Roots of the Deli

Growing up in Toronto, my knowledge of Jewish delicatessens extended no further than Yitz's Delicatessen, my family's once-a-week staple. Yitz's was our haven of oniony matzo ball soup (see Recipe: Matzo Balls and Goose Soup), briny coleslaw (see Recipe: Coleslaw), and towering corned beef sandwiches; a temple of worn Formica tables, surly waitresses, and hanging salamis. The dishes I ate there became my comfort food, and as I grew older, I started seeking out other Jewish delis wherever I went: Schwartz's and Snowdon in Montreal (where I learned to appreciate the glories of smoked meat); Rascal House in Miami Beach (baskets of sticky Danish); Katz's and Carnegie and 2nd Ave Deli in New York (Pastrami! Knishes!). By the time I finished writing the book Save the Deli, my battle cry for preserving these timepieces, I'd visited close to two hundred Jewish delis across North America, with stops in Belgium, France, and the UK. I'd become the deli guy, the expert people came to with questions about everything from kreplach to corned beef.

But for all my knowledge of Jewish delis, the roots of the foods served there remained a mystery to me. I'd learned that the word delicatessen derives from German and French and loosely translates as "delicious things to eat." And I knew that when they began appearing in New York and other North American cities in the 1870s, Jewish delicatessens were little more than bare-bones kosher butcher shops offering sausages and cured meats. But as the American Jewish experience evolved away from that of eastern Europe's, so did the Jewish delicatessen's menu. Its flavors assimilated, and it turned into an American sandwich shop with a greatest-hits collection of Yiddish home-style staples: chopped liver, knishes (see Recipe: Potato Knish), matzo ball soup.

A few years ago, I visited Krakow, Poland, to start seeking out the roots of those foods. Once a major center of European Jewish spiritual life, Krakow's Jewish population now numbers just a few hundred. The city's historic Jewish quarter is largely supported by tourism, and while some restaurants, like the estimable Klezmer Hois and Alef, serve up decent jellied carp and beef kreplach dumplings that any deli lover will recognize, others traffic in nostalgia and stereotypes; how could I trust the food at an eatery with a gift store selling Hasidic figurines with hooked noses?

There were once millions of Ashkenazi Jewish kitchens in eastern Europe. The foods of the shtetls were regional, taking on local flavors, and when European Jews came to America, that variety characterized the delicatessens they opened. You got pastrami at Romanian delicatessens, frankfurters at German ones, and blintzes from the Russians. The delis were all Jewish, but their regional roots were proudly on display.

The problem with researching these roots in eastern Europe is that there aren't many Jews nowadays. The countries I visited on my last research trip are no exception; Romania has fewer than 9,000 Jews (just one percent of its pre—World War II total), and while Hungary's population of 80,000 is the last remaining stronghold of Jewish life in the region, it's a fraction of what it once was. But I also have a personal connection to these countries: Romania was where my grandfather was born, and is the country associated with pastrami, spiced meats, and passionate Jewish carnivores. And Hungary was the land of my grandmother, with its soul-warming stews and baked goods that inspired delicatessens in America and beyond. What were Jewish cooks preparing over there, in these countries' capital cities, Bucharest and Budapest, respectively, and how were those foods related to the deli fare we all know and love? I didn't expect to find the checkered linoleum and big sandwiches of my childhood deli, but I hoped to find some of its original flavor and inspiration.

In the sunny kitchen of the Bucharest Jewish Home for the Aged, cook Mihaela Alupoaie is preparing Friday night's Shabbat dinner for the center's residents and others in the Jewish community. Hers is the city's only public kosher kitchen. Out of the oven come gorgeous loaves of challah bread (see Recipe: Challah Bread), their dough soft and sweet, with a crisp crust. "The three main ingredients—air, earth, and water—are symbolic," says Mihaela, brushing her black hair from her face. "When you braid the three strands of dough, you tie them all together."

Because budgets are tight, bringing in prepared kosher food from abroad is impossible, so everything in Mihaela's kitchen is made from scratch. In the summer, fruit is boiled down into jams and compotes, which go into sweets year-round. In the basement of the facility there are shelves stacked with glass jars of homemade pickles—garlic-laden kosher dills, lemony artichokes, horseradish, and green tomatoes—that she serves with her meals.