One day as I stood behind the counter, I made the mistake of complaining to my father. “When do I get a rest?” I asked.
Rather unceremoniously, my dad grabbed me by the arm, took me outside to the car, and proceeded to drive without saying where we were going and, indeed, without saying another word. En route, he lit up one of his omnipresent cigars. I learned from an early age that my father could never be separated from his cigars, not at any time or under any circumstances, not even while traveling in a car in the winter with the windows closed and his three kids retching in the backseat. But by the time we made this trip I had become a cigarette smoker, so I lit up, too, and we continued our journey in a fog of smoke and silence. We neared the Belmont Park racetrack. This looked promising. But then we passed the track and drove through the gates of Beth David Cemetery to the Russ family plot, which was then populated only by Joel and Bella Russ. My father finally spoke.
“You want a rest? This is the only place you’ll get it!” Then we left and returned to the store. Nothing else was said.
My next visit to the family plot at Beth David was two years later. “There’s a new inhabitant arriving,” I tell Josh and Niki, “my father, your grandfather.” He was sixty years old when he died, felled by the eighth heart attack he’d had over the course of eighteen years. We hadn’t had much time together for him to teach me the business. For the last two years of his life he had been living in Florida, where he had been forced to retire shortly after I arrived at Russ & Daughters. “You need to rest,” his doctors had said.
Today the family plot is more heavily populated. Grandpa and Grandma Russ are still in the center. Aunt Ida, the middle Russ daughter and the only one who believed in an afterlife, has a place next to the father with whom she fought all of her life. Who knows what’s going on with them now? Three sons-in-law—my father and my two uncles—are all there. My cousin Nina recently joined them. That makes seven out of twenty-nine grave sites occupied. There’s still “plenty room.”
I walk Josh and Niki several cemetery blocks over to one of the community burial grounds maintained by a landsmanshaft, a dues-paying mutual aid society formed by immigrants who came from the same shtetl. The landsmanshaft’s main purpose was to help families in need; to help, for example, a young widow bury her husband and feed her children until she was able to get back on her feet.
“Your great-grandfather,” I explain, “was from a shtetl called Strzyzov. It was a tiny town in Galicia, in what’s now southeastern Poland.
“Grandpa Russ was a member of the Strzyzover Landsmanshaft, and he and his family could have been buried in plots that the society owned,” I tell them, “but he chose not to. Owning his own family plot would be a testament to his success in America and would show that he didn’t need a helping hand from a landsmanshaft. He could afford a corner plot with a big oak tree, a stone bench, and room for many generations of Russes. This was America, where with hard work and determination there was no limit to what a person could achieve. Grandpa Russ wanted his descendants to understand this even after he was long gone. That was why he wanted there to be a place in the Russ family plot where we could come for a ‘wisit’—not to say prayers, but to sit on the bench, have something to eat, and remember where we come from.”
The business Grandpa Russ founded with a pushcart, expanded with a horse and wagon, and finally established as a store he decided to call Russ & Daughters is now famous. We’re still on the Lower East Side. But what we have been doing here all of these years has become of interest to the larger world.
In 2001, the Smithsonian Institution invited us to participate in a special exhibition about New York City. “You’re part of New York’s cultural heritage,” they wrote. And in 2005, the Smithsonian invited us to be part of another exhibit, this time saying, “You’re part of the food culture of America.” I couldn’t help thinking about how Grandpa Russ would regard all of this. “So, nu?” he’d say with a smile and a shrug. “We’re finally real Americans.”
Perhaps the greatest acknowledgment of our yichis came from the Museum of Jewish Heritage in New York. The museum presents an annual spring program of events that involves lectures by renowned figures—writers, artists, and performers—in the world of Jewish culture. In the winter of 2003, the museum called Niki and invited Russ & Daughters to participate in one such event. I overheard Niki promise them the participation of three generations of the Russ family, including the two surviving Russ daughters—her grandmother Anne (who was then eighty-two) and her great-aunt Hattie (who was then ninety). I also heard her offer the services of the noted author and humorist Calvin Trillin as moderator for the event. She got off the phone very pleased with herself. I immediately pointed out the logistical problems.
First, it was an extraordinary leap of faith and some chutzpah for her to presume that Calvin Trillin would agree to appear. Second, it was rather unlikely that her grandmother and aunt would be willing to travel to New York for this event, since they were both more or less under self-imposed house arrest in their Florida shtetl. Although they both had valid driver’s licenses and their own cars, they rarely logged more than a few hundred miles a year, using their cars only for trips to the hairdresser, to the Publix supermarket, and, most often, to their doctors.
“Niki,” I said, “I’ll call your grandmother to see what I can do. But there’s no way I can call Bud Trillin for this. You’ll have to take care of that yourself.”
I didn’t expect success on either front, and I wondered which one of us would have to call the museum to say we couldn’t pull the event together.
Bud Trillin said yes right away. As is evident from the beautiful foreword he wrote for this book, he’s a longtime customer and good friend, and we consider him the poet laureate of Russ & Daughters. He’s also particularly fond of Niki, which I completely understand. She’s much more adorable than I am. And at a time when his own two daughters were off living in California, he was vulnerable.
My mother presented more of a challenge. “Mom,” I said, “there’s a museum here in New York that wants to feature our store and our family at an event in the spring. Do you think you and Aunt Hattie can make it?”
Jews are famous for our ability to answer one question with another, and my mother is a master of this. “What do I need this for?” she sighed. “Can’t they come here? Why would a museum want us? How much will it cost?”
Once she finished her shpiel, I told her that whatever reasons the museum might have, this event would be “good for business.” She got it. The Russ entrepreneurial DNA kicked in, and she was immediately on board. But she then came up with a list of demands befitting a rock star: a limousine to take her and Hattie to and from the airport. Wheelchairs for both of them. First-class tickets. A luxury hotel in New York—four stars at least. To my surprise, the museum agreed to it all. (It turned out the limousine was a minivan, the first-class seats were by the bulkhead in coach, and the luxury hotel was an Embassy Suites, but Mom and Aunt Hattie were by then too thrilled with the whole idea of the event to notice.) Some months before our scheduled event, the museum advertised its entire spring program of ten events in The New York Times. Our evening was billed as “A Talk Across Generations: Three Generations of the Russ & Daughters Family in Conversation with Calvin Trillin.” When the ad appeared a second time, only the Russ & Daughters event had a bold black line through it with the words “Sold Out.” It’s impossible to tell whether the crowd showed up for Calvin Trillin, for the Russ family, or for the bagels and lox served after the talk, but for Aunt Hattie and my mom, the evening was the ultimate payback for a lifetime of hard, uncelebrated work. It was their evening of koved—respect, honor, esteem.
Onstage, Anne and Hattie did what they always do; they argued. When did Papa buy the building from Mrs. Franck? When did sister Ida leave the business? What was the price of sturgeon in 1939? They were unfazed by the several hundred people in the audience listening to them. As they argued, Niki, Josh, and I, sittin
g up there on the stage with them, watched the smiling faces of the audience members, who were delighted to see the “Russ girls reminiscing.”
Anchor and Weight
The lament of the ancient Jewish retailer: “The first generation founds the business, the second generation builds the business, and the third generation kills the business.”
At Russ & Daughters, I am that third generation, and by the grace of God and a lot of hard work, I haven’t killed the business; it has survived and in fact thrived, and so have I. For all the changes we have experienced in our appetizing store on the Lower East Side, the one thing that hasn’t changed, that is immutable, is the fear. The fear of being the last generation to run Russ & Daughters, the generation that “killed the business.” How? By violating traditions, by tinkering with something that appears to be working just fine. If some product or way of displaying it is changed, or some way of doing business is changed, one or more of three things might happen: (1) it might bring on the kaynahora (the evil eye). Or, worse yet, (2) the wrath of our predecessors, the first- and second-generation Russes, either from beyond the grave or from Florida. Even more catastrophic would be (3) the disappointment and probable loss of customers who expect things to be done the “Russ” way, the way they have always been done by the previous generations of Russes. If the way they did business had worked, then what right did the new generation have to change it?
But some changes are necessary, forced on us by factors outside our control. And some traditions can be traps, tethering us to ways of doing business that no longer work. Making those changes that are necessary to remain in business and jettisoning those traditions that would turn Russ & Daughters into a museum rather than a vibrant place of business is the burden of the next generation. Keeping one foot in the shtetl and the other in cyberspace is indeed a challenge for Niki and Josh, but one that they are more than qualified to meet.
Russ & Daughters today
Sometimes I think I stayed in the business as long as I did just to hear our customers tell us their stories about Russ & Daughters. With our food they celebrate births, mourn the loss of loved ones, and commemorate every major event in between. We have grown to know them and their families over the years, and even the generations. What a joy to prepare platters for the wedding of a customer whose bris and bar mitzvah we also catered. What heartache when we must deliver shiva platters to a family whose loved one, a friend and customer for so many years, has passed away. Sometimes Russ & Daughters is even mentioned in their eulogies. What a bittersweet honor. And what a pleasure it is for us to know that when friends and family gather, they want to mark the occasion with food from Russ & Daughters.
These traditions are a blessing, one that I hope will someday touch my three granddaughters—the fifth-generation Russes. It won’t be too long before they are teething on bagels, then noshing on cream cheese and lox, and then maybe having a bite of herring. Perhaps someday they’ll take their place behind the counter, having learned how to tell good fish from bad, how to treat customers, and how to keep the countertops sparkling clean.
We’re proud that Russ & Daughters is different from the rest of the food world. We’re not an impersonal big-box store; we don’t sell mass-produced, extruded and preformed, prepackaged products. We live and breathe the most important Russ family traditions—a passion for what we sell and a dedication to providing the best possible service to our customers. All of this will, I hope, continue to keep Russ & Daughters a beloved part of New York’s cultural and gastronomic life, and of the cyber world of gourmet food. Besides, as Grandpa Russ would say, Vi nempt men parnosa? How else are we going to make a living?
Lox Chowder
YIELDS 4 TO 6 SERVINGS
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
2 medium leeks, diced, white parts only (about 2 cups)
1 medium carrot, diced
2 small stalks celery, diced
1 clove garlic, minced
1 large russet potato, peeled and cut into ½-inch cubes (about 2 cups)
2 teaspoons minced fresh thyme
¼ cup all-purpose flour
¼ cup dry white wine
2 cups low-sodium chicken stock
1 bay leaf
2 cups whole milk
4 ounces smoked salmon, flaked (use the collar and wings if possible)
¾ cup heavy cream
Kosher salt
Freshly ground black pepper
Minced fresh chives, for garnish
Heat the olive oil and butter in a large, heavy-bottomed stockpot over medium heat. Add the leeks, carrot, and celery, and sauté until the vegetables have softened, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic, potato, and thyme and sauté until the garlic is fragrant, about 2 minutes more (be careful not to brown the garlic). Sprinkle the flour over the vegetables and stir well to create a dry roux. Stir in the wine, chicken stock, and bay leaf and bring the mixture to a simmer. Simmer until the potato cubes are tender when pierced with a fork, 30 to 35 minutes. Stir in the milk and salmon and return the mixture to a gentle simmer (do not boil).
Remove and discard the bay leaf. Stir in the cream and season to taste with salt and pepper. Garnish with the minced chives.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I love people and I love telling stories. And for the thirty years that I ran Russ & Daughters, every day brought me new people and new stories. But telling a story across the counter is a lot easier than putting it into written words. I am not a natural writer. Writing, I have found, is harder than retail. So I needed just the right people along the way to encourage, edit, and nurse me through this process and project. They are all dear friends.
Dr. Annie Hauck-Lawson and Dr. Jonathan Deutsch must take the blame for first bringing me into the world of writing by inviting me to be a contributor to their wonderful food anthology, Gastropolis: Food and New York City. Annie coined the phrase and developed the concept of the “food voice,” and she helped me find mine.
Larry Freundlich is one of the smartest and most righteous people I know. He encouraged me to write this book, and he made me believe that the stories I had to tell were worth telling and had meaning beyond the family fish store. Alfred Gingold, author and actor, has a pitch-perfect ear for a punch line. If I made him laugh, the story stayed in.
Emily Forland has been the perfect agent. Wise beyond her years, she helped put the proposal together and sell the book, and she guided me every step of the way. She knows her business. Sometimes I would call her just to kvetch. She handled me with great equanimity and greater insight.
It is with Harriet Bell that I spent the most time throughout the writing process. On a daily basis, sometimes several times a day, we would bandy about words and ideas. I call her my “collaborator,” though she hates the word and says it conjures up visions of Vichy France. She is the ultimate professional, and I quickly came to understand and appreciate her ability and judgment. Harriet has helped to turn my sometimes ponderous ramblings into something readable, a book. Though she comes from Ohio, she shares my New York–centric view of the world and my Jewish sense of humor.
Niki is my daughter first but in this case an editor as well. Having Niki review and participate in the editing of this book had the potential for conflict, but she was graceful, gracious, and intelligent in her editorial suggestions. She shares my passion for the store and the stories.
Altie Karper of Schocken Books is my editor and publisher. She bought my book, polished and refined it, and produced the end product that you now hold in your hands and that I am proud to display in our store’s window and on our counter (next to the rugelach and above the herrings). From the beginning, Altie understood me, my store, and my story because we share a similar background; she is a denizen of the Lower East Side with an important pedigree: her grandparents had a poultry store on Cannon Street. Altie and me, it’s a shidduch made in heaven: the Herring Man and the Chicken Lady.
Matt Hranek is the p
hotographer’s photographer. To have his beautiful pictures of our food in this book requires a special thanks. And thanks to Lucy Baker for translating the huge scale of our recipes into a form useful for consumers. My thanks also to the scholars and historians who generously shared their time, research, and knowledge: Jane Ziegelman of the Lower East Side Tenement Museum, Suzanne Wasserman of the Gotham Center for New York City History, Rebecca Federman of the New York Public Library, and Eric Ferrara of the Lower East Side History Project. For sharing their knowledge of fish facts and fish lore, my thanks to the fish smokers Dave Sklar of Nova Scotia Food Products, Eric Kaslow of Acme Smoked Fish, Avi Attias of Banner Smoked Fish, and Harvey Oxenberg of Florida Smoked Fish. To Jerry Rumain, a scholar of the human psyche, thank you for your guidance and wisdom from the beginning.
All of the customers who listened to my stories and told me theirs must be acknowledged as well. They are too numerous to list, but special thanks go to Ruth Tanenbaum Shapiro, Nancy Bookman Goldman, Phyllis Flood Feder, Andrew Feuerstein, and Nancy Kramer, who provided such touching remembrances.
My thanks to all of the members of the Russ & Daughters staff, who grew up with me in the business and who have become my extended family—especially to Herman Vargas and José Reyes, Russes not by birth but by dedication, passion, and hard work.
Finally, this is, after all, a book about a family business, where whatever lines exist between family and business are most often blurry at best. I have dedicated the book to my mother and my aunts, the Russ Daughters, but it is their husbands—my father and my uncles—who wound up doing the yeoman’s work of getting the right fish into the store and then into the hands and homes of the customers, ten hours a day, six days a week. Similarly, my wife, Maria, found that she had married not only me but the business as well, and she took her place in the store not just in a supporting role but as a lead actor and as a star. For the past forty years she has been my true partner in both the family and the business. Our son, Noah, did not come into the business. He followed his dream of becoming a doctor and is now a pediatric oncologist at UCLA. He works long hours, very hard, and with great passion. It is in his DNA. I’m proud of him.
Russ & Daughters Page 21
