked Naomi to join me on my quest for a local bar and a last beer and she was game.   Usually on the first night of Passover we are home, and I am so busy cooking I won’t see her until the seder starts.  Now we had a moment to enter the holiday peacefully, together.

It was cold and overcast and miserable—that is, spring in New York. We  soon decided the best bar was the closest one.   At 72nd and Columbus,  I pulled open the  door on the first storefront with with a beer sign in the window – the sign above the door said Malachy’s.  

An Irish bar at 4 pm on a Monday in New York City— now that’s some good people watching.

We sat at a small table. I ordered a Guinness, and Naomi nursed a coffee with milk she’d bought from a bakery across the street. Then we began a round of “What’s up with them?”

At the side of the bar closest to the front door sat a single woman, pretty, blonde, in her Anne Klein best, drinking alone.  Two musicians walked in, lugging a standup bass in a case.  At another table an older, bald man held a series of meetings with a steady stream of rough-hewn deliverymen who came in and out—we figured he was either the owner, or a bookie.

At the other end of the bar stood the bartender. He was a very solid Irishman with the face of former boxer and shiny head, and the older man and woman he talked and joked with seemed to all be on their second or third round.

An ancient black cook emerged from the kitchen with a plate of fried food. His white apron was tied around his rib cage, over a T shirt that said, “I’m the Cook.”

At the four-top beside us sat an odd family assortment—a little girl, an old man, maybe 80, eating fish and chips, and a woman, middle age, likely the mom.  After a while these people got up to leave.   The older man paid, and I heard him tell the bartender he was about to celebrate his 74th wedding anniversary.

Seventy-four?  I had to say something.

“How is that even possible?” I asked.

His granddaughter—the woman about our age— explained.  They were Jewish. Her grandfather had been coming to Malachy's every year just before the start of Passover  to have one last whiskey—a Seagrams VO, on the rocks.  He was 99 years old.  He'd been coming to Malachy's on the even of Passover, every Passover, for 30 years.

The man and his wife live in Baltimore, but they spend the seder nearby with their daughter and her family.

“One day he went out for a walk to get away from the craziness,” his granddaughter told me, “and he stopped at this bar for a drink, and he’s been coming back ever since.  When I was my daughter’s age, he would take me.”  she pointed to the little girl. ” And now he takes his great-granddaughter.”

“He just has a glass of whiskey each year before Passover?” I asked.

Oh, no, the daughter corrected me.   “He drinks two every night.  He's been doing that as long as I remember.”

The man was tall, straight-backed, and from overhearing their conversation, I could tell he was as sharp as anybody in the place.

I raised my glass to the man and said “L’chaim,” and we wished him a Happy Passover, there in Malachy’s Pub.

The man and his family walked out.   

I turned to the bartender and said, “I'll have what he's having.”

And I toasted Passover– and a 99 year old man named Albert– with my very first sip of Seagrams V.O.

Oh, Jerusalem, the Cookbook [RECIPE]

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In this week's Jewish Journal, Joan Nathan reviewed Yotam Ottolenghi and Sami Tamimi's beautiful cookbook, Jerusalem.  When I first got hold of the book last year, I knew the dream reviewer would be Joan.  She lived in Jerusalem decades ago, serving as an assistant to then mayor, and now legend, Teddy Kollek.  And it was in Jerusalem that she first discovered the variety of dishes and stories that make up Jewish cuisine.

Joan's review focuses in on exactly what makes Jerusalem-the-book as fascinating as Jerusalem-the -city. Ottolenghi is Jewish. His partner, Tamimi, is Palestinian.  Here's what Joan has to say:

I was very taken with the whole book, but their text in particular, and especially a section called “A Comment About Ownership.”

“In the part of the world we are dealing with everybody wants to own everything,” they write. “Existence feels so uncertain and so fragile that people fight fiercely and with great passion to hold onto things: land, culture, religious symbols, food — everything is in danger of being snatched away or of disappearing.” The two were describing ownership of recipes, but they might as well have been talking about ownership of the city.

My husband calls this part of the world the “Muddle East,” where discussions of who owns hummus and falafel lead to discussions of who owns streets, neighborhoods, borders. Many, like Ottolenghi and Tamimi, are tired of these discussions; they have gone into the food business in London to get away from fighting.

They, like many Israeli chefs, do not want to even think about these differences, about the conflict. Another Israeli cook in New York said to me just last week that he was a “baker, not a battler.” Ottolenghi and Tamimi use their dishes as a way to bridge these divides. “Food is a basic, hedonistic pleasure, a sensual instinct we all share and revel in. It is a shame to spoil it,” they write.

Speaking of sensual pleasure, put this recipe from Jerusalem on your Passover list, and read the entire story here.

 

PANFRIED SEA BASS WITH HARISSA AND ROSE

3 tablespoons harissa paste

1 teaspoon ground cumin

Salt

4 sea bass fillets, or other white fish, about 1 pound in total, skinned and with pin bones removed

Matzah cake meal or flour for dusting

2 tablespoons olive oil

2 medium onions, finely chopped

6 1/2 tablespoons red wine vinegar

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

Freshly ground black pepper to taste

Scant 1 cup water

1 1/2 tablespoons honey

1 tablespoon rose water (optional for Passover)

Scant 1/2 cup currants (optional)

2 tablespoons cilantro, coarsely chopped (optional)

2 teaspoons small dried edible rose petals, available at Middle Eastern grocery stores and online

Mix together half the harissa, cumin and 1/2 teaspoon salt in a small bowl.  Rub the paste all over the fish fillets and leave them to marinate for 2 hours in the fridge.

Dust the fillets with a little matzah cake meal or flour and shake off the excess. Heat the olive oil in a wide frying pan over medium-high heat and fry the fillets for 2 minutes on each side. You may need to do this in two batches.

Set the fish aside, leave the oil in the pan and add the onions. Stir as you cook for about 8 minutes, until the onions are golden. Add the remaining harissa, vinegar, cinnamon, 1/2 teaspoon salt and plenty of black pepper. Pour in the water, lower the heat and let the sauce simmer gently for 10 to 15 minutes, until quite thick. Add the honey and rose water to the pan along with the currants and simmer gently for a couple more minutes. Taste and adjust the seasonings and then return the fish fillets to the pan; you can slightly overlap them if they don’t quite fit.

Spoon the sauce over the fish and leave them to warm up in the simmering sauce for 3 minutes; you may need to add a few tablespoons of water if the sauce is very thick. Serve warm or at room temperature, sprinkled with cilantro and rose petals.

Makes 2 to 4 servings.

Passover at Street

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Call me old-fashioned, but if a restaurant is going to hold a Passover seder, shouldn't it at least be on Passover?

That's one thing I like about Chef Susan Feniger's seder at her restaurant Street.  It's on Tuesday, March 26 at 5 pm, the second night of Passover.

The other thing I like is the menu.  Here it is:

 

Russian Eggplant with Buttermilk Sauce and Mint Oil

Green Ben Salad with Watercress and Chopped Egg Gribiche

(vegan version made with Chopped Olive Vinaigrette)

Heirloom Spinach Soup with Matzo Balls

Choice of:

Lamb Musubi

with Saffron Rice, Pepper Sauce, Grapeleaf, and Pickled Almonds

(vegan version made with Harissa Crusted Roast Tomato)

Or

Matzo Crusted Spring Nettle Cakes

with Mustard Sauce and Smoked Halibut

(vegan version made with Smoked Mushroom)

Coconut Macaroons

dipped in Moroccan Spiced Chocolate

*Full wine list and cocktails will also be available.

KID’S MENU:      

Heirloom Spinach Soup with Matzo Balls

Roasted Lamb or Baked Halibut

Green Bean Salad with Lemon and Olive Oil

Rice

Coconut Macaroons

dipped in Moroccan Spiced Chocolate

 

Granted, it's NOT kosher (can I be more clear), and it combines milk with meat, another no no, but it does nod to the strictures of Passover by using matzo, and not using any breads or grains forbidden during the holiday.  Plus, it looks really good.

Rabbi Eleanor Steinman from the congregation Kol Ami will lead the Seder, as she has for the past few years.  It's $55/pp. For more information, call 323.203.0500. 

And to go with it, here's a video on “How to Make Your Own Matzo” from the web site DIYfood.com.  I'm going to assume Feniger's seder will include her homemade matzo as well.

Drinking with the Booksteins

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Rabbi Yonah Bookstein and his wife Rachel stopped by our house last week bearing two perfect pre-Passover gifts.

The first was a bottle of Shirah Wines 2009 Power to the People, a Syrah blend from Santa Barbara county grapes that The New York Jewish Week picked, out of 200 wines, as the Best Kosher Wine at its tasting this year.

It was exceptional.  It made me not want to stop drinking it, ever.

The second bottle was even more special.

The Booksteins spent several years in Poland helping revitalize the Jewish community there.  We started talking about how Israel feels like a “homeland,” but Poland just feels like home.  The food, the people—it all feels so familiar to us Ashkenazi Jews who are, at the end of the day, only a couple generations removed.  Of course I was going on about the vodka and slivovitz, and that’s when Rabbi Yonah reached into his magic bag and pulled out Mosby—an artisinal kosher slivovitz produced for the first time this year under his rabbinical supervision.

We toasted with it and oh….my….God. 

Forget the tongue-searing stuff they put out in shul after services.  Forget the swill your relatives let you sip that made you want to vomit. Mosby is made from wild plums collected in Medoc County, CA.  It is distilled by people with drinking in mind.  It is smooth, deeply flavorful ( I mean, strong and alcoholic—this isn’t plum wine, it’s plum grappa).  I’ve poured some glasses for people who won’t touch grappa or slivovitz—they made all gone. 

It’s expensive—around 50 bucks a bottle (like the Shirah Wine).  It’s hard to get.  (See below).  But after a long good dinner, it’s nice to have around.

Below is a press release I just received from Rabbi Bookstein about Mosby.  The smiling rabbi in the hat on the label?  That’s Yonah Bookstein.  Probably after a glass or two.

CALIFORNIA HAND-CRAFTED PLUM BRANDY KOSHER FOR PASSOVER 2012

Enhance Your Passover With Award Winning Slivovitz

Plum Brandy aka Slivovitz is making a comeback and was recently discussed in a major article in The Forward.

California is blessed with some of the best plums in the country, which have gone into making Mosby Slivovitz. Harvested from a small orchard in San Benito County, California. These perfectly ripened plums were artfully fermented and distilled by Bill Mosby under the careful Rabbinical supervision of Rabbi Yonah Bookstein.

This exceptional brandy was awarded a Silver medal at the 2010 International Review of Spirits, and a Bronze medal at the San Francisco Chronicle spirits competition.

Damson Plum:$55, Wild Plum $75

For more information and to order contact Rabbi Yonah Bookstein rabbiyonah@gmail.com

 

Eating San Miguel de Allende [SLIDESHOW]

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In my editor’s column I wrote about attending Shabbat services at the small congregation in San Miguel de Allende during a recent trip there.

But man doesn’t live by shul alone.  He lives by shul occasionally, and food obsessively.  Or that’s just me.

When we travel Naomi tends to look up minyans, I look up restaurants and markets. 

We stayed at a house with friends who had rented it complete with a cook.  She insisted on providing kosher meat for Naomi, the only one of us who keeps kosher.  That decision entailed many calls to contacts in San Miguel, then more e-mails and calls to a contact in Mexico City, from where the meat would come.  These sparked an ongoing debate via email and more phone calls between the eight of us over whether it was easier to just buy the meat at Trader Joes and carry it down.  That prompted calls to various Mexican friends as well as the Mexican customs agency, and the checking of web sites to determine if frozen meat could be carried into the country—ambiguous answers. That led to more debate over whether to rely on uncertain kosher meat from an unknown source in Mexico City, or risk carrying certain kosher meat all the way from LA.  That led me, in the middle of Trader Joes, to get out my iPhone and start translating the prices from peso to dollars,  from kilos to pounds, and comparing the costs, then finally, our friend made a decision. She bought the meat through a friend in Mexico City.  It was transported to a store in San Miguel, and we picked it up on arrival.

“It was easier to bring eight live people to the middle of Mexico than one piece of dead cow,” said my friend.

But kosher isn’t about easy—part of the point of it is, it’s hard.

Our cook made the chicken enchilada style, that is, robed in a roasted chili sauce.  We cooked the meat on the outdoor, rooftop grill, and served it with salsa and rajas. That salsa recipe will rate a future post of its own.

As for where we ate outside the home, I can recommend:

Cafe Rama

Owned by British Columbian Chef Jason Malloff, Cafe Rama is a San Miguel highlight.  Borscht in Mexico?  Yes.  It is one of the best borschts ever, a traditional Malloff family recipe that uses a little butter and cream.  If your bubbie had cooked for the Romanoff’s, she would have made this version, too.

Some rotisserie chicken place on some street.

The non-kosher among us decided this might be the best chicken of our lives.  Split, spread-eagled and rotisseried in front of an inferno of mesquite.  Marinated with pineapple and, I think, achiote.  One whole chicken was five dollars.  The seven of us fell on it like wolves.  Look at the slide show, and in another post I’ll find more info.

Da Andrea

A Neopolitan Chef, Andrea Lamberti, in the outskirts of San Miguel, serving homemade food in a vaulted cavern that used to be a horse stables.  Ravioli with huitlacoche, a mushroomy corn fungus, and snapper (huachinago) with marsh asparagus, or samphire, were the standouts.

Cafe Buenos Dias

Jason at Cafe Rama said this was the town’s best coffee, and, aside from the cafe at his place, it was.

In short, go to san Miguel de Allende.  As for getting kosher meat there…. you figure it out.