Growing up in a largely secular, half-Israeli household, I never had much of a proper introduction to Ashkenazi food. It wasn’t until my mid-teens that I encountered a gefilte fish in the wild and I’ve still never dabbled in lokshen pudding, even as I get perilously close to my 30s.
I was put off by a lot of things: the lacklustre presentation, the ambivalent way it was served, the fact that the only people tucking in with gusto had a lack of hair or teeth (or both). Confident that I wasn’t missing out on any great treats, it wasn’t until I went to New York in my early 20s that I truly realised how wrong I was.
Walking into the famous Katz’s deli in Manhattan this summer, fighting past Midwestern tourists and visiting NW London families, I remembered feelings that only seem to come to me when I’m presented with such a bolshy, unapologetic shrine to Ashkenazi cuisine.
First, hunger - but secondly and, probably more importantly, a sense of pride. Pride in the fact that Ashkis, who are not from a part of the world known for its food, have managed to create such an enduring legacy of culinary achievement that even the goyest of goys queue up to snatch a little cardboard ticket and wait as long as 35 minutes for the honour of paying $35 for a non-kosher pastrami sandwich.