By Adeena Sussman
Ever since biblical times, when the image of a date palm was etched on Israelite currency, the fruit borne by those majestic, flowering trees has been in high demand. According to tradition, the nectar promised to Moses in a “land flowing with milk and honey” was in fact date syrup, establishing the fruit it was made from as a delicacy with no equal. That’s certainly the case in modern-day Israel, where dates—many cultivated locally—are prized stock. In the Carmel Market in Tel Aviv, they’re priced according to their size, with the largest and most expensive clocking in at about 80 shekels per kilo (about 11 dollars per pound). Tourists buy boxes of luxurious Medjools for gifts, and Israelis seek them out for special occasions, but locals often turn to a paler, smaller offering, the Deglet Noor. If the Medjool, with its meltingly thin skin and dense, fudgy interior, is the couture gown of the category, then the Deglet Noor, which is smaller and cheaper, is a more modest, ready-to-wear frock. I love nothing better than ending a Shabbat meal with glasses of steaming-hot mint tea and ja’aleh, a platter of nuts and dried fruits served by Arabs and North African Jews alike.
A Memorable End to a Meal
The word ja’aleh is Arabic for “gratification,” and the lavish array of nuts, fruits, and roasted beans that goes by this name delivers on its promise. The custom of ja’aleh is derived from the ancient Greek practice of eating fruit before a meal, which has been sustained to this day by Yemenite Jews. An assortment of dried fruit, nuts, and roasted beans is enjoyed before Shabbat dinner, at the end, or both. In Israel, where there is a significant Yemenite Jewish population, the tradition has also been adopted by non-Yemenites, with trays of nuts, fruit, and other sweets capping a meal—and not only on Shabbat. Ja’aleh can look like a trail mix, with ingredients all jumbled together, or take the form of an extravagant platter bearing a cornucopia of goodies. You can have an all-nut ja’aleh with savory spices, or one that includes confections like halvah, mamoul (date cookies), and Turkish delight (admittedly an unorthodox interpretation). Some hosts roast and season their own nuts, while most take the opportunity to present what is essentially a store-bought dessert that is easy and impressive. To create a stunning effect, cluster fruit and nuts separately on your favorite tray to create a look of abundance. Think nuts in their shells, dates and raisins on the stem, plump dried figs, dried red plums, a tangerine with the leaf attached, and crystallized ginger, to name a few possibilities. A cup of fresh mint tea or Yemenite white coffee (a brew with aromatic spices, such as hawaij, cardamom, cinnamon, and ginger) is a perfect accompaniment.
By David Sax
In the years since I wrote a book on Jewish delicatessens, I have constantly been asked, “What’s the best_________?” by deli lovers. What’s the best deli worldwide, in New York, in America? What’s the best sandwich? Who has the best pastrami? And on and on. No matter how often I try to deflect that tired, thoughtless question (“There is no objective best,” “Each deli specializes in something unique that can’t be compared,” “I don’t have a favorite child, and I don’t have a favorite deli”), people just nod their heads, ignore every word, and then say, “Yes, but which is the best?” They will not accept subtlety. They demand certainty. Context is nice. Storytelling is great. But let’s skip the history lesson, you say, and get to what is the tastiest, most geshmack thing I can put in my mouth.
I will answer your question, but I will not be happy doing it.
A delicatessen menu is like the “greatest hits” album of centuries of Yiddish cuisine. It’s the assimilated, economically viable foods that have been shaped to Diaspora tastes (sandwiches, big portions, lots of fries), and not the stuffed goose necks or lung-and-liver scrambles your greenhorn grandparents ate a century ago. What is deli food fundamentally? It’s what you go to a deli for. You don’t go to a deli for the sides (sorry, kasha, kishke, knishes, kreplach, and other beige foods that start with k). Same with coleslaw and pickles. “A deli should serve matzo ball soup!” That’s the taste of Friday nights at Mom’s table, not a restaurant.
No, a deli exists to serve delicatessen, the cured meats of the American Ashkenazi immigrant experience. Forget turkey (a dry leftover of 1980s fat scares) and roast beef (the most goyish cold cut). No dice, either, for hard-to-find regional meats, including rolled beef, salt beef, karnatzel, and baby beef. Forget the ubiquitous garlic salami and its variants.
So what we are really talking about here is a battle between corned beef and pastrami, the competing poles of deli’s fleishig soul. Between the pickled brisket and the peppery, smoky navel. Both are the core of any deli. Both have regional allegiances (pastrami is more coastal, corned beef more Midwestern). Either goes perfectly with rye and mustard.
But if, like poor Sophie, I could choose only one, then I would begrudgingly take pastrami. Why? Because pastrami captures the imagination and fires up a passion in a way that even the best corned beef doesn’t. Pastrami is a challenge to make, and is not known for its subtlety. Pastrami is the fire and brimstone of the Torah. Corned beef is the wisdom of the Talmud. Pastrami is more pan-Judaic than corned beef. It came to Romania by way of Turkey and possibly even Mongolian horsemen. Pastrami has consequences. It can leave you feeling ecstatic or like garbage, or a guilt- and pleasure-inducing combination of both, which is a fitting metaphor for the Jewish experience, isn’t it?
By Eve Jochnowitz
Dill (Anethum graveolens) might be the seasoning that most characteristically delivers a Yidishn tam, that ineffable flavor of Jewishness, to a dish. Boiled potatoes without dill are so forlorn as to be unimaginable, and fresh and pickled cucumbers rely so heavily on this herb that the Yiddish names for dill (according to Nahum Stutchkoff’s thesaurus, Der Oytser fun der Yidisher Shprakh) include ugerke groz (cucumber grass) and ugerke grins (cucumber greens), along with krop, krip, ukrop, ukrip, and koper. Mushrooms, fish, buttermilk soup, and, of course, chicken soup and vegetarian approximations of chicken soup all require dill to lighten, sharpen, and enliven their flavors and aromas.
The Jews of Eastern and Central Europe may have learned their enthusiasm for dill from their neighbors (the peregrinating epicure Joseph Wechsberg wrote that it is possible the Poles “overdo the dill business”), but they made the herb their own by incorporating it into uniquely Jewish ceremonial dishes like di goldene yoykh, the rich chicken soup served at weddings and Sabbath feasts.
Plus, Marlene Dietrich said, “Dill is the most important of all herbs.”