José (“Yussel”) Reyes
Herman has been featured in the Calvin Trillin novel Tepper Isn’t Going Out as “Herman, the Artistic Slicer.” And he is. But Herman also has the personality and charm of a great salesman, and a degree of patience and humility not normally found in the genome of Jewish appetizing-store workers. And to top it off, Herman also has an uncanny ear for languages. To the old-time customer who would attack him with “What do you know about slicing lox?” Herman would reply: “Az ich ken lernen Yiddish, ich ken shneiden lox” (If I learned how to speak Yiddish, I can slice lox). It was not long before those customers who used to demand a Jewish counterman lined up to wait for Herman to fillet their herring and slice their lox while he conducted a running commentary in Yiddish. And it was not long before the customers would ask me, “Where’s the Puerto Rican kid who takes care of me, the one who speaks Yiddish?” (In those days every Latino in New York was identified by “native” New Yorkers—themselves either immigrants or children of immigrants—as a Puerto Rican, no matter where he came from.)
Herman (“Chaim”) Vargas
Herman’s natural abilities flourished in Russ & Daughters, and with the departure of Sidney I made him manager of the store. This was a lot of weight on his shoulders. Since his personality was nonconfrontational, he adopted the Tom Sawyer theory of management: paint the fence (in this case, fillet the herring) yourself, do it with a smile, and the others will naturally join in happily. Unfortunately, the other employees were happier just watching Herman fillet the herring, and I was not happy that I was still in the role of taskmaster. I repeatedly pressured Herman to “act like a real manager; tell the staff what to do, for God’s sake.” In response Herman found God, but not a new management style. I was never able to determine exactly what sect he had joined, but his new religion observed Saturday, not Sunday, as the Sabbath. He told me he was “required by God, the big boss” to take off on Saturdays. So there I was, a Jewish store owner, working behind the counter on Saturdays so that my gentile manager could observe the Sabbath.
Herman’s newfound faith created additional problems. If a crisis arose that required immediate attention, analysis, and decision making, Herman’s response was “Let’s pray on it.” He truly believed that through prayer God would provide an answer. So while he was praying, I was desperately trying to find a rational solution to the problem at hand. Each year as the Jewish holidays approached I would go into a frenzy about finding enough help to get us through a volume of business that was ten times larger than normal. We didn’t need to have such a large crew on hand all year long, so these holidays represented a unique temporary-labor challenge. Herman would smile and assure me that “God will provide.” I, less trusting in divine intervention than Herman, would place ads in the daily newspapers and impress into duty any relative within reach. Amazingly, each year one or more appropriate candidates would walk through the door. The interview process was a simple one: I would put a lox knife into their hands to see if they could slice fish. If they could, I would hire them immediately and then wait until after the holidays to sort out whether they were psychotic or were worthy of an offer of full-time employment. I never asked whether they had come to us as a result of one of my classified ads or by way of a more heavenly inspiration. In either case, our staffing problem was always solved and Herman would always remind me of the power of prayer.
Over the next few years there were countless times when I threatened to fire Herman, or at least replace him as manager, because his refusal to supervise the staff left me with the chore of constantly telling everyone what they should be doing. Herman’s response was always the same: “Don’t worry, God will pay you back for this.” I was never quite sure whether this was meant as a blessing or a curse, so I didn’t fire him. As it has turned out, Herman was and continues to be a blessing. His spirituality is a constant reminder of the beauty of what we do for a living, of the humility that is such an important part of serving the public. And he has always had my back.
In 2001 the Smithsonian Institution asked us if Russ & Daughters would participate in its annual Folklife Festival on the National Mall. Did I need this? Schlepping down to Washington, D.C., in the middle of the summer? Setting up a display of smoked fish under a tent? Talking to people who didn’t have a clue about our products? But when Herman said he’d go with me, I knew everything would be fine. He’d be my sounding board. He’d calm me down. He’d be the go- to guy and get everything done. And he did. Herman set up a stunning display of fish. After giving my fish shpiel several times to clearly bored audiences, I told Herman I just couldn’t do it again. He said he would give the talk; God would get him through it. And so my Dominican colleague Herman picked up the microphone and started talking about Jewish food. The audience—mostly from the Midwest—was completely absorbed and mesmerized. No one left.
Herman and José are now frequently referred to as Chaim and Yussel by our customers. Although they were born in the Dominican Republic with the surnames Vargas and Reyes, they have become Russes by virtue of their hard work, dedication, and passion. They both have the keys to the store.
The Russians Are Coming
The advent of computers—in many respects a boon to businesses—made hiring staff even more challenging. In the 1970s, ’80s, and ’90s, sitting in a cubicle in front of a computer seemed to many to be a better way of making a living than standing behind a counter. (And today, the reverse seems to be true. Go figure.) This further depleted the local labor pool. Pakistanis and Bangladeshis began moving to the Lower East Side, taking the place of Puerto Ricans and Dominicans who were moving up and out. Since these South Asians had no familiarity with our products, our customers, or our culture, hiring them wasn’t an option.
In the late 1980s, HIAS (Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society) helped ease the way for an influx of Russian Jewish émigrés who arrived in the United States as the Soviet Union was beginning to collapse. Many came to New York City. I had hoped that this would be the answer to my recurring labor problems. After all, they were educated and they were Jewish—two key qualifications. And since they came from Russia, it was quite possible that they would even know something about our products. But I kept running up against one major stumbling block: none of these people had any idea of what it meant to work in a service industry—they barely knew how to smile, much less how to schmooze with the customers. Almost all of the Russians I interviewed said they were professionals, engineers mostly, and that smiling had never previously been a job requirement. I also realized that they had been raised and had worked within a Communist economic and political system, where there was no incentive to work hard or to be creative—two particularly important qualities for someone who is going to stand on his feet ten hours a day selling fish. I reluctantly gave up on the Russians.
Over the years, a series of characters have cycled through the store. The Jew for Jesus showed promise, but I had to let him go once he started proselytizing to the customers. I had high hopes for a trained chef who knew how to handle a knife and was professional in every way, except that he would disappear without notice for days, sometimes weeks. I never knew when he was coming back to work. Eventually, he just didn’t. The defrocked South American priest was intelligent and good with the customers, but he had no idea how to make change. And when I put him in the kitchen in the back of the store to slice onions, he got insulted and quit.
Sometimes romance got in the way of commerce, despite my admonitions. I had hired a very young, beautiful, bright, and ambitious Muslim woman from Uzbekistan, and I had great hopes of eventually putting her into a management position. A Muslim managing a Jewish appetizing store. Just think of the publicity possibilities. She lasted a few years behind the candy counter and then ran off with one of our Jewish customers. I was disappointed, but I have to admit that they are happy together—and they still shop in the store.
Sometimes an employee goes on to what the rest of the world would consider a bigger and better career
: one former Russ & Daughters staff member is currently the director of an important New York State agency, another owns several major restaurants, and a third is a famous Hollywood producer. Occasionally I run into some of these former employees. Despite their successes, they often express a wistfulness for their days behind the candy or fish counter at Russ & Daughters—in my view, a simpler, less complicated, more satisfying work life.
The Newest Labor Pool
September 11, 2001, and the financial crash of 2008 brought a different level of job applicant to Russ & Daughters. Rarely in the past had I seen résumés at all; now there were curricula vitae piling up on my desk from professionals who had been downsized and wanted to seize the opportunity to change their lives. Post-9/11 was a time of introspection for many New Yorkers who realized they weren’t happy as traders, lawyers, and bankers. They were looking for work that was more satisfying. What once seemed to be menial labor began to have greater appeal to many, as it became clear that baking bread, pickling vegetables, butchering meat, or slicing salmon has meaning in its own way and adds immeasurable value to our world. Elsewhere in this book I discuss what I consider to be the wondrous combination of art and science that goes into preparing the food we sell at Russ & Daughters. But there’s more to it than that: as the counterman prepares that lox and cream cheese on a bagel for the customer who has ordered it, they talk. And more often than not, that communication has a magic of its own. As you are about to see.
Herring in Parchment
MAKES 2 TO 4 SERVINGS
2 pure salt herring fillets
2 to 3 cups cold milk
4 small new potatoes
2 tablespoons extra- virgin olive oil
1 small onion, halved through the core and thinly sliced into half- rounds
4 whole allspice berries, crushed
2 to 3 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into thin slices
Put the herring fillets in a large, shallow bowl and cover with the milk. Allow the herring to soak for 2 hours. Meanwhile, bring a small pot of water to a boil. Add the potatoes and boil until they are tender when pierced with a fork, about 10 to 15 minutes. Drain the potatoes and set aside until cool enough to handle. Slice each potato crosswise into 8 rounds.
Preheat the oven to 400°F. Heat the olive oil in a medium frying pan or skillet. Add the onion and sauté until the half-rounds are golden brown, stirring frequently, 20 to 30 minutes. Stir in the crushed allspice berries.
Cut two circles of parchment paper, each about 12 to 16 inches in diameter. Fold each circle in half to make a crease. Arrange a layer of butter slices along the crease, down the middle of each circle. Top with a layer of potato slices, a layer of onion, and a herring fillet. Repeat with another layer of potato, onion, and butter.
Fold the parchment up over the fish to make a crescent shape. Crimp the edges tightly to make a seal. (If the parchment keeps unfolding, use a staple or two.) Carefully transfer the parchment packets to a baking sheet. Bake the packets until they are puffed, about 12 to 15 minutes. Serve the herring in the parchment. When you cut open the packets at the table, they will release a delicious, fragrant steam.
4
The Customers
I’ll Have a Quarter Pound of Lox,
One Filleted Herring, and Your Kishkes
Contrary to what most people assume, I didn’t simply “inherit” Russ & Daughters. After years of working six days a week, ten hours a day, I earned the right to buy the business from the preceding generation of Russes. I did, however, inherit the customers. I’m retired now, but I can still hear them placing their orders from across the counter:
“I need a whitefish … It should be a nice one … My son, the doctor, is coming over for dinner … We want to introduce him to a nice girl … Her family is very well situated, thank you … Her father’s a big shot … Maybe this will work out, please God, and I’ll soon be a grandmother … No, don’t give me that one from the top. What do I look like? A greenhorn? I want from underneath. No, not that one. The one next to it. No, that one’s too dried out. You probably had that one left over from before the Flood … Why don’t you go to the back and get me a fresh one?”
In these short exchanges there was always a life story: they had made it in America; their son was a doctor; it was time for him to get married and give them grandchildren; of course they would be involved in choosing his mate: she would be from a good family, a family at least as respectable as they were; the girl’s father should be a “big shot.” But make no mistake, although these customers might include me in discussions of family matters, they were still, first and foremost, seasoned shoppers. They had spent lifetimes struggling to succeed, and they were determined to make sure that no one took any of what they had achieved away from them. Now they would have only “the best.” Don’t try to pull any fast ones. Go in the back and bring out “a fresh one.” There was always something to be learned from these old-timers. That was clear from day one.
“Private Stock”
January 2, 1978: It was technically my first day on the job after I had decided to go into the family business, even though I had been behind the counter since I was in utero. But I wasn’t worried. How difficult could selling fish be? After all, I was better educated, more accomplished, and far more cultured than any of the employees or any of my relatives—both current and previous generations included.
That morning a giant limousine pulled up in front of the store, and out stepped a woman wearing a magnificent mink coat. She marched into the store and immediately demanded to see my mother, Anne.
“Anne always waits on me,” she declared, “and she knows just what kind of sturgeon to give me and how to cut it.”
“Well, I’m Anne’s son, and I’m sure that I can help you,” I said with my best counterman smile.
She said nothing else until I reached into the case where the sturgeon was displayed.
“Aaaaach!!” she screamed. It was the first shriek of disapproval from a wealthy middle-aged woman that I was to hear in the store; there would be many more in the years that followed. “No! Your mother gets me the private-stock sturgeon.”
She pointed under the counter. She knew exactly what she wanted and where it was.
“Private stock” is a term that was the creation of and solely used by the Russ family to describe a particular type of sturgeon, the crème de la crème of all smoked fish, that has been culled from the regular stock because of its special fattiness, taste, and texture. Fatty fish have always been considered better because of their richer taste. As it turns out, they’re better for you, too, due to their high amounts of omega-3 fatty acids, which reduce the body’s cholesterol. Private-stock sturgeon was reserved for those customers who could appreciate the difference and were willing to pay the slightly higher price it commanded, sort of like a flawless diamond. But more than making a sale, what I wanted at that moment was to let this haughty lady know who I was: not a mere counterperson, not just the son of the owners, but a lawyer with a substantial curriculum vitae. Then I remembered that pleasing the customer was always the family mantra, so I kept silent and reached down below the counter to the hidden refrigerator where the private-stock sturgeon was kept. I brought it up to the cutting board with a bit of fanfare and proceeded to slice.
“Aaaaach!!” she screeched again, but this time it was not so much the sound of her voice that pierced through me as it was the look of total disdain that only a woman originally from the Lower East Side and recently made wealthy could muster up and deliver to someone who she believed was unfortunate enough to still be stuck in the old neighborhood and without an exit plan. Well, I was going to disabuse this woman of her arrogant assumptions—customer or not. As I looked up at her to deliver my response in my most lawyerly style, I disobeyed the counterman’s first rule: never look away while you are slicing. Needless to say, the cut was deep and bloody. But before she realized what was happening, I excused myself and said that I would get someone else who would cut her st
urgeon according to her wishes. She didn’t seem disturbed by my sudden departure. In fact, she seemed relieved. With that, I went to the back of the store and sent a longtime counterman out to help her while I wrapped a towel around my bleeding hand, slipped out unnoticed, and went straight to the emergency room at Beth Israel Hospital, seventeen blocks north. More than thirty years later, the ensuing sixteen stitches and the scar from that cut are a reminder of the lesson I learned that first day from that tough customer. It’s not important that I am a lawyer. When I’m behind the counter, I am a Russ who must remember what kind of fish each customer wants and how he or she wants it cut—and also remember never to look up while cutting it.
The Old-Timers
The old-timers invariably entered the store with attitude. Even before they crossed the threshold, they assumed that you were going to charge them too much, give them bad merchandise, or short-weight them. Bakers. Butchers. Fishmongers. All store owners were gonifs in their eyes.
Me, behind the counter, in 1993. Yes, I’m looking up, but I’m not holding a knife. (Copyright © Harvey Wang)
Mrs. Schwartz entered Russ & Daughters, looking for canned sardines.
“How much for the sardines?”
“Three for twenty-five,” said Grandpa Russ.
“Three for twenty-five? Ostrover around the corner has them three for twenty-one!”
Russ & Daughters Page 9
