Melissa Clark - Food Writer

The Meaning of Borscht

One fine spring day in 1980-something, Waldbaum's moved the borscht. To most of the store's customers it was a fairly undramatic occurrence, but not to my Grandma Lilly.

We scanned the packed shelves, formerly brilliant with magenta, green, and gold bottles of borscht, schav (sorrel soup) and gefilte fish. Now the offerings looked wan and subdued, bags of rice and sacks of beans, mammoth jars of recaito and sofrito. Small boxes of flan mix and nata de coco replaced economy boxes of matzoh meal and Tam Tam crackers. Grandma didn't say anything. She just leaned on the shopping cart that supported her like a walker and stared.

Grandma had just turned 85. I was 17, and like every high school senior, I wanted a car. So my mother and I struck a deal. I could drive the Duster, Grandma's dirt-brown, 1973 sedan (a car so old and beat-up I could do no harm) provided I schlep her out to the Walbaum's past Avenue Z every Thursday. Aside from going to the doctor and walking slowly around the block arm in arm with the caretaker who came daily, Waldbaum's was Grandma's only venture out of the house. My mother said it was the highlight of her week. I couldn't tell.

The shopping trips went something like this: I'd ring the bell of Grandma's Gravesend row house two or three times, then sit on the stoop and wait, wondering if she was going to come out or if the Alzheimer's had taken its final toll. I'd let my mind spin, picturing her funeral and the long, long drive to the cemetery...would I take the Duster to Queens? No, I'd be in the limo with my parents and sister.

Eventually, the screen door would slam and she'd stand there, in front of the house she'd lived in for 65 years, buttoning her plaid wool coat up to the top, even in May. Then we'd Duster it to Waldbaum's, Grandma directing at every turn.

"Amy," she'd say, calling me by my younger sister's name. (Amy was the favorite), "Amy, take a right on Avenue U, don't take V, the lights are dangerous."

I'd make the detour though I doubt she'd have noticed had I not.

Inside Waldbaum's, Grandma had a knack for taking up the whole aisle so no one could pass, and she didn't give a fig for anybody, including senior citizens more sprightly than she, stuck behind her. She walked purposefully, perusing every shelf and reading the circular out loud, handing me coupons for things she didn't buy. Her shopping list never varied: cottage cheese, sour cream, gefilte fish, Campbell's Vegetarian Vegetable soup, iceberg lettuce, applesauce, milk, butter, orange juice, canned tuna if it was on sale, soft seeded rye or challah bread, and Mother's borscht. It had to be Mother's. Manischewitz was too sweet. But it wasn't a problem because Waldbaum's stocked at least four different kinds, always in the same familiar spot.

Until that fine spring day, that is.

"Grandma?" I tried to guide her cart to the side so the family behind us could get to the sofrito. She wouldn't budge.

"Grandma?"

Nothing.

"Grandma, someone needs to get something."

The sofrito seemed to have had a Medusa-like effect; she was frozen. The lady behind us whispered something in Spanish to her kid, who gingerly stuck a skinny arm in between my statue Grandma and the shelf to grab a jar. They turned away quickly.

"Grandma? Are you ok? Stay here."

I zigzagged through the store, checking every shelf until I found it. Mother's brand, thank god, a few lone bottles squeezed in between the spiced apple rings and cans of peas. No schav. No gefilte fish.

Back in the formerly Jewish-borscht-now-goyim-Goya section, Grandma held firm, blocking the beans.

"They moved the borscht to aisle two." I showed her the jar.

"I don't want it." She put it on the shelf next to the sofrito.

"You'll want it later," I put it back in the cart.

"No," she said but didn't try to take it out, which surprised me. While the Alzheimer's had obliterated much of her character, it had crystallized her stubbornness. The absence of a battle of the borscht felt immeasurably sad. It was as if that tenuous membrane keeping the last specks of her identity attached to her brain had finally ruptured. The neighborhood had changed and so had Waldbaum's. Grandma, however, was stuck.

She let me lead her to the checkout. Invariably, she'd say, loud enough for the cashier to hear, "Watch the girl so she doesn't overcharge us." It always made me cringe (even though sometimes they would). But today was worse. The cashier was a man. "Crazy lady," he muttered, and proceeded to charge us full price for the on-sale tuna. I didn't say a word.

That was Grandma's last trip to Waldbaum's. The next month, my mother installed her in a nursing home around the corner from our house. I got to keep the Duster until it died about a year later. Grandma didn't even make it that long.

Recently, my sister and her husband moved into the garden apartment of my brownstone, and we inherited my parents' old car to share. It's a dark green Subaru with no dents and working heat and windows, about as un-Duster-like as you can get. But it would still take me to Waldbaum's. I needed to shop for a dinner party, and even though Avenue Z is a 25 minute drive from my house in Prospect Heights, I was feeling nostalgic. I convinced Amy to come along, and on the way I told her about Grandma and the borscht, a story she never really knew. Family legend has it that Grandma lost it in Waldbaum's, but no one ever mentions borscht. It gave us both a craving: Borscht and sour cream and plenty of chopped fresh dill for lunch.

But once again, there was no borscht in sight. We walked past the Hispanic foods section, now spread out on both sides of the aisle and rounding the corner. It included Mexican ingredients as well Puerto Rican and Dominican, and we delightedly picked up cactus paddles and dried chipotle chiles, masa harina and bags of Mexican oregano along with green plantains, achiote, short-grained rice and fresh culantro.

Our carts nearly full, we headed to the canned vegetable aisle, but the borscht wasn't there. We walked the length of the store, reading signs until we found the one that said "candles, religious items, ethnic food." Could it be? A restored aisle of shabbos candles, borscht and schav, influenced by the Russian Jews living in nearby Brighton Beach? We looked over and Jesus smiled at us from tall devotional votives. The ethnic food included black syrup, cans of ackee, and other Caribbean chow. But farther down that row, we found it, jars and jars and jars of borscht in several brands, nestled in with the cherry juice, dried mushrooms and blini mix. Indeed, the Russians were making their mark. There was even schav; we took some of that, too.

As we checked out, I amused myself by imagining recipes for the cross-cultural hodge-podge of items rolling by the scanner. Borscht with fried plantains and crema, maybe, or chicken with recaito and dried mushrooms. I was too busy to keep an eye on the cashier, but memories of grandma made me check the receipt in the car. Even with the scanner, the girl had managed to overcharge us. Some things never change.

The Far-Out Foods of Brooklyn

Ten Dishes that Push the Culinary Envelope

Fifty years ago, the out-of-the-ordinary was a bit, well, ordinary when it came to food in Brooklyn. It might have consisted of the odd, experimentally topped cheesecake at Junior’s (perhaps a combination of strawberry and blueberry?). Or, for some, it might be boiled lobster down in Sheepshead Bay. How things have changed. Brooklyn in the 00’s is a markedly different place, thanks to the immigrants who have flocked to the borough from all over the world, bringing with them their diverse culinary traditions that have influenced native-born American chefs as well. A few of these dishes might seem more gruesome than gourmet to some. But once you get over your initial squeamishness, you’ll be treated to an exciting and true taste of today’s Brooklyn. Here are my picks for what’s far-out:

Cow’s Foot Soup
Cock’s Bajan Bakery, 806 Nostrand Avenue, 718-771-8933, $3
I wasn’t the only person in the long line waiting for the chance to savor a take out carton of this soup. It was worth the delay. The brew comes with large gelatinous chunks of trotter (also called heel) bobbing around in a heady, herb-flecked, tumeric-yellow broth. Cool your palate down afterwards with a sugary red sorrel (hibiscus flower punch), or a creamy, vaguely hair conditioner-tasting sea moss (made from milk, sugar and a type of sea weed). If you’re really hungry, the goat roti is not to be missed.

Vietnames Noodle Soup with Beef Tendon
Ti An Vietnamese Restaurant, 5604 Eighth Avenue (56th street), 718-492-1592, $4.00
The first time I ordered a traditional pho, the compelling, anise-and-basil scented beef noodle soup of Vietnam, I was captivated by the strange, translucent, irregularly-shaped disks that melted on the tongue like velvety marrow. I asked the waiter what they were. “Beef tendon,” he said, matter-of-factly. And why not? Now, it’s my favorite part of the pho, leagues above the chewy tripe and raw sliced steak that also get added. Sip a salty lemonade alongside (made with lemons, sugar, and salted, pickled plums), or finish your meal with a syrupy iced coffee lightened with sweetened condensed milk. By the way, you can also request the soup with bits of cooked brisket instead of the innards. Some even find that version better. But not me.

Braised Duck Feet
Ocean Palace, 1414-1418 Avenue U (15th Street), 718-376-3838, $3.25
The thing that elevates duck or chicken or goose feet above say, pork or cow feet on the “ick” scale is definitely their appearance. While cow and pig feet are usually disassembled in a dish and float around like so many chunks of pearly meat, duck feet are indisputably fowl. But don’t let that stop you from enjoying this dim sum favorite. For the maximum experience, chew on the webbing and suck the meat off the toes. If you can get past the strangeness of the presentation, you’ll be well rewarded by the soy sauce-garlic-and-ginger richness of the flavor.

Chicken in Corn Fungus Sauce
Bonita, 338 Bedford Avenue (South 2nd Street), 718-384-9500, $12.00
You won’t see it listed on the menu this way; most Mexican restaurants prefer to use the Spanish name, huitlachoche, but it boils down to the same thing: a gnarled fungus (or let’s say mushroom) that grows on the ears of fresh corn. But don’t be put off; in Mexico, huitlacoche is a prized delicacy akin to truffles, albeit with an earthier taste, chewier texture, and lower price tag. At Bonita in Williamsburg, the chicken in a savory brown huitlacoche sauce runs on the menu as an occasional special that is worth calling ahead for.

Spleen Sandwich
Ferdinandos Focacceria, 151 Union Street (Hicks Street), 718-855-1545, $3.75
Joe’s of Avenue U, 287 Avenue U (McDonald Avenue), 718-449-9285, $2.70
Vastedda, or a stewed-spleen sandwich, was once common street food in Southern Italy, where vendors in carts lined the streets selling pieces of the meat layered onto bread. Brooklyn’s version, available at not one but two restaurants, consists of a hard roll packed with tender slices of the mahogany-colored offal. If you’ve never had it, cow spleen has a relatively inoffensive, meaty flavor. The real draw in this sandwich is the topping of milky, fresh ricotta and grated parmesan cheese. For the squeamish, a panelle, or chickpea fritter sandwich deliciously dressed with the same cheeses, approximates the experience but stays clear of the guts.

Lambs’ Head Three Ways
Chicken Bone Caf, 177 South 4th Street (Driggs Avenue) 718-302-2663, $24; please order 48 hours in advance or wait for it to appear as a special.
When a restaurant names itself the Chicken Bone Caf, you have to realize it’s probably not going to serve the same namby-pamby food as everyone else. Indeed, the chef, Zack Palaccio likes nothing more than the occasional challenging ingredient, such as a whole lamb’s head. But Pelaccio’s version is refined. The head is stripped of the meat, which is recombined in three ways. The brains are fried into crunchy nuggets topped with a fried quail egg, shiitake mushrooms, and truffle butter. The tongue is cubed and mixed with lemon confit, shallots, summer savory and fava beans. And the cheeks are braised with mustard seed. There are plenty of other excellent, inventive, and less in-your-face (so to speak) dishes on the menu, too, and a worth-the-detour cocktail list courtesy of bar-guru David Wondrich.

Grilled Beef Heart
Coco Roco 392 Fifth Avenue (6th Street) 718-965-3376, $7.00
If you misread the menu, and I’m sure this happens more often than not, you might miss the fact that anticuchos are skewered beef heart instead of the regular meat-on-a-stick. And you might not notice a difference when you ate it, either, especially if you weren’t paying attention. But given some thought, there’s no doubt that the shards of browned meat come from somewhere other than your average cuts of cow. Marinated and grilled within an inch of its life, the heart still maintains a somewhat supple texture, and has a fuller, more intense flavor than plain old steak.

Two Extraordinary Sweet and Icy Drinks
Nyonya Malaysian Cuisine 5323 54th Street (8th Avenue) 718-633-0808, $2.50 each
On a hot afternoon, there’s nothing better than an icy beverage substantial enough to replace a meal. And even better, says I, if that drink also contains bits of things you don’t normally find in a beverage. At Nyonya, the luscious Chendol is comprised of coconut milk, shaved ice, green pea flour “stripes’ (noodles) and sweet red beans. The ABC, which is gorgeously pink and frothy, has ice, red bean, corn, palm seeds, red rose jelly and milk. How could one ever choose? Bring a friend and try them both.

Brain, Tripe, and Tongue Tacos
Tacos Nuevo Mexico, 44-10 Fifth Avenue (44th Street), 718-686-8151, $2.00 each
When I was growing up, most (hard-shell) tacos I came across were crammed with ground beef and grated cheese. In adulthood, I was introduced to the more authentic pleasures of soft corn tortillas filled with crispy pork carnitas, salted beef cecina, and spicy chorizo. Brain, tripe, and tongue tacos are a relatively new addition to my “alternative cuts” repertoire. Of the three, the tripe is the strangest and I think best — long, tubular, soft within, and very crisp on the outside, resembling chewy pieces of fried penne more than meat (it’s from a different part of the cow than the more familiar honeycomb tripe). The tongue and the brain have their merits, too; both are very tender and doused with a fresh, chile-and-cilantro salsa. Best of all, there’s not one shred of iceberg lettuce or grated velveeta to be found.

Fried Cherry Pie
The Chip Shop, 383 Fifth Avenue (7th Street), 718-832-7701, $3.00
I’ve rarely met a food that didn’t taste better when deep-fried. Such is the philosophy behind much of Scottish cuisine, and indeed, behind the Chip Shop in Park Slope. Like any proper British bloke, the owner, Chris Sell, deep-fries everything he can get his hands on, but has a special fondness for sweets. Into the fryer (yes in the same oil as the fish, it’s traditional) goes the classic fish-and-chips dessert, a deep-fried Mars Bar. But Sell doesn’t stop there. Reeses peanut butter cups, Mounds bars, Twinkies, and Hostess cherry pies have all met their maker in Sell’s hot oil. They emerge as golden brown perfections of their form, though the cherry pie does have one particular advantage. Unlike the others, it’s actually fried twice, once courtesy of Hostess, and once by Sell. And as a bonus, the hot cherry goo insides liquefies to a silky, runny texture. It’s just lovely, as Sell would say.