It was not a lawless giant who meant to do battle with me. Rather, it was an old-fashioned roadside attraction with gesticulatory arms that beckoned me to stop. For more than half a century, the iconic Dutch Haven windmill has waved at cars and horse-drawn buggies traveling along the Lincoln Highway in Pennsylvania's Dutch Country.
This Lancaster County landmark began as a gas station with an adjoining ice cream stand in the '20s. When Roy and Alice Weaver bought the business in 1946, they opened a restaurant that featured Pennsylvania Dutch fare, and added a gift shop. After Dutch Haven's fortunes had declined, however, Paul Stahl purchased the property in 1991 and began selling Amish furniture, crafts, and kitschy souvenirs. Though he closed the restaurant, he reinstated its most famous item: shoofly pie.
Using Alice Weaver's original recipe of white flour, brown sugar, cinnamon, and refiners' syrup, Stahl purports to produce "America's best shoofly pie." Never having tried the molasses-based confection, I was eager for my first taste. As I made my way to the counter, Lois Schrock, a Dutch Haven fixture, handed me a sample of the gooey goody.
Served slightly warm with a dollop of whipped cream, the pie delivered surprisingly complex flavors that stimulated my tongue. Instead of being cloying, it was agreeably sweet, with a richness that even afforded slight hints of umami. Its viscid filling, offset by a thick crust and a crumb topping, yielded a palate-pleasing plate of textural contrasts. While I normally eschew sugary desserts, I'm happy to have not es-shooed this one.
It's hard to determine whether Dutch Haven's shoofly pies are truly America's best. Suffice it to say, however, that all others I've tasted thereafter have left me tilting toward the ones beneath the windmill.
Comestiblab: There are a couple of explanations regarding the origin of the pie's name. One theory maintains that shoofly (also shoo-fly) pie originated in France, where its crumb topping was said to resemble a cauliflower, or chou-fleur (pronounced shoo·FLUR) in French. Supposedly, the word eventually morphed into "shoofly." A more plausible explanation, however, is that the sweet ingredients attracted flies that had to be shooed away.
Comestiblab: Pennsylvania Dutch isn't Dutch at all—it's an alteration of Deutsch, the German word for German. The term refers to descendants of the people who emigrated from southwestern Germany to Pennsylvania during the seventeenth and and eighteenth centuries. It also refers to a German dialect spoken in Amish communities. Thus, it would seem a Dutch windmill is somehow out of place in Pennsylvania Deutsch country.
Time is running out to see Esn! Jews and Food in America at the National Yiddish Book Center on the campus of Hampshire College in Amherst, Massachusetts. Comprising signs, posters, menus, and other items from the collection of Rabbi Michael Strassfeld, this fascinating exhibit runs until 3 October 2010. The items on display represent a feast for those, like me, who remember such Lower East Side stalwarts as Bernstein-on-Essex-Street and Shapiro's Wines. It's all about "esn," the Yiddish word for eating.
Garden Cafeteria sign on loan from the Museum at Eldridge Street.
The main exhibit hall contains additional signs as well as advertisements, menus, and other memorabilia—including wine!
While Chinese restaurants have been a favorite among Jews in New York since the late nineteenth century, there wasn't a kosher Chinese eatery in the city until deli-owner Sol Bernstein opened Bernstein-on-Essex-Street in 1959. In addition to Eastern European delicatessen, the menu featured such Cantonese-inspired dishes as Lo Mein Bernstein (with chicken livers among its ingredients) and Sweet & Pungent Spare Ribs. "Schmulka Bernstein's," as it was also known, closed in the mid-1990s.
In an effort to increase their appeal, Levy's showed that an Italian woman—checkered tablecloth and all—could love their rye bread, too.
In addition to opening "old country" restaurants, delis, and bakeries, Eastern European Jewish immigrants set up kosher wineries. Owing to their ready availability on the east coast, Concord grapes (developed in Concord, Massachusetts) were chosen. Though the sweet, syrupy wines produced therefrom may not have tasted much like the ones from Eastern Europe, they became practically obligatory at Passover seders.
Established in 1899 on New York's Lower East Side, Shapiro's quickly became one of the largest kosher wineries in America. Grapes were crushed in a block-long series of cellars below Rivington Street. (I recall taking a brief tour, years ago, with the aid of a flashlight.) The wine was sold at Shapiro's main store at 126 Rivington, and at wine shops around the country. Interestingly, the flagship store was permitted to remain open during Prohibition to allow the sale of "sacramental wine."
Shapiro's sold the building in 2000 and moved its operations to Monticello, New York. Its former site now houses Sugar Sweet Sunshine, a cupcake bakery.
To capture a larger share of Jewish customers, various large food corporations advertised by publishing recipe books, often together with Passover Haggadoth.
Mogen David produced a booklet providing tips for cooking with their wine. Inexplicably, it offers hints for basting pork, as well as recipes for Apple and Spareribs and Baked Ham Slices in Cream.
Maxwell House launched one of the most successful campaigns of that sort in 1933: customers were given one Haggadah with the purchase of two pounds of coffee. Their promotional kit directed grocers to "watch Jewish customers come in for the deal."
Barricini offered its "Barri" Holiday Chanukah Party Package containing puzzles as well as dreidl and Chanukah party games.
The dining room is a vestige of late-nineteenth century splendor. Tall arched mirrors with cherry frames adorn its Lincrusta-covered walls. Intricate chandeliers, with dual fixtures for gas and electricity, emit a pleasing glow over the hundred-foot-long space. Above it all, a vaulted ceiling rounds out the overall appearance of a posh Pullman dining car from the Gilded Age. This Downtown Brooklyn landmark has ushered in two new centuries and has served the likes of Diamond Jim Brady, Lillian Russell, Mae West, Fanny Brice, Jimmy Durante, and your humble Comestiblogger along the way. Though the legendary Gage and Tollner has faded into history, its classic appointments, mirabile dictu, have been preserved.
The story begins in the City of Brooklyn, four years before the completion of the Great Bridge. In 1879, Charles M. Gage opened an oyster and chop "eating house" at 302 Fulton Street. A year later, he was joined by Eugene Tollner. In 1892, Gage and Tollner's restaurant moved into a nearby four-story Italianate row house at 372-374 Fulton Street, where it remained until closing in 2004.
Dominated by seafood and steaks, the menu included such favorites as Crabmeat Dewey, Lobster Thermidor, Scallops Baltimore, and Soft Clams Chicago. In the late 1980s, owner Peter Aschkenasy made an unprecedented change by hiring renowned chef Edna Lewis to give the old Brooklyn stalwart a Southern accent. (Miss Lewis was one of the founders of the highly acclaimed Café Nicholson on Manhattan's East Side.) The native Virginian's influences were evident in her down-home cookin' that included cornbread, catfish, and her famed Charleston-style she-crab soup. In 1992, after five years as Gage and Tollner's executive chef, Miss Lewis retired.
In 1995, following a bank foreclosure, the restaurant shut down temporarily. That year, Joseph Chirico purchased Gage and Tollner and became its final owner. After an ambitious restoration, Brooklyn's most elegant eatery reopened in 1996. Gay Nineties swank, however, was inconsistent with the changes that had taken place along Fulton Street. Owing to "dragging" business, Mr. Chirico shuttered the venerable establishment six years ago on Valentine's Day.
Following the demise of G&T, T.G.I. Friday's took over the space and closed after only three years. Prospects for the future were uncertain. Could this address ever serve as a restaurant again? The answer came nearly three years after Friday's departure, when a hat-wearing roast beef sandwich gave the old place a new lease on life. On Thursday, 21 January 2010, Gage and Tollner's landmark doors were reopened as Arby's. Yes, Arby's.
It's clear that times have changed. Roast beef sandwiches and melts have replaced prime rib, lobster, and crab. Meat is no longer presented before being cooked. Counter clerks wearing bright-red Arby's T-shirts have taken the place of uniformed waiters sporting service emblems (a gold eagle represented 25 years; a gold star, five years; and a gold bar, one year). Modern utilitarian furniture has displaced turn-of-the-century mahogany tables and bentwood chairs, and, of course, paper napkins now serve in place of white linens.
Despite the foregoing changes, the landmark interior has managed to retain some of its earlier dignity. This is undoubtedly the most impressive restaurant in the Arby's chain. Though he won't discuss how much it cost to refurbish the dining room, franchisee Raymond Chera says he spent six months to reverse years of neglect. He is encouraged by all the positive response to his new fast-food venture, calling the early enthusiasm "heartwarming." If it takes roast beef sandwiches and toasted subs to preserve this space, even heartburn can be heartwarming.
Where's the Beef? At Louis' Lunch in New Haven!
It could take an out-of-towner two passes down New Haven's Crown Street to find the improbably situated Louis' Lunch: smack in the middle of a parking lot, rather than among the restaurant cohort lining the opposite side of the street. The ancient, gnome-scaled brick edifice's location is, however, a testament to the burger joint's devoted following. City redevelopment plans had called for razing this diminutive landmark (a former tannery) to make way for a high-rise building. But in 1975, following years of wrangling between the owner and the city, public outcry saved the venerable luncheonette at the last moment. Dodging the wrecking ball by a matter of hours, the home of the hamburger was deracinated from its foundation at 202 George Street and moved to its present location—its fourth—about a block away.
It would be difficult to find a story more steeped in tradition than that of the Lassen family and the birth of the hamburger as we know it. The legend begins in 1895 with a lunch wagon on Meadow Street—near Union Station—from which Louis Lassen served steak sandwiches to factory workers. Not wanting to waste the trimmings, he ground and broiled the leftover meat. Initially, he served it as a patty, on a platter, together with a slice of onion and home fries. One day, however, a customer rushed in and requested a fast meal to go. Lassen responded by sandwiching one of his broiled patties between two slices of white bread, and with that, according to local lore, served the first hamburger. While this may be an interesting origins story, there must be another reason that Louis' Lunch, now in its fourth generation of family operation, is still in business after more than a century.
Returning to how deeply in tradition the food is steeped, Jeff Lassen rightly points out that his hamburgers owe part of their flavor to the original 1898 apparatus in which they're cooked. The gas-powered stoves from Bridge, Beach & Company afford a healthful side benefit, so to speak, by broiling the patties vertically to reduce excess grease. Over the years, the grills initiated by Jeff's great grandfather have been seasoned with the essence of burgers prepared for Charles Lindbergh, Artie Shaw, Bing Crosby, Rudy Vallee, and countless others. That's a quality for which there is no shortcut; it can only be earned with time.
The toaster tells a similar tale, nearly as old: it has been preparing the "bun"—two slices of Pepperidge Farm white bread—since 1929. As we waited for our burgers, we watched these antiques in action, marveling at how they continue to operate flawlessly after all these years—a testament to superior workmanship and caring ownership.
The verdict: the hamburger is good, honest food. Its flavor is fresh, clean, and lean. With onion and tomato options, Louis was astute in serving his mission—the additions complement the beef without masking anything. We found that a touch of salt was necessary to bring out all the succulence this fine burger has to offer. In an age of industrial fast food, this is (reasonably) fast food that tastes like real food. Simple, satisfying.
For the lunch crowd, the menu consists of exactly two choices: a hamburger or cheeseburger for $5. On Thursday, Friday, and Saturday evenings, however, the menu often expands to include a hot dog and a steak sandwich.
If the bread is not enough, you can augment your carbs with potato salad, a wide selection of good-quality chips, and one or two homemade pie offerings. In addition, Louis' Lunch offers an impressive assortment of soft drinks, many of which are local and off-beat. But you will never, ever, enjoy a Coke here, because, as Jeff says, "we can carry a grudge." Jeff's grandfather Ervin Lassen (Louis' son) severed relations with Coca Cola during the Great Depression. Purportedly, an unscrupulous distributor decided that Louis' share of the soft drink could fetch a higher price on the black market. The Pepsi salesman, on the other hand, was eager to deal legitimately—his product was welcomed in and remains on the menu some 70 years later.
Decent people, decent food. That's a recipe worth saving.
There's nothing like a stroll through the French Quarter to help burn a few breakfast calories. As we wend our way through the charming streets, we pause at various landmarks, museums, and shops. After a visit to the French Market, it's time for lunch.
Would having a sandwich be too banal in this epicurean city? Yes, if it were an ordinary ham-and-cheese or something of that sort. But I have an extraordinary kind in mind—a Muffuletta (pronounced "moof·fuh·LET·tah," often abbreviated, simply, to "muff"). It's made with a fresh, round loaf of Italian bread, onto which generous quantities of imported salami, ham, cheese, mortadella, and special olive salad are layered, and served at room temperature. (Don't even think of asking to have it warmed!) This is one big, tasty sandwich that easily feeds two people. Half a sandwich at midday is ample—especially if one is still planning to have dinner.
As we cross Decatur Street and enter Central Grocery, we take a step backward through time. The old-fashioned Italian-American emporium that proclaims itself to be the "home of the original Muffuletta" gives the impression of having forgone any sort of redecoration since its founding in 1906. Apparently, there's no need to change—this place draws visitors from all corners of the globe. No trip to New Orleans is complete without a stop here. The Muffuletta's putative place of origin is also where the sandwich reaches its acme of perfection. Purportedly, it was created here by Salvatore Lupo the same year he founded the grocery. Though time seems to have stood still at Central Grocery, its most famous product remains a timeless classic.
Breakfast at Brennan's is something everyone should try at least once. Situated in the French Quarter, this lovely dining spot has been a Crescent City phenomenon since 1946. Owen Edward Brennan's elegant culinary namesake evokes images of New Orleans French aristocrats sipping wine and enjoying leisurely breakfasts on the patio nestled among exotic plants and redolent magnolia blossoms, cooled by Palmetto fans.
We began our aristocratic breakfast with an "eye opener" called Fleur de Lis—Champagne with Grand Marnier and Lillet Blanc. (One might think of it as orange juice with a kick.) With appetites whetted, we were ready for our main course. My Comestaccomplice ordered the Eggs Sardou (poached eggs on artichoke bottoms in a bed of creamed spinach and covered with Hollandaise sauce) while I chose the signature Eggs Hussarde (poached eggs atop Holland rusks, Canadian Bacon, and Marchand de Vin sauce, topped with Hollandaise sauce). Ahhh … If only all eggs were this good!
To finish on a sweet note, we ordered two Brennan's originals: the Crêpes Fitzgerald (crêpes filled with cream cheese and sour cream, topped with strawberries flambéed with marischino liqueur) and the signature Bananas Foster (bananas sautéed in butter, brown sugar, cinnamon, and banana liqueur, flambéed in rum, and served over vanilla ice cream).