by Edward Lee
Does that mean that our only link to a country’s food comes from the poorest immigrants? A restaurant is often the cheapest business an immigrant can set up, one that requires no official degree or institutional schooling. But what does that say about our relationship to food? Does our education in global food depend on global tragedies?
Many of the immigrants I’ve met came to America because they were escaping war, famine, and persecution. In exchange for safety and work and a new chance at life, they rewarded us with myriad cuisines that we would otherwise never have had access to. Nigerian food, Uyghir food, Burmese food—the list goes on and on. While I’m glad they’re here, a prevailing tragedy hangs over their existence. Do we need global tragedies to continue our exploration into world cuisines? Is that a sustainable system? I wonder if there is some other way we can honor and learn the cuisines of faraway nations without the tragic circumstances that bring them to our shores. If there is a way to create a true evolution in German food or any other country’s cuisine, we will have to do it without waiting for another victim of war to bring the knowledge here to America.
On the last night of our trip, Dianne and I venture out to Dorf Haus, a supper club just outside Sauk City, Wisconsin. The name comes from a religious congregation founded by German immigrants in 1852 here in the middle of prairie farmland and small, isolated towns. The menu is burgers, steaks, and seafood. There are a few German specialties sprinkled throughout. Dorf Haus features live oompah music on the weekends. The place is full at 5:30 p.m. The hostess tells me it will be an hour wait for a table. I look at my restless daughter doing pirouettes at the bar and know we can’t wait that long. I place an order to go: schnitzels and sauerbraten, pancakes and sauerkraut. My wife is chatting up a couple at the bar. They look furtively at me.
The hostess hands me a small Styrofoam box and tells me to fill it up at the salad bar. I look over at the communal salad station and politely tell her no, thank you.
“But it comes with the dinner. It’s free,” she explains to me slowly.
“I know, but I’m okay.”
“Well, I can’t discount your dinner.”
“I wouldn’t want you to. I’m fine.”
“Just take it. You might want it later.”
“Really, I’m okay.”
She looks at me in frustration. It doesn’t make sense to her. My order comes out in plastic bags, and we take it to our car. I explain the interaction to my wife. She tells me it makes sense. They don’t want to owe anything to anyone. Also, Germans never refuse anything that is free.
“Well, that’s just ridiculous,” I tell her. Dianne is looking through the bags of food. She pulls out a small Styrofoam box filled with iceberg lettuce, cabbage, and sliced raw carrots.
The hostess gave me the salad anyway. “Germans are stubborn, too!” My wife giggles. This is the same fight we have all the time. We are both stubborn as rocks.
The sun is setting over barren farmland. Our daughter falls asleep in the car. From everything I’ve read, residents here are struggling, and many of the young people have left for the promise of a better life in big cities. These are good folk, salt of the earth, as they say. They came because of war and persecution. They have cultivated this land. They have cared for it and nurtured it. Now, after more than a century here, they want a better life. Who wouldn’t? They are honest, too honest. The hostess’s guilt couldn’t allow her to overcharge me for meal that included a salad worth barely a dime.
I look at our sleeping daughter dreaming about cows jumping over the moon. I see a Korean girl, but she is half-German, too. She is the union of my wife and me. She is America. I want her to know as much about German food as she already does about Korean food.
My wife is feeding me chunks of schnitzel as I drive. It’s bland, so I ask her to put some of the German mustard on it. Nothing beats the sharp German mustards that come in toothpaste tubes. She does. I take a bite. The mustard has twang. It lights up my nose.
“You’re not supposed to put this mustard on schnitzel,” Dianne scolds me. But she admits that it is good. I remark that it is very un-German of her to stray from the rules.
“And that’s why we’re meant for each other.” She leans into me.
Parenting is hard. Dianne and I have been fighting a lot recently. For no good reason, just because life is what it is. She tells me we should do these road trips more often.
“We will, and we’ll cook together more, too,” I tell her, which implies that I’ll spend more time at home. It grows dark outside, and we hold hands as we drive along the empty highway back to our hotel.
Hasenpfeffer
Hasenpfeffer is a famous German dish of wild hare and juniper berries. It epitomizes the German technique of long sour brining that both flavors and helps tenderize meat. The recipe is simple, but it takes some time to make, so plan ahead. Ideally, the rabbit should marinate for 2 days, but if you are pressed for time, 24 hours will do. The word Hase refers to a wild hare, not a farm-raised rabbit, so if you have a friend who hunts and can supply you with one, this will taste even better. If not, a good farm-raised rabbit will work just fine.
Serves 2 or 3 as a main course
marinade
2 cups red wine, preferably pinot noir, plus more if needed
1½ cups apple cider vinegar
1 cup water
¼ cup gin
1½ tablespoons salt
1 tablespoon juniper berries
1 tablespoon whole black peppercorns
3 bay leaves
2 teaspoons allspice berries
2 garlic cloves
1 small bunch thyme
1 whole rabbit (about 2½ pounds), cut into 6 pieces: back and front legs, legs separated, and rib section, split in half (ask the butcher to do this for you)
braise
¼ cup chopped bacon
2 cups coarsely chopped onions
1½ cups halved button mushrooms
1 cup chopped peeled turnips
1 cup chopped cabbage
1 to 2 cups chicken stock
½ cup sour cream
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 tablespoon chopped fresh dill
Rice or egg noodles, for serving
To make the marinade: In a large saucepan, combine the red wine, vinegar, water, gin, salt, juniper berries, peppercorns, bay leaves, allspice berries, garlic, and thyme, bring to a boil, and boil for 3 minutes. Transfer the marinade to a large nonreactive container that will hold the rabbit snugly and refrigerate until completely cool.
Put the rabbit pieces in the marinade. Make sure the rabbit is completely submerged in the liquid; if necessary, add a little more red wine. Marinate in the refrigerator for 48 hours, turning it a few times. (If you are in a rush, just marinate it overnight.)
When ready to cook, remove the rabbit from the marinade and pat it dry with paper towels. Strain the marinade and reserve the liquid; discard the solids.
To make the braise: In a medium pot, cook the bacon over medium heat until it renders its fat and gets slightly crisped, about 5 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the bacon to a plate.
Add the onions, mushrooms, and turnips to the fat remaining in the pot and cook for 3 minutes, or until beginning to soften. Add the cabbage and cook for another minute. Add the rabbit, return the bacon to the pot, and cook for 3 to 5 minutes, until the rabbit is lightly browned.
Pour in the reserved marinade and 1 cup of the chicken stock. The rabbit and vegetables should be completely submerged in liquid. If not, add up to another 1 cup chicken stock. Reduce the heat to low, cover the pot, and cook for about 1 hour, checking the rabbit occasionally, until the meat is just falling off the bone.
Transfer the rabbit and vegetables to a serving platter and cover loosely to keep warm. Raise the heat to high and cook the braising
liquid until it has reduced by half and thickened slightly.
Measure out 2 cups of the braising liquid and transfer it to a bowl. Whisk in the sour cream. Season with salt and pepper.
Pour the sauce over the rabbit and vegetables. Garnish with the dill. Serve with rice or egg noodles.
Roast Butternut Squash Schnitzel with Squash Kraut in a Mustard Cream Sauce
Schnitzel is such a simple idea: meat pounded thin, breaded, and fried. It can be made with pork or chicken—or even beef, as they do in Texas in the form of the chicken-fried steak. Here is an unusual vegetarian version. I treat the butternut squash as one would a prized meat. The schnitzel is eaten with a kraut made out of the butternut squash, too. It takes 5 days to make the kraut, but it gives the dish a beautiful punch, so plan ahead.
Serves 4 as a main course
1 butternut squash
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
mustard cream sauce
¼ cup white wine
2 tablespoons chopped shallots
Pinch of salt
¼ cup chicken stock
¼ cup heavy cream
1 tablespoon spicy German mustard
½ teaspoon grated fresh horseradish
Pinch of freshly ground black pepper
½ tablespoon cold unsalted butter
1 cup all-purpose flour
2 large eggs
2 tablespoons milk
2 tablespoons water
1 cup bread crumbs
Vegetable oil, for panfrying
Butternut Squash Kraut
Preheat the oven to 325°F.
Cut off the neck of the butternut squash. Trim and discard the stem. Reserve the bulb for the Butternut Squash Kraut.
Put the squash neck on a square of aluminum foil. Add the butter and sprinkle with ½ teaspoon salt. Wrap it tightly in the foil. Bake for about 45 minutes—the squash should yield when you press it but hold its shape, not collapse. Remove from the oven, unwrap, and let cool.
Cut the squash into ¾-inch-thick rounds. Remove the skin. Press down on each round with your palm to flatten it. Re-form each piece into a round. Put on a plate and refrigerate for 15 minutes.
Meanwhile, to make the mustard cream sauce: In a small saucepan, bring the wine to a boil. Add the shallots and salt, reduce the heat, and simmer for 4 minutes, or until most of the liquid has evaporated. Add the stock and cream and simmer until reduced to about ½ cup, about 5 minutes. Add the mustard, horseradish, and pepper and simmer for another 2 minutes to allow the flavors to blend. Add the butter to the pan and swirl it around to melt. Set aside.
Put the flour in a shallow bowl. In another shallow bowl, beat the eggs with the milk and water. Put the bread crumbs in a third bowl.
Remove the squash from the refrigerator. Dredge each piece in flour, dip in the egg wash, letting the excess drip off, coat with bread crumbs, and place on a plate. You may need to reshape them again after coating in bread crumbs so they are flat and even.
Heat about 3 tablespoons vegetable oil in a large skillet over medium heat until hot. Working in batches, fry the breaded squash, turning once, until golden brown on both sides, about 2 minutes per side. Drain on paper towels and season with salt and pepper.
Arrange the schnitzel on serving plates. Serve with the butternut kraut and drizzle the mustard cream sauce over the top.
Butternut Squash Kraut | Butternut squash makes a nutty, crunchy kraut that is both vibrant and earthy. Makes 2 cups
1 butternut squash bulb (reserved from the Roast Butternut Squash Schnitzel recipe)
¼ cup thinly sliced onion
1 tablespoon sea salt
1 teaspoon caraway seeds
1 garlic clove, grated (use a Microplane)
⅛ teaspoon ground allspice
Halve the squash lengthwise and remove and discard the seeds and membranes. Peel the squash. Grate it into fine shreds on a box grater.
In a medium bowl, combine the squash with the onion, sea salt, caraway seeds, garlic, and allspice. Mix with your hands, squeezing and kneading the mixture, for about 8 minutes.
Place the squash, with all its juices, into a glass jar that holds it snugly. If needed, add ½ cup water so that the kraut is fully submerged in liquid. Cover the top with several layers of cheesecloth and secure it with a rubber band. Let stand at room temperature for 48 hours.
Transfer the kraut to the refrigerator and let stand for 3 days more. The kraut is now ready to eat, but you can refrigerate it for up to a month; replace the cheesecloth with a tight-fitting lid.
Chapter 15
The Palace of Pastrami
Would you believe me if I told you the best Jewish deli in America is in Indianapolis, that somewhere between Katz’s Deli in New York City’s Lower East Side and the chandeliered cafeteria of Langer’s Deli in Los Angeles is a palace of pastrami that has been upholding a tradition of kosher cured meats for more than a hundred years? I, too, was incredulous when I first heard about Shapiro’s Delicatessen. When I think about the pillars of Jewish culture, Indiana doesn’t immediately come to mind. And what does it really mean to be the best, anyway? I can’t claim I’ve done a formal side-by-side taste test of the matzo ball soup at Shapiro’s against the versions at Canter’s or Barney Greengrass. Truth be told, I don’t know if anyone does herring better than Russ and Daughters. And the kreplach at Zingerman’s can’t be beat. But what if I told you there was a kosher deli in the middle of the Hoosier State that arose out of a cultural utopia of diversity and stayed true to its family roots over the next four generations, untouched by rampant tourism and gentrification, untarnished by the culinary whims of the passing decades? Well, that’s Shapiro’s.
Shapiro’s Delicatessen is split into two sections. One is for take-out meats, and the other is a cavernous cafeteria-style deli that can seat up to three hundred people. The line gets long, so the best time to go is around 11:30 a.m., just before the lunch crowd descends. You begin your dining experience by grabbing a plastic tray and silverware at the start of the buffet line. You pick up your dessert and salad first, from a refrigerated display case. This is confusing if you’re new to Shapiro’s, but after a few trips, you realize the ingenuity of it. Think how much more fun ordering would be if every restaurant asked you to order dessert first. Imagine contemplating a strawberry cheesecake or banana pudding before considering the appetizers. All the desserts are served on unbreakable plastic plates, each one individually wrapped in a layer of protective plastic wrap, as if your grandmother were behind the line packaging it herself.
As you move down the line, you look up to see a menu board of sandwiches. One of the more peculiar inventions of the modern deli world is the naming of sandwiches after famous people. How am I supposed to know what comes in a “Woody Allen,” and do I really want to think about him as I’m diving into a corned beef on rye with creamy coleslaw? At Shapiro’s, the menu is pragmatic: the items are simple and clearly labeled. A corned beef sandwich is called just that. In fact, the menu board reads like that from any other pedestrian deli, but once you smell the pastrami for your sandwich as it’s being sliced before your eyes, you understand you are someplace special.
While you wait for your sandwich meat to be sliced, you can choose from a steam table of sides. There’s everything from German potato salad to noodles with sour cream to latkes (potato pancakes). I’ve learned to get two desserts: if the line is long, I can chow down on a plate of cinnamon rugelach while patiently waiting for my sandwich to be assembled. At the end of the line, you get a cup for your fountain drink and then pay at the register. It’s quick, cheap, and easy.
Brian Shapiro is the fourth generation of the Shapiro family to run the restaurant. His office is behind the take-out section. It includes large windows so he can peek out and see the activity in the deli. His
wife, Sally, runs the website and media side of the business. Despite having a few offshoot locations, this Southside cafeteria, the original, is their flagship. One afternoon, I find Sally behind the counter using a large camera to take a photo of a corned beef sandwich on a white cutting board. She has a small frame, and her camera is as big as her torso. The sandwich stands tall and proud on a plain Shapiro’s plate. There is no hand-stitched linen napkin carefully made to look randomly placed under the plate; nor is a vintage fork effortlessly balanced on the plate’s rim, as though someone were about to dive into lunch but realized she’d forgotten to pour herself a glass of rosé.
I immediately disturb Sally’s concentration. “Can you tell me the history of Shapiro’s again?” I ask her. One can find this story on the deli’s menu and website, but I like hearing it from Sally. She has a jovial way of recounting the familiar milestones while sprinkling in small anecdotes that you won’t find in the brochures.
Shapiro’s Kosher-Style Foods Delicatessen has been open since 1905. Its founders, Louis and Rebecca Shapiro, fled Odessa to avoid the anti-Jewish pogroms that swept through Russia. When he first arrived, Louis worked in the scrap metal business, then a mostly Jewish industry and booming because of an innovation in steel processing that made it practical to work with used steel. You didn’t need much to get started—just a wagon and the willingness to work long hours.
But Louis hated it. Back in Odessa, he had sold food and flowers at a market, so he started to sell provisions from a pushcart: coffee and tea at first, then flour and sugar. He expanded into meats and produce. Louis and Rebecca stored everything he sold in a little apartment they had at 808 Meridian Street. One day, the floor caved in under the weight of their inventory. They then decided to buy the store below them and turn it into a grocery and bakery. Business was good. Even during the Great Depression, the grocery continued to profit. After Prohibition ended, Louis Shapiro began to sell beer at ten cents a bottle. Customers would have a few beers and ask if there was anything to eat. They’d complain, “You sell bread and you sell meat. Why don’t you just make me a sandwich?” So he did. Rebecca started to sell the dishes she made, mostly soups and potato salads. Soon, they added a few tables and chairs. The neighborhood was transforming from a mostly residential one to an industrial one. The grocery business was declining, but the restaurant business was buzzing, so the family focused on growing the cafeteria.
