My dad was a two job guy. We lived in a representative, working class
neighborhood in Brooklyn, which was to me, the paradise of the world.
Representative I learned years later meant not just Jewish people, like
us, but an equal mix of almost everything else. The working class is
obvious.
My dad worked at a brokerage house on Wall Street as a runner from 9 to
3. That was his first job. His second job was at the Morgan Annex
branch of the US Post Office, in mid-town Manhattan. He had started at
the PO as a teen-ager, and was in it for the longest possible haul, a
modest pension being the carrot at the end of his rainbow. His hours
on that job were 4 pm to mid-night. He rode the subway to work. He
never owned a car. Once in a long while he got driven home.
Sandwiches
The Perfect Sandwich
The Perfect Cobb Sandwich
I don't know if Mae West ever ate a Cobb Salad, but I bet she would
have loved it. After all, she was the one who said "too much of a good
thing is wonderful". A Cobb Salad begins with a bed of Romaine lettuce,
think of it as your basic crunchy blank canvas.
Resting on the greens are strips of toppings – luscious chunks of
avocado, juicy fresh tomato, crumbles of rich blue cheese, hard boiled
eggs and chunks of chicken breast. Frankly I've always found the
chicken to be superfluous, but maybe that's just me.
Oysters and Pearls
I went to the French Laundry restaurant located in the Napa region (specifically, Yountville, California) in 1996 and haven’t been able to get a reservation since – at least until a week ago. Of course, that’s what happens when a chef later becomes tops in the U.S. and his restaurant is voted tops in the world. But with one day’s notice, I was told my group of four were in. Pack your dinner jacket we were told. They should’ve added cash out your 401k and clean out your savings account with a scrub brush. The price to party was now $240 per person for a nine course tasting menu (two options: Chef’s and Vegetarian) not including wine – a decent bottle (not a case) of which will cost you $200 more.
A Breakfast Recipe
My mother stayed with us during her recent visit from back east. She
emerged early each day from the back bedroom in need of coffee. In the
kitchen she would find me up to my elbows in three-grain biscuit dough
or in the midst of mixing a large oven baked pancake, or perhaps
dropping oatmeal scones onto a cookie sheet. I was always in the midst
of something made from scratch, time consuming and terrifically messy.
A ritual that was met with a quizzical look and her quiet reproach, as if I couldn’t hear her say, “Nu? Whats wrong with frozen waffles?” My childhood breakfasts came straight out of a box from the freezer in the cold mid-western kitchen where I grew up. My mother taught in downtown Detroit, and early morning school days were mostly about getting up and getting out. Yet, somewhere in between the up and out part, I remember a breakfast ritual that my mother and I shared, just her and I, before she left for work.
The Perfect Po-Boy
Ask any New Orleanian where to get the best po-boy in the city and
almost every single one will tell you to go to a different place.
Po-Boy restaurants are as much a part of personal identity as the
neighborhood you grew up in – like a family heirloom, po-boy preference
is often handed down from generation to generation. And while die-hard
patrons of Parasol's refuse that anywhere else makes as good of a roast
beef po-boy, those who are loyal to Mother's will tell you that their
roast beef debris simply can't be beat. And who could forget Ye Olde
College Inn – a New Orleans staple.
There is one important thing to remember about po-boys – allegiance aside, its pretty hard to find a bad po-boy anywhere in this city and its nearly impossible not to stumble upon an amazing one (or two or three). The very essence of the sandwich is heaven, and once you try one, the hoagies, subs, phillies and other sandwiches of the world will simply never compare.
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