Blues, haints and bayous: snippets from the Deep South: A peck of pickled peppers

Today we visited the area known as the Lower East Side of Manhattan to see the last vestiges of an area that used to be where many early migrants lived, though mainly the poorer ones: the Jews, the Irish, then the Chinese and Puerto Ricans. Historically, these areas were those least favoured with facilities in this newly developing country at a time when the population was doubling every decade as ships kept bringing more and more new settlers.

Today the whole area is pretty much a building site, a shambles of scaffolding and heavy duty machinery. Every block has building gangs pulling down yet another old tenement, another historic store, to make way for the new. So, there is little left of way back then. But we hunted, and found traces.

We found some tenements that likely looked much as they did back then. Rows and rows of stunted buildings with rusted fire exits descending, which were often the only way to get fresh air for some folk who lived here. Some immigrants would actually sleep on these steps, so little did they have when they arrived, especially after leaving behind even worse conditions, such as a potato famine or a revolution in the country of their birth.

One entire building has been turned into a museum, saved from demolition by local folk who have dressed up the tenement rooms as they would have looked when particular families lived there, throughout the ages. There is even a museum shop beneath, where the old work signs have been reproduced, particularly those cutting ones telling the Irish not to bother applying as there are no jobs available, for them.

Early in the piece many of these tenements were just single dwellings, but as the immigrant numbers grew out of pace with supply, speculators threw up these medium height cheaply built tenements, each building hugging the one beside it. Firetraps, each and every one. With basic rooms endowed with little or no lighting, few if any windows, and often without toilets. Often new arrivals had to sleep ten to twelve to a room, for as much as 5c just for a narrow space on the floorboards to sleep. They needed to go out into the grimy streets just to manage the basic necessities of life. And still they survived. And still they made a living.

We passed a building with a statue of Lenin on top and a clock with numbers all askew. The building is called Red Square. Lenin is pointing across to Wall street, probably emphasising the difference between the capitalism of this new country and the communism that would have been so pervasive in so many of the communities when these immigrants fled Europe.

One fellow, Yonah Shimmel, came from Romania. He brought with him a simple recipe from home that has survived on these streets for well over 100 years. His baked knishes. These are chunks of potato, cabbage and onions, surrounded by the finest dough holding it all together, then baked, never fried. Round, not square, made by the handful. This plain yet hearty snack became a meal mainstay for many Eastern Europeans living in these tragic neighbourhoods, and Yonah trudged the streets wheeling his hot knishes and shouting his wares. A barrow man.

Gradually he rented a tiny building in Houston Street. We found it still there today with its pressed metal ceilings and the old dumb waiter that used to bring the knish up from the basement kitchen. The shop is still run by a Shimmel family member. But, all about the neighbourhood, much of everything else has vanished. It is only a matter of time before this goes, too. We tasted our first knish ever. In memory of Yonah. It was simply delicious. I could eat it every day. And, a crime, in our view, if this recipe ever disappears from the streets of New York.

Vibrant street art still colours the red brick remnants of the neighbourhood as we found our way to a sandwich shop that has been in this area since 1888, albeit not in this building. Katz’s Deli, famous for its pastrami and brisket sandwiches was the next discovery on our walk. More famous, these days, possibly, as the place where Harry met Sally.

Katz sandwiches are made from scratch after many days of dry rubs and smoking, hand sliced as thickly as they ever were. Luckily for the Katz crew, that scene in that movie keeps their doors revolving. Also a smart deal way back that saw them purchase their Deli building outright rather than continue to rent it, keeps their doors wide open. Many other similar Delis had to close because their sandwiches simply could not stay profitable against the continual shop rent increases that chewed up their profit margins. Particularly, too, as those very cheep beef cuts which they used so profusely continued also to rise.

Katz's specialty, and able to be mail ordered and delivered anywhere, is a 6 foot long Hero sandwich, layered like a thick birthday cake. We just happened along at the perfect time to view the the making and the packaging of a hero order for a client who needed it delivered for a party of 30. Good Friday tomorrow. A holiday. And a fish day, traditionally. So, wise to party with this meat today. This was to be delivered with a side order of home made coleslaw and potato salad. All up the order cost the client $USD300. Not bad for a filling lunch for thirty folk. And gift wrapped.

Bread was the mainstay of every meal for many of the immigrants who lived in this area. It was cheap. It was filling So when the Kosser family turned up in this part of town, later than many, they brought with them their dough recipe from their homeland of Poland, then occupied by Russia. We tried an assortment of the baked wares in their window. Their bialy’s are delicious, like baked bagels without the hole, dimpled with sweet onion touched with garlic and sesame seed.

The bialys are a store mainstay. As are their Pletzels, Flagels, Challahs together with a selection of home made cream cheeses to die for. All to be finished off with a sweeter bite, like a Babka or a Rugalach, or any other assorted Hamentachen, many sweetened with a rich fruit filling. We had been nibbling all morning so we eyed these only from the display window though we were tempted to take some home.

One or two old synagogue buildings have survived throughout the neighbourhood, though not functioning as they once were. This one, one of the oldest, and where Sarah Jessica Parker married Mathew Broderick, is now an art gallery.

Another, the Bialystok Synagogue, on the very edge of the community, was closed when we arrived which was disappointing. We had heard this was rumoured to have been a stop along the underground railroad, its attic frequently being used as a hiding place for escaping slaves, way back. That would have been wonderful to see. But, not today, sadly.

Then, just as we were feeling thoroughly exhausted, and heading home, we came upon a pickle seller and perked up mightily. The Pickle Guy occupying the tiniest shop in the district, though somewhat bigger than a wheelbarrow, as would have been used in days long passed.

And still he is selling similar wares as then: hot and sour pickles, horseradish that has to be grated fresh for the Passover crowds whilst he wears a gas mask; olives, turnips dyed with beetroot juice, and sweet stuff tarted up: we noticed pineapples and mango, among others. It all smelled so delicious. And to top it off there was on the wall an endorsement from the local rabbi, reassuring all purchasers that the pickle products carry 'reliable hechsherim' -- that they are kosher. We wondered what a peck of pickled peppers might look like. And what it might have cost long ago.

Time to head home. We have been lucky today, seeing even these neighbourhood bits that we have been able to see as the entire area is undergoing enormous reconstruction. Gentrification. Which will wipe out all the remnant bits of ethnicity that were he heart and soul of such New York neighbourhoods so long ago. What we have managed to see today, though, has helped us better imagine what it was like way back. Which helps us to understand early New York so much better.