Food: A Love Story (19 page)

I always enjoy sharing a pastrami sandwich at Katz’s with one of my kids and not simply because they eat so little. “Okay, Daddy will finish your half of the sandwich.” I have taken a photo of each of my children with an enormous pastrami sandwich and a plate of pickles at Katz’s deli. One time when I went to Katz’s with my son Jack, they took a picture of us and framed it to put on their wall. Now whenever we go back there we get to see a photograph on display for the entire community proving that I am the type of father who feeds a five-year-old smoked meat. It’s kind of like a mug shot or a posted bad check. My kids love Katz’s. When she was six, my daughter Marre asked, “If there’s a Katz’s deli, is there a dog’s deli, too?” My helping out with the kids does not only involve me taking them
to Katz’s Deli. After we return, I always volunteer to take a nap with them. Sure, I couldn’t really do anything else after a Katz’s pastrami sandwich, but I’m only napping to help Jeannie with the kids. When she rolls her eyes at me, I like to think of it as her way of saying “Thank You.”

CORNED BEEF: THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT REUBEN

I have a confession. I never had a Reuben sandwich before March 2014. I admit this with a bit of shame now that I know how delicious they are. I was in Erie, Pennsylvania, and was unabashedly told that the Reuben from McGarrey’s Oakwood Cafe was “out of this world,” whatever that means. I never understood why food is always described that way. Out of this world? You mean like the blue milk Luke Skywalker had on Tatooine? Anyway, I was hesitant to have a Reuben because as an Irish American I don’t have a great history with corned beef, but, being a tireless researcher, I obliged. I just always assumed corned beef was so horrible-tasting they had to rename the corned beef sandwich the Reuben so people would actually order it. Every Saint Patrick’s Day my mother would make corned beef and cabbage, we would eat together as a family, and then I would spend the rest of the day questioning the palate of my Irish ancestors. How drunk were those people to be eating a big tasteless, greasy ball of cabbage and the even less appealing corned beef? The stuff didn’t taste like corn
or
beef. It was just a
big fatty, chewy hunk of unnaturally coral-red meat that tasted like cabbage. It was only in 2014 that I realized that my mother, while perfect in many ways, simply made horrible corned beef. Sorry, Mom. It was you, not the corned beef.

The Reuben is rumored to have been created in Omaha, Nebraska, which should have made sense to me, seeing how great they are at beef (you may recall my penchant for Omaha Steaks). However, I was personally shocked that corned beef came from Omaha, since it was the first time in my life that it dawned upon me that corned beef was actually made of beef. I never said I was smart.

Reuben, whoever he was, got really lucky with the sandwich. For me, all indications would be that the sandwich wouldn’t work. Let me break it down:

Corned beef: Hate

Sauerkraut: Hate

Swiss cheese: Hate

Russian dressing: Not a fan

Rye bread: Like my eighth choice

Reuben sandwich = Delightful

Apparently, Reuben took a bunch of crap no one wanted and turned it into bliss. Maybe Reuben was just a guy cleaning out the refrigerator. I can see it clearly. It was late March 1920 in Omaha, Nebraska. During those long, cold days after Saint Patty’s Day, Reuben and his brother were playing jacks at the kitchen table.

REUBEN’S MOM:
(
offstage
) Reuben! Clean out the icebox. It’s starting to smell in there. Get rid of that Swiss cheese, sauerkraut, and corned beef. No one wants that junk.

REUBEN:
Gross!

REUBEN’S MOM:
(
offstage
) Do it!

REUBEN’S BROTHER:
I dare you to eat all that nasty stuff at once.

REUBEN:
How much will you pay me?

REUBEN’S BROTHER:
Two bits!

REUBEN:
Deal! Hand me that Russian dressing and the George Foreman Grill.

(
scene
)

Don’t you think it’s a little weird that Russian dressing is called
Russian dressing
? It’s not from Russia. It’s a lot like Thousand Island, but it has no relish in it. It’s just mayo and ketchup mixed together to make
red
mayo. The use of the color red to define Russian dressing is clearly an outdated slam against Russians, because Russia used to be a Communist country. Since I am a very evolved human being and feel above perpetuating that kind of senseless bigotry, I refuse to call it that. That’s why I’ve started referring to Russian dressing as “North Korean dressing,” and now I feel way better about eating my Reuben sandwich.

HOT DOGS AND SAUSAGES: THE MISSING LINKS

Mikey eating a kabanos sausage at East Village Meat Market.

A hot dog, of course, is a sausage, and it is the most popular sausage. The hot dog has become so famous it is considered as
American as baseball and that car company that went bankrupt. I am a true hot dog fan. Even my favorite hors d’oeuvre is pigs in a blanket, which I affectionately refer to as the midwestern California roll. When I was a kid, I loved hot dogs so much my sister Pam gave me a package of Oscar Mayer hot dogs for my tenth birthday. And, yes, it was my favorite present. That all being said, hot dogs are not even my favorite type of sausage. To me, the bratwurst is the king of sausages.

Bratwurst

On the sausage scale of greatness that exists in my mind, bratwurst is off the charts. It has no rivals. Although I also love Italian sausages, chorizo, andouille, and those thin Polish kabanos sausages, my heart with all its clogged arteries belongs to bratwurst. When I was dating Jeannie, I found myself comparing her to a bratwurst. It was then that I realized I was serious about her. Unlike Jeannie, a bratwurst is not pretty to look at and frankly does not sound appealing. I remember as a six-year-old being at a friend’s house on some breezy summer afternoon. My friend’s mother received a call from my mom and announced, “You have to go home now. Your dad is making bratwurst.” I remember thinking,
Ugh, anything with
worst
in the name has to be horrible.
Of course, I went home and realized that the frightening-named things my father was making were what my family referred to as “brats.” I loved the tasty, juicy sausage with the crisp grilled skin. I’d had no idea the unfortunate formal name of my favorite summer food was brat
wurst
. No wonder it goes by
brat
. I mean, if my parents had named me Jimwurst, I’d probably say, I’m going to just go with “Jim.”