Tuesday, June 15, 2021

Things Fall Apart: Seafood in Hungary.

An Oyster. In Hungary. 
I know that this is something of a blog record for not posting (since November!) but I have a perfectly lame excuse: the covid pandemic! For a year now there has been no travels, adventures, visitors, or even trout. Covid has put the kabosh on all of that. We've all been living through it, surviving as best we can. We retreat into ourselves. We become boring. Basically... we make lunch.

An effective response to the covid pandemic: Shrimp pesto with tagliatelle.

Given my age and my less than perfect physical state I'm a prime target for the Covid-19 virus. Those little corona spikes were virtually designed for me! A few of those not-quite-living critters may be floating around in a droplet of sneeze juice and if they see me they just go weak at the knees and want to use my biological real estate to replicate their little strands of DNA... and I am not going to give the little spikey bastids any easy advantages. At least not here, on my home ground. Hungary managed to pull together during the first two waves of the virus, shutting down the borders and enforcing curfews and limiting meetings. The situation was admirable until the third wave hit late last fall, and since then Hungary topped the list for the world's highest death rate for covid patients. Hospitals were not a good place to be: remember the ad slogan for Raid Ant and Cockroach Hotel traps? They check in, but they don't check out... Things have gotten better recently, but the best advice I can share for aging Jewish fiddlers in Hungary is to simply do not get sick.

Shrimp and Scallops.

On the other hand, Hungary has one of the world's most successful vaccination programs - all kinds of vaccines were purchased and distributed, from Pfizer, Moderna and AZ down to a few that seem to have been tossed into the delivery bag alongside the Szechuan spicy pork and shrimp rolls. And - a remarkable feat of Hungarian beauracracy - I have still not managed to get vaccinated, even though I have registered and pestered local doctors and followed every rumor and lead I can. Only the Government - not private clinics - can distribute vaccines and decide who gets them. Rumor from the embassies is that foreigners and other folks lacking Hungarian social security numbers will be able to get our shots at the end of this month. (They said the same thing last month, but heck... we're keeping our fingers crossed. In Central Europe, as we all know, official spokesmen never lie!)

Traditional Hungarian shrimp pesto risotto.
So we keep to ourselves, maintaining a rigid social isolation that means we rarely go out except to do our shopping or ride bicycles for exercise, we avoid crowds, we don't eat out, and since the relaxing of mask rules in Hungary and much of Europe, we still keep our masks on in public. And that makes for pretty boring blog subjects. What we actually do is... spend a lot of time preparing intricate meals. Of fish, preferably. 

Locally smoked salmon and Russian black bread.

Early this spring a fish seller appeared at our local Klauzal ter market offering something we hadn't seen in a long, long time: fresh fish. Let me qualify that: fresh good fish at a very affordable price. He displayed the usual carp and bullhead, but also fresh dorado, branzino, salmon, and even haddock - my favorite North Atlantic fish. Fresh tuna. Smoked tuna - and salmon, both of which he expertly smoked himself. He also offered fresh shrimp, scallops, and sardines. Once we became regular customers he even offered us each a free oyster. I took it home, popped the shell, and immediately wanted to sell my vintage 1934 Gibson mandolin and buy more oysters. 

Tuna sashimi with daikon radish.

Until now we could get fish in Hungary, but only if that fish is carp or any of its lesser, bonier, and more garbage oriented smaller relatives  known collectively in the English language as "trash fish." We can also get catfish: either the traditional harcsa, European Wels catfish which grows as big as Volkswagens on the muddy bottoms of whatever industrial trough passes for as river in these parts: or the "African catfish" which is a fishlike product artificially cloned by Tesco and other supermarket chains for its ability to resemble fish. There is also törpeharcsa "dwarf catfish" which is the American brown bullhead. It is a fine eating fish in its native North American waters - kind of like a KFC chicken leg that swims - but in Hungary it is a thumb sized pest with sharp spikey fins that clogs waters and is mainly boiled into a fishy sludge as a base for a fish soup. I'll pass.

Sole, also known as "better flounder"

As a general rule, Hungarians do not like ocean fish. Compared to the more familiar freshwater carp the meat of sea fish seems hard and dry and lacks the sharp Y-shaped carp bones that Hungarians have grown to love in their fishermen's soup (prepared in a stock of spicy paprika and pulverized bullhead sludge.) When Hungarians do eat oceanic fish it is usually in the form of hekk - frozen whole Norwegian hake served as a snack fried at  beaches and riverside snack bars.


Hekk isn't the worst thing: it originates in an ocean, albeit one far, far away. It is usually served at snack bars at beaches located on lakes because in Hungary it naturally occurs frozen and then battered and deep fried and served next to soggy French fries with a pickle. It is a boney fish, but mainly it has one huge mega-bone running all along its body so you don't have much to fear. That's basically the non-carp repertoire of Hungarian seafood dishes. But hekk does satisfy an urge for  beach resort fish and chips if you are drunk and don't want ice cream for lunch.  

The sole object of our affections.

Recently some ocean fish, primarily the Mediterranean Sea Bream (dorado) and Sea Bass (branzino) have become widely available in some local supermarket chains. Hungarians are familiar with these fish due to the popularity of the Croatian coast - particularly the city of Zadar - as a magnet for Magyar holiday goers every summer. Needless to say, no fishermen are involved, since these two species are both artificially spawned in aquaculture farms. Which is to say they are cheap. The problem is that they are never really fresh. They are refrigerated, for sure, but only in the same sense that Ötzi the Ice Man was kept fresh atop an Alpine glacier. Looking at the eyes of a fish  - or of a frozen ice age hunter - should usually tell if they are fresh or not. 

Shrimp and Asparagus risotto. 

I know fresh fish. I was raised in New York, and lived many years in Boston, so I have always expected my fish to be fresh and - ahem - from an ocean. I often traipse down to the water to catch and kill them myself. (But not trout or grayling.) My wife is from Tokyo and knows fish better than me, and in fact she believes all the fish in the entire planet personally belong to her. And yet we choose to live in a landlocked nation where people eat carp bones and bullhead sludge. So yes, when a new fishmonger appeared at the market across the street from us we did react like Evangelicals meeting Jesus in the parking lot of  a suburban Walmart. We crapped our pants. We were happy. For a few months... 

"Say Beef, why so sad? Because CARP IS BACK AGAIN!"

"Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold / Mere Anarchy is loosed upon the world." William Butler Yeats really knew how to describe the feeling when you walk into a market hall on a Thursday morning expecting to find you fish seller and he is not there. We did what any fish eating cosmopolitan covid stranded in a landlocked country would do: panic. We asked the neighboring vegetable seller if she had any news of the phantom fishmonger. "He's gone. Don't expect him back." NO! No! No! This would not do... I searched out the market manager and got a cagey "The fish seller? He's on vacation... for a while..." We are devastated. Our world has collapsed. I spent the last week in virtual vegetarian penance praying for the return of fresh fish at our market. We have our fingers crossed, though. Come back, fish guy... come back!

As you can guess, I haven't updated the blog in a half a year, and I needed an excuse to post all these pictures of delicious fish. As soon as we get vaxxed and get our vaccine passports and things seems safe enough to get out and around more, I will start updating more frequently. But the sad truth is... not a heck of a lot is happening around here lately, at least in our balliwick.

Tuesday, December 01, 2020

Hungarian Goose for Thanksgiving!

November - that bastard child of the calendar, a blurry sump pit of grey days and unfortunate holidays - has finally passed. We know this because thousands of Americans have loudly celebrated Thanksgiving last week, chowing down on synthetic domestic turkeys and stuffing in simulated Zoom family gatherings. And then there is Black Friday, a mindless consumer orgy culminating in... Christmas? We don't do Thanksgiving in Hungary - no fanatic English Pilgrims washed up on the shores of the Danube to swindle the Hungarians out of their land and concoct tales of a happy feast to honor the myth. There is no horrific November turkey massacre in Hungary. Turkey is mainly available on school lunch menus and as cheap breast meat for shnitzels. You won't find a whole turkey for a thanksgiving roast unless you know a specialty butcher who can order it for you. But we Central Europeans do have a favorite edible Big Bird. November 11 is Saint Martin's Day, and in Hungary (as well as Austria and the Czech reservation) we gorge on goose.

Care for a slice of my cloak?
Saint Martin is not on anybody's A-list of saints. Apparently he was a Roman soldier who shared his red cloak (which I suppose is a nice warm bit of outer clothing) with a freezing beggar who then revealed himself to be Jesus Christ His Own Self, thus guaranteeing Marty a place in the heavenly kitchen alongside other poultry saints such as Colonel Saunders and Anthony Bourdain. I don't know how goose became the focus of Sant Martin's day, but there is a folky saying that if you eat goose on Saint Martin's Day you won't be hungry for the coming year. The celebration seems to have been a bigger deal over in Austria and Czechia, and became popular in Hungary as a restaurant week marketing ploy during the 1990s. This year, however, restaurants have been closed (except for delivery orders) by the covid pandemic which meant that there was an huge glut of goose meat on the market. Prices plunged... We picked up a whole huge honker at our local supermarket from the cut-price sale cooler for FT2500. That is about US$ 7.00 for a fat plucked bird the size of your average roll-on luggage case. 
Jewish goose dealers in the Mako Market, 1920s. 
We fed off of that bird for a good week. Goose is the Hungarian Jewish equivalent of what the buffalo was to the plains Indians, except we didn't make clothes or tents out of the thing. First, I butchered it with my trusty chinese chef cleaver: legs off, breast off, and then quartered the carcass.  We roasted the carcass first and then made soup, while saving the rendered fat for future projects like making matzo balls and flavoring chopped liver (yes, I actually do eat a bit on the Jewish side of things.)  Hungarians rarely cook goose at home, given that Hungarian kitchen stoves tend to the small side and local geese tend to resemble feathered Volkswagens. Goose is a usually restaurant specialty. As I mentioned in the last post, we usually took advantage of the goose offered by the now sadly defunct Kadar Etkezde across the square from us.

Goose meat loaf on Solet at the late, great Kadar Etkezde
Kadar offered a modernized - that is non-Kosher - version of traditional Hungarian Jewish cooking, in which goose fat substituted for lard - the basic oil of Hungarian cooking. Basicallly, Kadar was a Jewish restaurant serving pork chops and various nosstalgic Hungarian dishes that in most cases disappeared from menus after 1990. The legendary Hungarian chef Karoly Gundel's famous cookbook starts off on the first page with the rule that onions must be sauteed in pig fat without any substitute allowed - and he built a culinary empire based around it. Jews, on the other hand, chose goose fat as their basic cooking medium. In pre-refrigeration days the goose meat itself was likely to be butchered and smoked for long term storage. There is nothing quite as good as beans cooked with smoked goose breast, but lacking anything resembling a smoker (geez, we live downtown I don't even have a balcony) I simply pan fried the breasts as I do with duck.

Goose breast with sauce made from stewed apples and plums in white wine.
That left us with huge bits of body meat and wing meat and offal (liver, kidneys, heart and neck) and the stock, so next up was ludaskása (Hungarian goose pilaf.) Ludaskása is a play on out of date old Hungarian language: lud is the old term for goose and kasa refers to a family of medieval boiled sludge passing as food that were often based on buckwheat or oats. Today ludaskása is made with rice but it is one of the few classic Hungarian recipes that predates the use of paprika (which came into fashion only in the 19th century.) It really is just a third generation Turkish pilaf by another name.
At least having Goose Week breaks up the covid pandemic monotony. We haven't been able to travel at all this year, which kind of explains the dearth of blog postings, and even within the city of Budapest I find that a day spent inside reading obscure linguistic papers and playing mandolin is a day spent safely isolated from the plague outside. At least we have been able to keep amused watching the train wreck that was the American presidential election. And it is with a great sense of satisfaction that I can look forward to a future without having to wake up daily see the bloated orange face of that lying, child-caging rapist pretending to be the leader of the Free World every evening. No, I did not like him. No I did not vote for him. And no, I do not forgive him... just fuck him and all the furry little critters that came in with him. Its time to breathe again.

Monday, June 22, 2020

The End of Kadar Etkezde.

No new posts since February is a record hiatus for this blog, but I have an excuse. There was a worldwide pandemic going on.. It is not that I didn’t want to write about it, but the Apocalypse can be distracting, and with so many writers busy with the same topic I felt others did it better. (Incidentally, that is the same excuse I give for why I don’t play bluegrass banjo.) I consider myself lucky that I left New York and returned to Budapest in mid February, just before the virus hit New York and Europe in full force. East Europe, for many reasons, managed to avoid the horrific death tolls seen in Italy, Spain, and ferchrissakes, the USA. Also, the covid-19 crisis in Hungary was a driving reason that Our Great Leader (May the Good Lord grant his favorite football teams victory) was voted emergency powers that some less forgiving (or more sentient) have likened to a dictatorship. One of those emergency powers is aimed at freedom of the press, particularly opposition bloggers and Facebook posters, some of whom have found the police knocking on their doors at dawn and a big black police car waiting outdoors. 

Lockdown Order extended...
The official explanation for this is to prevent the spread of misleading news about covid-19. And therefor I decided that I will not spread any misleading news. Given the prevailing atmosphere, I wouldn’t spread anything at all, viral or verbal. Hungarians are keenly apprehensive about what “outsiders” have to say about them, and foreign journalists regularly receive hyper-nationalistic complaints from various Local Lilliputian Mugwumps accusing them of “misrepresenting Hungary” … the problem is that now these have the force of law behind them. So, instead no opinion will be offered, unless you can find a way to buy me a socially distanced beer and listen to me complain in person from across a large picnic table. That said, I was stuck alone in our flat for three months, not venturing farther than our local market across the square.  During this time I collected, and froze, a decent percentage of Hungary's spring strawberry crop. Unlike most years, there were almost no imported strawberries for sale in our local markets, which is not a bad thing. Hungarian strawberries are fantastic at their seasonal best.

May in Hungary: all local strawberries
Budapest is quickly getting back to normal, faster than I feel comfortable with. My district, which is both the Jewish Ghetto and the hyper-touristic “party district” is beginning to get a night life back, although I am not about to go out and enjoy a beer in public anytime soon. The Covid-19 virus seems specifically designed to seek me out and kill me. I tick off lots of the boxes for “Face certain death, Earthling!” so I have been safely cowering up in my third floor Fortress of Solitude, venturing out only to shop at our local market. 

On a much sadder note, among the casualties in the restaurant business is the best damn Hungarian restaurant I know of, Kadar’s Etkezde. Sometime around mid April a sign appeared on the Kadar announcing “For Sale”. This is not a minor event. This means that there is no longer any restaurant in Budapest that I can suggest to visitors looking for an authentic, home style Hungarian meal of any quality. My guess is that the owner and staff decided that rather than pay the overhead on the closed lunch spot they could just put the place up for sale and retire. 

The $5 goose Happy Meal -the Wednesday Special - packed to go.
I will sorely miss their Wednesday goose risotto, which we used to order for take out, allowing them to pack an unsightly huge half goose carcass and three fat wings on top of a huge portion of rice pilaf for FT 1500 (USD $5.00) Once we got it home I would strip the meat from the goose carcasses and it was well enough to make an another batch of goose risotto. I will also miss their sólet, the Hungarian Jewish version of the Yiddish cholent, which was the house specialty and the reason the Kadar was first opened in the 1950s and allowed to function as a private restaurant under Communism, in order to serve the hungry Jewish comrades working in the neighborhood who missed the comforts of old style Hungarian Jewish food, but didn't mind it being served next to a pork chop just in case any of the Marxist fundamentalists at work were interested in ratting on their Semitic comrades. 
Roast Goose Leg with Sólet
They used the breast meat from those goose carcasses for the goose meat loaf they served with the sólet, and the legs went with either sólet or braised red cabbage. The rest - carcasses and wings - went into the risotto, or more precisely, the pilaf. In Hungarian Jewish cooking goose replaces the role that pork has in Hungarian cooking. It provides meat, cooking fat, and soup stock, and until recently you could get amazing goose salami at the Orthodox kosher butchers shop on Dob utca down the street. Now I honestly can’t tell you where to go for home style goose meat anymore. I am sure you can find Hungarian Jewish sólet on some other menu in Budapest – it just won’t be from a specialist who has fifty years of experience in the genuine product.  

Goose meat loaf and sólet, also more food. 
Kadar fell into a beloved, and rapidly disappearing category: the non-Kosher Jewish restaurant. Most of my favorite places are "treyfeterias": Katz’s in NYC, Hobby’s in Newark, Chez Schwartz’ in Montreal. You can’t usually get ham in these places, but they will serve meat with cheese or sour cream. It weeds out the Glatt Kosher Orthos, but allows less fastidious Jews some sense of culinary safety. In places like new York, this cuts out a large segment of the Jewish customer base who still require strictly kosher food when out of the house. And kosher meals are usually at a premium price range – this killed the traditional cheap lunch at New York delicatessens in the 1970s, as more people adopted the stricter Hasidic “Glatt Kosher” rules and deli prices rocketed. But there will always be an attraction for non-kosher “Jewish style” deli food.  Nobody eats a Rueben sandwich because it tastes good… they eat it because it is a corned beef sandwich with sauerkraut and cheese on it. It has no tradition. Pastrami, now that carries tradition. In our family, clams have tradition. When I was 12 my father took me out to City Island, the fishing hamlet located at the tip of the Bronx, and introduced me to clams on the half shell. 

Mamaliga and raw clams, a meal unknown in traditional Romanian Jewish cuisine.
I believe that original clamfest was intended as a guarantee that I should never wear the culinary shackles of the Jewish Religion. No practicing Jew in his right mind would ever eat a live clam. A shrimp, maybe, hidden inside Chinese fried rice… but a clam? The only thing less kosher would be rabbit, or suckling pig in its mother’s milk. Since then clams have become a generational ritual in the family: my son, born in land locked Hungary, started wolfing down live bivalves when he was nine. I buy the clams at the Korean supermarket for dirt cheap - one can get a dozen for what you would spend on two clams in a restaurant. And then I shuck them, a technique that takes skill but all of my fingers are still attached to my hand, so I am doing something right. And my Dad is still eating those babies... my brother fed him oysters for his 94th birthday on June 20. The Old Man is still going strong. So Happy Fathers Day, Dad, and we still have dozens of clams to go. 

Thursday, February 06, 2020

Give me your tired, your poor, and also your sandwiches!

Clemente's Special Italian Sub, Hackensack, New Jersey.
It has been a Very New Jersey few months with no new posts. But believe me, I have excuses. Lots of excuses. How much can you say about New York and New Jersey that hasn't been said before, especially within the confines of this blog? You want to know about Paterson? We done it! The Bronx? I sincerely direct first time readers to our archives, wherein you can read about tiny hamburgers, chinese noodle soups, Balkan meatwads, Hungarian salamis, more tiny hamburgers, and wild boar goulash from Romania. With over fourteen years of content, bouncing between Budapest, New York, and the Balkans this blog should keep you amused for hours. Also I spent a couple of weeks in Hackensack Meridian Hospital, so that also counts as an excuse. Don't worry... I'm OK. But my post-sick-puppy recovery period limited my adventure range to New Jersey, causing me to shuttle from the Kosher vastness of Teaneck across the mighty Hackensack River to the exotic allure of ethnic eats in Hackensack. (Also, a lot of blood tests.)

Cosmo's Salumeria. 705 Main St, Hackensack, NJ 07601 (Closes at 6 pm!)
Yes, I will pronounce the Love that Dare Not Speak Its Name: I love New Jersey! Unlike 85% of the people who spent time growing up in the Garden State and then left, I actually like New Jersey. One reason: the constantly changing ethnic mix in New Jersey means that we get to eat the best lunch food the world has to offer, much of which comes loaded between two hunks of bread with pepper sauce on top. Sandwiches, they good.

Cosmo's Salumeria. Mom and Pop style if Mom and Pop came from Italy.
(And no, we are not sharing any of our NJ sandwiches with Trumpito and his lackey, Stephen 'Haman' Miller (insider joke for Purim!) They will have to eat at McDonald's forever. They would very definitely not be welcomed in Hackensack. When I was first waking up in the Hospital, a nurse from the Dominican Republic asked me the required questions: "What is your name? What is the date? Do you know where you are? Who is the President of the United States?" to which I answered "Uh...OH FUCK NO!" "You OK, Papi, you gonna be alright.")

Ham, salami, home made mozzarella, hot pepper salad from Cosmo's. 
Our last post addressed the Italian hero sandwich, a marvel of local Italian American cuisine that has been sorely overlooked amidst the explosion of exotic local cuisines. Cosmo's Salumeria, a tiny Italian deli and sandwich shop somewhat outside of the business center of Hackensack has won a number of accolades, including Saveur magazine which called it "The Best Deli Sandwich in New Jersey." They might just be right. The sandwiches are huge, and the price is low for something this good. But you will be back.

Home made stuff for a seriously great sandwich.
Cosmo's is run by a real Italian Mom and Pop who make their unsalted mozzarella fresh daily, know all of their customers by name, have adorable Italian accents, and accept only cash. The menu list is small, take out only, with one pasta dish and one soup offered daily (for take out, of course.) Hackensack has a lot of Italian Americans, but as you get to South Hackensack and neighboring Lodi things become serious: families still speak Italian in the third generation down here, and they expect their food to reflect the quality you get in bella Italia. One place they find it is Clemente's Bakery, located in the Middle of Fucking Nowhere in South Hackensack.

Why Italy will rule the universe someday.
Clemente's began as a bakery in the 1970s, and I wish I had know about it before last week - they make real Pugliese bread... which may be my favorite of all breads. They also make nearly everything else, especially cookies, cakes, focaccia and pizzas. 

I can look but not touch. I have a woman from Tokyo who does that for me. 
Clemente's Bakery make a stuffed bread - we bought prosciutto and cheese - that is so popular that it is known around North Jersey as "Hackensack crack." This is not to be confused with another particularly Italian American specialty, the stromboli (basically a sandwich rolled into pizza bread and baked.) It was also ridiculously cheap for a large loaf of bread packed with chunks of prosciutto.

Hackensack Crack: prosciutto stuffed bread. 
But the reason I came to Clemente's was for the sandwiches. I had heard about the "Clemente Special" and I have to admit, it gives the sandwiches at Cosmo's Deli something to worry about. Like most Italian subs, it is made with ham, salami, fresh mozzarella (not Swiss cheese or provolone like on Italian subs outside the Jersey Italian belt) made without mayo - which makes it Fumie friendly - but they also have a list of extras that you can add, and I chose artichoke hearts, which really sent the combination over the top. This sandwich... words fail me. It is the flavor of greatness, anointed with the vinegar and olive oil of heaven. Italians of Europe - learn from your diaspora! Harken to your brethren in Hackensack and Lodi, NJ! Put down your paninis, your piadinas, your carrozzas, and your tramezzinos! Try an Italian hero from Hackensack! These are the sandwiches which can lead you to Greatness! These are sandwiches worthy of Caesar!

Click here for more hot ham on ham action!
This is not to say I ignored the sandwiches of my own People... for that I went to Katz' Deli on the lower East Side of Manhatten. Loyal readers will sigh and say "You always go to Katz's deli!" And it is true. At $20 a Katz' pastrami or corned beef is a pricey sandwich, but then again, it is the best. Where else in New York can you buy the worlds best of anything for twenty bucks? Really, I only eat here about once a year, and Jewish delis are a endangered breed in New York City, so... yes, Katz's.

A Pastrami sandwich and a Corned Beef sandwich meet in a bar.
My brother Ron braved driving into the city (four miles from where we live in Jersey) so that I could get my chompers wrapped around this thing I longed for while watching reruns of Seinfeld in my hospital bed. My morale was kept high by knowing that when I finally hobbled out of the ICU ward there would be a Katz' pastrami waiting for me out there. I actually fasted for the morning in anticipation, and it was worth it. And Ron loves Katz' pastrami as well. The man was a chef, and Katz' pastrami is the stuff chef's dreams are made of. 

This is not porn. This is a corned beef sandwich.
The best part of the experience: Pete Rushevsky, director of the New York Center for Traditional Music and Dance surprised me by inviting my friends Jake Shulmen-Ment (perhaps the world's best Klezmer fiddler) and Frank London (perhaps the world's best klezmer anything.) I didn't have a lot of time to be running around the city, so this was a wonderful surprise, and although not exactly my birthday, I am counting this as the first and best surprise birthday party I have had since 1986 (surprise dinner at the Hoodoo BBQ Ratskeller in Kenmore Square, Boston.) Thanks Pete! 

Up Front: Brother Ron and Frank, Pete in the back, Jake next to me, also Hi Abigale!

Thursday, December 12, 2019

Italian Food of New Jersey: The Meatball Sub

Like arctic geese, we tend to migrate over the oceans in seasonal patterns, which means we are in New Jersey again. Like geese. A family thanksgiving dinner, and an unveiling ceremony for my Mom's gravestone brought my boy Aron over from Europe (thanks Pam!) and then it is Black Friday (Ka-ching! for Mammon in All His Glory) and suddenly... Christmas Season!

Her Majesty, Queen Pamela of Tenafly, and the Baby Yoda.
We met up with the legendary accordion repair wizard Bob Godfried for a trip deep into Brooklyn to the Christmas office party at Retrofret Vintage Guitars. Retrofret was started by my old fiddle buddy Steve Urich in an industrial building in central Brooklyn and moved to a more comfortable site on Luquer Street in Carrol Gardens a year ago.

The Gibson Mandola that should be mine. Please.
A couple of years ago I brokered a lovely 1917 Gibson F4 mandolin for my buddy Claude from them, and thus I got a Retrofret branded tote bag which is now the most famous vegetable bag in Budapest. With the closure of vintage shops Matt Umanoff's Guitars and the Mandolin Brothers on Staten Island, Retrofret is now the primary site for high quality vintage string instruments in New York. Looking for a pedigree Gibson Mandolin, L5 arch top guitar, or a perfectly restored 1960s Fender Telecaster? This is where you'll end up. And speaking of Telecasters, the office party had live entertainment: Bill Kirchen (considered the King of Rockabilly Fender Telecaster, and Andy Stein (formerly of the Prairie Home Companion house band)

Andy Stein and Bill Kirchen, Lost Planet Alumni
Both are former members of Commander Cody and His Lost Planet Airmen, which is to say 1.) they are not young, 2.) they were one of Jerry Garcia's favorite bands, and 3.) they put on a great show, which is an advantage when playing to a room of  vintage guitarists, many of whom used to used to rule the radio airwaves themselves. Retrofret set out sandwiches catered by a local Italian Deli, and after watching John Allen - the fiddling pyro of Beacon New York - stroll past with some particularly attractive sanwicherie my wife decided to try a bit of the six foot long sandwiches. Fumie doesn't usually eat sandwiches - she hates mayo and is not a big fan of bread and European sandwiches are usually a single dry slice of salty meat on a dry roll with mayo - but she looked at me and said "What is this thing?" It was piled high with ham, cappacola, prosciutto, mozzarella cheese, and red peppers. No Mayo. "It's an Italian sub. You can get them anywhere. "Why haven't you told me about these?" And thus a new quest was begun.

V and T of Hackensack Prosciutto, Mozz, and peppers.
First I had to explain that you can get them in any place that makes pizza, and we usually order pizza in those places. And two, there are hot and cold subs. The classic hot sub in meatball. "You mean they actually put sauce - hot tomato sauce - into the bread?" I had forgotten how strange some of New Jersey's basic foods can seem to a Japanese person, so the best response was simply to go and pick up a couple of Italian subs. Oddly for a New Jersey suburb, Teaneck has no good pizza, hence no good Italian subs. For reasons entirely unconnected to the sociology of the Middle East, food in Teaneck needs to be either  Kosher or Halal. Sounds like it should be great, but even the trad Kosher food is miserable. Our delis are crap, although we do have great fresh bagels. But Teaneck is the Vatican of the Modern Orthodox Jewish movement, and if you are a MOJ ("This week in Torah Study: How many Beverage Holders does a Jewish SUV need?")  they eat it just the same. It is fuel, not food. Luckily Teaneck is bordered by suburban towns featuring some of the most defiantly unkosher cuisines in the USA - Korean, Columbian, Italian, Turkish and Mexican. A brief internet search declared that V and T's Salumeria on Main Street in neighboring Hackensack served the best Italian subs in North Jersey (we have yet to try a few other targets, such as Cosmo's Salumeria in Hackensack.)

Good indicators: tables full of firemen having lunch, woman at the counter had an Italian accent.... and so we ordered the classic meatball with mozzarella and a prosciutto mozzarella with pickled peppers. Took them home and went to work. Now, these are classic American Italian subs - Italy has its own subset of sandwiches and these are not them. Nuh-uh. First off, the meatball of America is not the polpette you meet in Europe. American meatballs are whopping huge baseball sized hunks of meat, and we got five of them in one sub roll, smothered in tomato sauce with melty house made mozzarella cheese (which was extra.) We saved half for my Dad's dinner and still it filled us up.
Not a thing of great beauty.
Then we went to work on the prosciutto... we got through half of it. It was good, but American prosciutto is not the stuff I know from Veneto or Dalmatia. You can't legally import most pork from Europe, at least not affordably. Real Italian cured meat from the old country is a regional specialty with a pronounced fermented taste and aroma that would probably not pass muster in any American consumer test, so most American Italian cold cuts are basically just salty. So next time I will stick to the classic cappacola, ham and salami.

I used to work on a garbage truck in Hackensack - yes, hanging on the back of the truck as we rolled down route 46, running behind garden apartments and slinging huge metal cans into the back of the truck. For a few months of my life I was built like a triangle. Every day we would stop at an Italian deli and pick up their garbage (which was illegal for city trucks) and get paid with huge overstuffed Italian sub sandwiches. The drivers of the trucks would take them home and deconstruct them into small sandwiches and I would usually just bring mine home. In the midst of all this we had a terror attack on a Jewish grocery in Jersey City a few days ago that was tragic, but also utterly New Jersey. All of the elements of a classic New Jersey fuckup were present: insane Black Hebrew Israelites, Satmar Hasids so isolated that they could not react to news unless it was translated from Yiddish, armed paramilitary cop brigades marching past the bodegas and botanicas of a Dominican neighborhood. All a twenty minute drive down the road from here. It should be an interesting Christmas season in New Jersey.

Sunday, November 17, 2019

Transylvania: Goulash and Trumpet Fiddles for Everyone!

Transylvanian vioara cu goarne fiddles in Dorel Codobon's workshop, Rosia, Romania.

Yes, it has been too long since a blog post, and since we are about to make our annual migration to the New York I should at least cover my tracks. First off... I didn't want to post yet another blog about somebody dead. Hey - we are all gonna kick the bucket someday, right? No need to completely surrender all the column space to old Baron Samedi. What do my readers want? Goulash and fiddles. At least I think that is the core audience. And so... goulash and fiddles it shall be, at least until we get to New York and Chinese noodles and  chicken and okra and Dominican meringue accordion to distract me. Next week, at least.

Goulash ala Marius Mihut: the real deal. Cihei, Romania.
There is a segment of the Klezmer scene that takes Romanian traditional music very seriously - it is the closest thing we have to a living tradition from the old country, given that the Holocaust pretty well destroyed the "old country" for Ashkenazic Jews. Most of modern Transylvanian traditional music, however, doesn't really intersect with Klezmer tradition very much at all. But that shouldn't stop anyone from diving headlong into it. Between the active tradition in Transylvania and the fanatic revivalists of the Hungarian folk scene, this is one of the most vital folk fiddle traditions in Europe today.
Traian Ardelean, Dorel Codoban, and Ghica at Negreni, 2008.
Among Klezmer fiddlers, a few have really dug deep into the tradition (Jake Shulman-Ment comes to mind) and so I was happy to when I got invited to travel with Zoe Aqua and her sister Annie to Transylvania this summer, especially since she was renting a car (Shout out to my peeps at Autonom Rent a Car! Best rates in Romania!) Zoe plays with the truly amazing Yiddish band Tsibele, as well as in the duo Farnakht, and she has been studying Transylvanian Hungarian and Romanian fiddle styles for years and was ready to jump in the deep end of the pool. First off, she wanted to get a vioara cu goarne, the hybrid resonator "Trumpet-fiddle" played in the northern country of Bihor. I've written about these fiddles many times on the blog. They are a culture symbol in the Bihor region and there is a lively scene of players and a small cottage industry of makers.

Zoe gets a lesson on resonator adjustment.
We stopped by Marius Mihut in the village of Cihei (six km outside of Oradea) to see what he had for sale. We met Marius last year while traveling with Mitia Kramtsov of the Russian band Dobranotch, who suddenly decided he absolutely had to have a trumpet fiddle before he could return to St. Petersburg.
Mistia and Marius in his workshop.
And so we found Marius, based on an internet search that led us to the village of Cihei. Marius is probably the best living maker of the vioara cu goarne alive today - at least since the passing of Dorel Codoban from Lazuri. Marius makes the resonator apparatus by cannibalizing old gramophone record player mechanisms, and his higher quality instruments utilize parts from old Czech Supraphone machines. Marius gets these by being in touch with gramophone fanatics around the globe that he finds on Ebay and other sites. And yes, it really makes a difference. These babies are loud. Marius is also a great host, and a really good cook, not to mention he hunts. We arrived to a full feast of wild boar sausages and wild boar goulash.

Lunch among wonderful folks.
And a TV crew from Televisiune Oradea to document the occasion. The goulash was bubbling away in a kettle hanging from a on a tripod above a bed of coals in the driveway. This was no tomato soup and carrot tourist goulash. No. This was bone in, floating chunks of yellow fat, paprika grown in the back yard genuine Carpathian plains cowboy soup. It was wonderful. I used to cook at a bistro in Budapest that was located next to one of the neighborhood open markets and as an act of cultural rebellion i made it my goal to serve the most authentic goulash in Budapest. I interviewed market workers, butchers, cops, and firemen about what they liked in a goulash and we all agreed that you can not get a decent bowl of goulash in Budapest. Back in 2006 I originally imagined this blog to be a food blog that would compare goulash as found in Budapest, except that not a single one was worth the mention as anything other than a thin orange soup, and so... it became what it is.

Smoked duck leg and bean goulash. Last weeks lunch at our house.
If you want decent goulash you have to be at least thirty miles from the center of Budapest. Go to Slovakia or Transylvania if you want a good one. Hungarian restaurant goulash is a poor joke made at the expense of a simple soup, and so when I come upon somebody who takes goulash seriously, I rejoice. And Marius takes goulash seriously. He also took mici seriously: these little skinless sausagettes were made from wild boar he had shot himself.

Mici: they taste better than they look.

I have eaten thousands of these little meatwads all over the Balkans - from Turkish version kofte to the divine cevapcici of Bosnia, and as far as I know these are first I have ever eaten made from wild game. Now, feral wild pigs are quickly overrunning the United states - especially in the US South, in Texas and Louisiana where they have become a major economic disaster for agriculture... and now they have shown up in Northern states like New Jersey as well. This is the solution. Shoot them and make Romanian sausages from them. After Zoe found the vioara of her dreams we headed towards Mera, a village near Cluj which hosted the Mera World Music Festival in August. (More on that later.)

Stay at the world's only Resonator Violin Hotel!
Along the way we stopped to spend the night in Lazuri de Rosia at the Pensiune Dorel Codoban. run by the family of the late vioara maker and player Dorel Codoban. Dorel was a good friend of mine, and I still play a trumpet violin made by him. We got a peek at Dorel's workshop - shown in the photo at the top of this post - and  took in the view from our room in the refurbished mountain inn.

Downtown Lazuri at rush hour. 
Located in one of the most picture perfect regions of the Transylvanian Hills, Dorel's family are usually on hand - Dorel's wife Florica cooks and amazing breakfast, and son in law Dan speaks both Hungarian and English. There is a trout farm across the street for adventure dinner, and lots of  tourists hike the region exploring the limestone mountain caves. Its a great place to stay if you visit Romania - a half hour drive uphill from the town of Beius.