Here is a quick recipe for an arugula basil pesto that I cobbled together from a few recipes recently. Arugula adds a peppery kick to the basil, and also, many nutrients. I also added some nutritional yeast for an umami kick, but feel free to leave that out. This is a great recipe for using up the arugula-in-baggies that you find at many supermarkets here in the US.
Eat this with pasta, fish, potatoes, vegetables, bread, or whatever else you wish. I have eaten this pesto with gnocchi – as shown in the photo – and very much enjoyed it.
Arugula basil pesto served on gnocchi – forgive the messiness of the photo please! (Photo mine, December 2025)
Arugula Basil Pesto
Makes 2 cups
½ cup pine nuts ½ cup extra-virgin olive oil ½ cup shredded Parmesan cheese 5 cloves garlic 3 cups arugula 3 tablespoons lemon juice ½ teaspoon table salt 1/3 cup basil leaves 2 teaspoons apple cider vinegar 1 teaspoon nutritional yeast (optional)
Toast the pine nuts. Here are two ways to do so:
Heat a dry skillet over medium heat, then add the pine nuts and heat, stirring constantly, for three minutes, or until they visibly change color or have a noticeable toasted-nut smell. Remove immediately from the heat.
Spread evenly on a microwave-safe plate, then microwave in 30-second spurts on high heat until golden color and fragrant.
Place the pine nuts in a food processor with the remaining ingredients.
Puree the mixture until it is consistent and well-mixed throughout.
Store in the refrigerator in a covered container for up to four days.
This has been, by my math, the longest stretch I have gone without posting something here. And trust me, I have good reason: I have been launching a business! I am now the owner of Opossum House Accessibility, which is my vehicle for providing bespoke accessibility consulting services for public and private clients. Launching a business is hard, but has been supremely fun. Subscribe to the newsletter here – I plan to write something in the future about how food blogging gave me skills I applied for launch.
Besides that, I have also been traveling. My husband (love that word!) and I went to Japan and South Korea on our honeymoon in May and June, and we have also been traveling on the Eastern Seaboard of the United States.
Anyway, enough prattle from what I am doing. You are here to read about food!The travels and business startup process have given me a lot to “chew on,” metaphorically and literally, about modern food and what modernist food is and is not. So, I want to share three reflections on modernist cooking.
Japan and South Korea do modernist food really well.
The wondrous world of a Japanese convenience store – in this case, a SeicoMart in Sapporo. (Photo mine/May 2025)
I am very much not the first person to write about the wonders of convenience stores in Japan and Korea. In these chains, you can get simple, reasonably healthy, and traditionally-rooted dishes for very cheap. Favorites include onigiri (Japan) or samgak gimbap (Korea) – rice balls with fillings, various noodle salads, and filled buns. While we definitely had “nicer” meals too, the stores were helpful for snacks or after a long day of sightseeing.
On both this trip and a past trip to these countries in 2019, I found myself thinking about how these stores exemplify what Rachel Laudan calls for her in her seminal article about culinary modernism: that we should advocate for cheap, high-quality processed food for everyone – not to undo processing. (I have written about this at length on these pages.) While 7-Eleven is making some moves towards this in the United States, I think these Japanese and Korean stores give us in North America a lot to think about. These stores also made me wonder about how these tastes have then affected Japanese and Korean cuisine more broadly. Do the wares of konbini in Japan and pyeonuijeom in South Korea change what people seek to make when they are at home? This is something that, despite the language barrier, I want to learn more about.
Generative artificial intelligence (AI) is overrated – especially in the kitchen.
Me, reading claims about generative AI. (Image via The Noun Project)
When you start a business nowadays, people want to talk to you about generative AI. This is especially true in accessibility, where a lot of people try to apply generative AI badly. I was already a bit suspicious of claims about generative AI, but decided to give it a little bit of a shot because it seemed money was there. After talking to Generative AI enthusiasts and my own research, I am now more skeptical than before. (As a result, I chose to ignore the misguided advice from more than one person to spend an hour a day fooling around on ChatGPT or Claude.)
Because people mean lots of things when they say “AI,” I will be more specific. I am talking about predictive large language models that generate content; for example, ChatGPT, Claude, or Gemini. These are prediction-based tools that use “the most likely” thing to generate something. When you state it like that, the weird claims about generative AI sound a lot less plausible.
(I acknowledge there are some limited use cases that work well. For example: the designer I hired for my logo used AI models to replicate the beautiful logo she designed across business cards and letter heads. A friend of mine used a large language model to help people find the correct lawyer for their needs. Image description AI tools, which can come from multiple forms of AI, have been helpful for my blind friends. But the first is a talented artist using a tool to save time in applying her skills, and the second has many sources and is not usually reliant on large language models.)
I will link some great AI skepticism below. Anyway, I was originally going to write about how generative AI is actually a problem when you apply it to cooking, but Joe Ray at Wired published that article last week. He did the work of talking about the problems of asking generative AI for recipes, so I do not have to. Definitely go read it! It makes many of the points I wanted to make, and more.
Grilled fish – no AI needed. (Photo mine/May 2025)
In any case, I also spent time – especially on long flights and Amtrak rides – thinking about how people use generative AI in the kitchen. Apparently, people use it to “save time” with knowing when food is going off or to use food, plan their meals and grocery shopping, look for recipes, or figure out what to cook.
I think there are tons of problems here. Ray goes in about them in the food context, and other people – especially Ed Zitron and Baldur Bjarnason – have written about these issues in other contexts. But for cooking, I see two big problems. One is that cooking is embodied. Many of the things we do when we cook, we do through physical sense and actions that we take without describing well. How we beat an egg, see that something is browning, or how my blind friend listens to hear if a sponge cake is fully cooked. Generative AI does not have a body, much less knowledge one gains through a body. So the “advice” it spits out is already suspect.
The other is that cooking is inherently unpredictable. What happens when, as occurred to me last week, you cut into a cucumber to find a worm, and you need to rejig the salad you made? Or when you accidentally spill too much salt into your soup? AI usually looks for the “most likely” thing – but sometimes, we need to take unlikely steps in cooking. I worry about what happens to someone’s ability to cook and feed themselves when they become reliant on a tool that cannot handle the unpredicted. (And as an autistic person, I know surprises are hard! But they are part of life.)
Friends have also made a point that much of the dependence on AI is a direct consequence of the parlous state – and degradation – of search platforms, something that I have seen as I have written this blog over the past decade. Google and Bing, for example, both return far less reliable results than even two years ago. People are looking for something that seems useful to them – even if, as in this case, it causes more problems than it solves.
Modernist cooking is lots of things, but this use of AI is not one of them. At best, it is gimmicky. At worst, it becomes another way to pressure people to spend more time, energy, and money cooking than they can afford. What I see most vis-a-vis AI and food is that it is papering over an unhealthy or unsustainable relationship someone has with food. The problem is not that you need to better track your produce or plan your meals – the problem is you are trying to cook or eat in such a way that is not working with the way you live your life. And there is no shame – and it is probably better for your health, the planet, your wallet, and your well-being – if you choose to eat some more processed or prepared foods, or eat that sandwich, or do something simple, because that is what you have time for. And there are many established, low-tech, and more reliable ways to do this tracking. (I use a notebook.)
And if you need recipes, why not go to the original source? Recipe writers are humans whose work deserves to be supported. The best way to get free recipes, besides food blogs, is to support your local library and check out a few cookbooks – which you can now even do online. These books’ recipes are tested with the embodied knowledge that AI can never have. Here in Greater Washington, I have immensely enjoyed the cookbook collections in both Montgomery County and Washington DC’s library systems.
The blender and food processor are modern miracles.
A spectacular vegetarian mango and tofu salad with rice crackers at Chay in Falls Church, VA (photo mine/August 2024)
My business startup period has coincided with a renewed love of Southeast Asian vegetable salads. These are magnificent, hearty creations that feature shredded vegetables and fruit, often with tangy dressings and tofu or even fish for heft. (Vietnamese mango salads are a particular favorite.) While traveling, I was also lucky enough to have many delicious things that prominently feature grated carrots – fritters, pickles, noodle dishes, and even desserts. Grating or julienning by hand is a slow, dangerous process – and I am slower with a knife than most people. And besides that, I do not always have the time to do such an intense chop – especially with all of the tasks of getting a business launched and starting business development. My workaday, mundane food processor and blender have been a lifesaver. I can satisfy my cravings, safely, and do it in a reasonable amount of time. This machine is a win for society, not a cop out.
I have also, after nearly 34 years on this planet, finally come to truly understand why people love smoothies. Not as a meal replacement, but it is nice to have something somewhat heartier than my typical coffee (normal or decaf), tea, or sparkling water to sip on. It is especially comforting while I am trying to learn QuickBooks Online. Now, hearty drinks have a long history – in Viking Age Scandinavia and pre-colonial Mesoamerica, hearty grain-based drinks were very common. But the smoothie as we understand it now, with pureed fruit, yogurt, and anything else, is completely enabled by modern cooking equipment such as a blender. The miracle of cooking in 2025 is not a predictive model that can tell you to combine tarragon and fennel to flavor your pasta (pro tip: do not do this), but the fact that I can plug a machine in that spins a knife and liquifies a mango for me. What a time to be alive. Baruch Hashem.
I found a cool history of blenders (PDF) from Purdue University’s Extension Service. Also, given I mentioned the Viking Age and Classic Mesoamerica, I have two archeology books to recommend to you. Children of Ash and Elm, by Neil Price (for the Viking Age) and Collision of Worlds, by David Carballo (Mesoamerica) are some of the best books I have ever read, and changed the way I think about certain parts of food history.
Thank you to my husband, David Ouziel, for marrying me, traveling with me, putting up with my increasingly unhinged rants about AI hysteria, and eating my green mango salad with gusto. Thanks to Emma Greenstein, Mikaela Brown, Michael Faccini, Jonathon Epstein, Dexter O’Connell, Maryam Sabbaghi, AJ Faust, Matthew Marcus, Benjamin Gammage, Joe Conrad, Rachel Ouziel, and Jad Atoui for talking through some points in number 2 with me. Thanks to longtime readers Alex Strauss, Aaron Rubin, and Adelin Travers for taking us on wonderful food adventures in Japan.
I laughed – of course I like Jews. My interlocutor, who was from Spain, seemed confused. She was talking about green beans.
Never mind that I was more accustomed to the deeply Mexican word, ejotes, or the less common poroto and vainita. (Every Spanish-speaking country has their own word.)What I found interesting was that in Spain, and several other countries, the word for “green bean” is literally “Jews” or “green Jews.” (PDF in Spanish) Well, “green Jewish women.”
Green beans and carrots (photo David Ouziel/March 2025)
Many fantastic green bean dishes exist across the Jewish world – especially stewed with another New World star, the tomato. That recipe, fasolyas or fasolakes, has hundreds of variations. Jewish and non-Jewish Iranians cook lubia polo, a rich dish of rice, green beans, and often, meat. Egyptian Jewish stew lamb or beef with green beans – and sometimes, tomatoes too. Indian Jews sauté green beans with mustard and cumin. They are all delicious.
I took inspiration from three sources for this dish. One is a green bean dish perfected by my husband’s late grandmother, who was from the venerable Jewish community of Thessaloniki (Salonica). She cooked her green beans in a tomato-based stew – a different recipe, but the seasoning is inspired by her. When my father-in-law makes the dish, I usually consume four helpings. The dry stew and the addition of carrots are inspired both by a recipe from Tuscany and Italian Jewish communities and the Ethiopian fasolia, in which green beans and carrots are sauteed such that the green beans’ juices become part of the stew.
Eat this dish with bread, rice, or any carbohydrate you like.
Green Beans and Carrots
Serves 4-5 as a side
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 medium yellow onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, finely chopped
1 tablespoon white wine or rice wine vinegar
1 pound/450g green beans, chopped into 1.5”/4cm pieces
3 medium carrots, peeled and chopped into 1.5”/4cm matchsticks (roughly 1/4”/1/2cm wide)
2 tablespoons tomato paste
1 tablespoon bouillon base (or 2 bouillon cubes)
½ teaspoon ground black pepper
1/2 cup water
Heat the oil in a large skillet on medium-high heat, then add the onions and garlic.
Sauté the onions and garlic for a 4-5 minutes or until the onions are quite soft and translucent.
Add the vinegar and sauté for another minute.
Add the green beans and carrots and mix in, then sauté for 30 seconds.
Add the tomato paste, bouillon base, and black pepper and mix in thoroughly. Then, add the water.
Bring to a simmer, then reduce the heat to medium-low and cook for 10-15 minutes, stirring regularly. Allow the vegetables to become soft and the sauce to reduce. If the sauce is very reduced, add a splash more water.
Once the green beans and carrots are tender and the sauce is reduced, turn off the heat.
Serve hot or warm. Keep leftovers in a sealed container in the fridge for up to five days.
Thank you to David for conducting User Acceptance Testing on this recipe!
A few months before he passed, the late Jon Henner wrote a tweet that immediately made sense to me:
Working theory. The Moosewood Cookbook by @MollieKatzen is one of the most important mid to late 20th century Ashkenazi diaspora cookbooks. My grandma cooked Moosewood and not really cholents and stuff.
The Moosewood Cookbook stems from the namesake restaurant which Katzen co-founded in Ithaca, NY – which still operates today. (If you are in the Finger Lakes, I recommend a visit.) Moosewood was very much a product of its time – a vegetarian, plants- and ethics-forward restaurant with a very global focus – perfect for the “People’s Republic of Ithaca.” The cookbook – and several of the following books – are hand-lettered and -illustrated by Katzen herself, and compile many of the “hit recipes” from the restaurant’s early years.
Farfalle primavera at Moosewood Restaurant itself! (Photo mine)
The recipes themselves are great – and very rich and hearty! Among other hits, I can highly recommend the soups and many of the casseroles in the book, as well as the pies. The Brazilian Black Bean soup is a particular favorite. Katzen writes accessibly and in a very intuitive way – the recipes are organized in a way that makes chronological sense for the recipe. Many of the portion sizes are generous.
The book is also deeply Jewish. Katzen herself credits her kosher upbringing with her interest in vegetarianism, and she included many Ashkenazi classics – such as noodle kugel, cabbage borscht and other soups like solyanka, blintzes, stuffed cabbage, and cholent-like casseroles in the book and on Moosewood’s menu. These vegetarian, well-flavored, rich renditions are exemplars of their recipes. And it is not hard to find Jewish influences elsewhere too – the pie made with a grated potato crust akin to yapchik, the zucchini pancakes akin to latkes, or the spices that pair with the many wonderful mushroom dishes.
Katzen was part of a trend, of course: many Jewish people were involved in the vegetarian, environmental, and “hippie” food movements of the 1970s and 1980s. Other non-Jewish chefs active in this time include Jewish recipes in their works too – for example, the women behind Bloodroot Restaurant in Bridgeport, CT, and Deborah Madison, the author of several authoritative cookbooks on vegetarian and plant-forward cooking. Other Moosewood co-founders – and members of the staff who took collective ownership in 1978 – were Jewish too, including Katzen’s brother.
A handlettered recipe from the Moosewood Cookbook (copyright Mollie Katzen via Glamour magazine)
Yet Katzen’s influence went back to the Jewish community in a way unparalleled by these other books. By the time I grew up in the 1990’s, many of Katzen’s recipes were in my and others’ experience frequent guests on the tables of synagogue events and Shabbat dinners. Though my own family did not cook Moosewood, many others’ did. Others have written about this experience, too. As an experiment, I asked my heavily-Jewish friends circle what they like to cook from Moosewood. Many of the recipes I mentioned appeared – alongside the pasta al cavalfiore, no-boil lasagna, and the Ukrainian poppy seed cake. I was not surprised to hear so many entries – after all, many others have been in communities heavily influenced by the cookbook too.
Pasta al cavalfiore from The Moosewood Cookbook (Photo Margaret Wessel Walker, February 2024)
I have many times made a recipe from The Moosewood Cookbook or Katzen’s subsequent The Enchanted Broccoli Forest to find that I had recreated something I had eaten before, at a Jewish community event – especially in the left-leaning communities I have frequented as an adult. I think this has happened for many reasons: Katzen’s own continued links to Jewish life, the strong Jewish presence at Cornell University and in Ithaca, and in particular, the way Moosewood reflects how American Jews actually eat. The recipes were not preserved jelly-like in nostalgia, but rather in a mix alongside Indonesian salads, Brazilian soups, and an array of pastas.
And so this is why Jon’s tweet resonated with me so much. It was not just his grandmother who cooked from Moosewood – many of the people I knew in my communities, across generations, vegetarian or carnivore, left-wing or conservative, did. I do too, now – and I am grateful to this book for very much enriching Jewish tables across the country.
This post is dedicated to Dr. Jonathan Henner, z”l, who passed away in August. I knew him through this blog and our shared Jewish networks – he suggested that someday I write a post on Moosewood. In the wider world, he was known as a proud Deaf advocate and an achieved linguist who studied American Sign Language and children’s education. His work and activism have had a profound effect on many people, especially Deaf children. You can read more about him here; he will be missed.
The Moosewood Cookbook, by Mollie Katzen, is available from many wonderful independent bookstores across the world.
Thank you to my friends for contributions and particularly Margaret Wessel Walker for the photo!
A free-form chocolate babka. Yes, I am aware of what it looks like. (Photo mine, September 2021)
Note: recipe updated July 2024.
This is my chocolate babka recipe – which I have posted elsewhere, but not as a blog post. I nailed down this recipe during the initial stages of the pandemic, based on my cinnamon babka recipe and Tori Avey’s chocolate filling. It has been one of my dessert standards since then. (To the point that last year, I brought one on a plane to Florida to spend Thanksgiving with my partner’s family. I am nothing if not absolutely ridiculous.)
I talked about the history of babka in a 2019 post. What I have come to appreciate about chocolate babka since then is how it reflects a very Jewish experience: of new foods evolving with encounters with new products in new places. Chocolate babka came about in 20th-century New York, enabled by cheaper chocolate and an enormous amount of creativity in New York’s Jewish bakeries at the time. Now, it is one of those treats that generally pleases a very wide audience. I’ve also come to appreciate the delicious babkas created by other communities – I’m a big fan of the log-like Ukrainian ones.
Cross-section of a (free-form) babka. (Photo mine, May 2020)
I make my babka a little less sweet than many are, and I like to add chopped walnuts to add weight, depth, and nuttiness. You can omit the walnuts if you have an allergy. I also make the babka with butter – though dairy is only partly traditional, it is delicious. The butter also adds to the delicious density of a babka – something that certain people on certain British baking shows do not appreciate, I am told.
You can braid in a loaf, which is what I direct here, but I’ve come to enjoy free-form babkas braided like a challah. I added directions in a note at the bottom. You can also add an egg wash if you are feeling fancy, but I am invariably too lazy.
A baked babka. (Photo mine, May 2020)
Chocolate Babka (with Optional Walnuts)
Makes two medium loaves
1 cup/250mL whole milk
1 package active dry yeast
2/3 cup granulated sugar, divided in half
5 tablespoons salted butter, melted
2 eggs
3 ¾ cups sifted white flour (about 450g)
8 tablespoons unsalted butter
4 oz/120g dark chocolate chips
1/3 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1 cup walnuts, finely ground (optional)
Warm the milk to about 100F/39C – I do it in 15 second spurts in the microwave. The milk should be warm enough to touch with your finger but not feel like it’s burning you.
Add the yeast to the milk, stir in, and let sit for five minutes.
Mix the yeast mixture in a large bowl or stand mixer bowl with the eggs, salted butter, and 1/3 cup of the sugar.
Add the flour, ½ cup at a time, and mix in thoroughly, either with your hands and a spoon or the dough hook on the electric mixer. Once it is in, knead for six to eight minutes on a floured surface, or use the dough hook on the electric mixer for about five minutes. The dough, when ready, should be roughly the texture of your earlobe and should be smooth and bounce back.
Oil a large bowl, put the dough in it, and cover. Let rise for about 1 ½ hours, or until a bit more than double in size.
Meanwhile, you can make the filling. Melt the unsalted butter and the chocolate chips together until smooth. (I use the microwave). Mix in the other 1/3 cup sugar, cocoa powder, and walnuts if using until combined. Set aside.
Grease two loaf pans. Grease – not flour – a large surface and a rolling pin.
Punch the dough down, then split into two parts. Take one part, roll it out to about half an inch/1 centimeter thickness. Spread half of the chocolate filling evenly on it, leaving a 1 inch/2.5 cm perimeter around the edges of the dough.
Pick up one edge and roll tightly into a tube. If you want, you can slice the tube in half before the next step.
Bring the two ends together, and twist into a figure eight-ish shape. Place in the pan.
Repeat with the other half and other pan.
Preheat your oven to 350F/175C.
If you want a lighter or fluffier babka, you can proof it again a second time for 30 minutes. Let it sit undisturbed on/in the pan at room temperature.
Bake for 30-40 minutes, or until brown on top and hollowish-sounding when you tap it. Let cool for five minutes in the pan, then until your desired temperature on a rack. Store in a sealed plastic bag for up to a week or so.
For a free-form babka: Bake instead on a large baking sheet lined with parchment paper. Shape the coils however you want – I recommend in this case slicing the tube in half and twisting the two halves together for a visual effect.
Many thanks to the friends, neighbors, and roommates who have helped me develop this recipe over the years: AJ Faust, Zachary Maher, Ying-Ying Chow, Rebecca Fedderwitz, Bo-Young Lee, Joseph Jeffers, Hannah Cook, Douglas Graebner, Melanie Marino, Margaret Curran, Maryam Sabbaghi, Sara Weissman, Gilah Barker, Zach and Hannah Kinger, and of course, my partner David Ouziel.
Several years ago, Michael Twitty came out with The Cooking Gene, which was a fantastic exploration of African-American culinary history. I gave it a rave review on this blog. That book explored the West African roots of both African-American food and Southern food as a whole, with Twitty’s own personal experience intertwined. Twitty has followed this work with another magnificent book: Koshersoul: The Faith and Food Journey of an African-American Jew. Twitty writes about his own Jewish journey, the experiences of America’s many Black Jews (both African-American and of other backgrounds), and how these play out both in the kitchen and in White Jewish communities.
Michael Twitty, the author, delivering a book talk at the Library of Virginia and looking fabulous. (Photo Library of Virginia in the public domain, undated)
Koshersoul is memoir, history, food book, and conversation all at once – and Twitty balances these very deftly. Historical explorations, ethnography, and analysis are intertwined with Twitty’s own well-narrated stories. You learn a lot as a reader – but also come to appreciate not only the intersections Twitty experiences every day, but also the way he can connect these to wider ranges. Twitty also is the rare memoirist that does not come off as self-indulgent – and, in fact, he shows a great deal of empathy and care for the many people he chronicles as well.
The book meanders – which I think adds to its excellence. The stories Twitty tells are not chronological, but rather go back and forth across his life and across history. What this structure does is make the book feel more like a story being told in person, rather than a tome. In addition, because it reflects how we tell stories in person, I found that the structure made it easier for me to envision certain things – particularly when it came to the discussions of food, or some of the more intense stories from Twitty’s Hebrew school teaching years.
Okra – one of the foods that Twitty discusses in his examination of African influences on Jewish cooking and the food of African-American Jews and the communities in which they live. (Photo Postbear/public domain)
I think this book is an important one. White Jews like myself would do well to read it. Twitty is not only unflinching about racism and racial dynamics in the Jewish community, but also the impacts of “mainstream” Judaism’s headlong rush to whiteness on their fellow Jews’ very real lives. There is also a very important analysis embedded in the book of Jewish food culture – and how much of the politics around Jewish food comes from a distinctly unsavory tradition.
The food discussions in the latter part of the book are fascinating, and also have a realness to them that I find refreshing. Discussions of Jewish food are oftentimes sappy with nostalgia or a distinct unrealism about the cultural balance Jews – and especially Jews of color – face. Twitty faces these head on, with frank discussions about the role of enslaved Black folks and domestic workers in cooking Jewish cuisine, their influence on Jewish foodways, and also the balancing Jews by birth and choice do between cuisines and kashrut. I think a lot of Jewish food writing could learn from Twitty in this regard.
Twitty ends his book with some fantastic recipes. These recipes combine West African, African-American, and various Jewish traditions. Some are by him, and some are by the many Black Jews who Twitty worked with as he crafted the book. Keep the book because these recipes are ones you will want to come back to again and again. Two personal favorites are the Jollof Rice and the Tahini-Nokos Dressing.
I’m excited to share another guest post by my dear friend, Michael Faccini, who wrote a lovely interfaith seder piece last spring. This post may be controversial, but I think it is badly needed: a discussion on the intersection of race and kashrut, especially in shared spaces.
“Kashrut is only a barrier if you let it be.” This line sums up many of my thoughts about kashrut – and, during the decade when I kept some form of kashrut, my general attitude. Yet, as Michael notes in this piece, sometimes kashrut is an intentional barrier – one that often intersects with attitudes about race and class, particularly for white Jews. I know many firm kashrut-keepers who don’t let kashrut be a barrier for building community, and who ardently question the way race often intersects with supposedly neutral ways of keeping kosher. Sadly, I know many who do not.
I hope you read and enjoy this piece. Michael has generously provided his kosher recipes for tostones – a classic Dominican side dish and snack – at the end of the post, so please be sure to reach that point too. Michael has requested a shout out to his favorite Dominican spot in Washington Heights, El Valle Seafood. I would like to add Albert’s Mofongo in Inwood, which very helpfully has a lard-free mofongo for those of us who avoid pork (and lard-filled ones for those that do eat pork). It is delicious, and here in Greater Washington I frequently miss it.
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Some of the culinary delights of Washington Heights (photos M. Faccini, 2021)
“What are you making?” said with a confused and concerned face. That’s how I’ve ended up introducing a lot of fellow Jews to the luscious fried delight that is tostones. I make excellent tostones (technique to follow), but I’m not so sure that a white Jew from rural Montana should be anyone’s introduction to tostones and plantains in general. It feels particularly strange because most of those people have been roommates past and present in Washington Heights. I find myself wondering: how exactly do they live in this largely Dominican neighborhood of NYC and not know what a tostone is?
It seems like an innocent and easy question, but answering it reflects a lot of the challenging racial dynamics I’ve seen among the Jewish community living in the Heights. Before moving here, I was introduced to the Heights as being a Jewish neighborhood. As home to Yeshiva University, a sizable Orthodox population, and a popular traditional egalitarian shul, there are ways in which that is true. There are long and deep Jewish roots in the Heights and a recent significant population growth of young Jews, particularly students and young families, in the neighborhood. When I first moved to the Heights in the summer of 2019 to attend rabbinical school, that description fit. Living on Bennett*, most of the people I saw walking around the neighborhood were visibly Jewish, wearing kippot, tzitzit, and sheitels or tichels, or people I met through Jewish roommates.
A couple of weeks after moving in, though, I needed to cross over Broadway to St. Nick for the first time, to buy a shirt from Goodwill for a job interview. That’s when I met a more realistic representation of the Heights, known to some as the Little Dominican Republic. On the St. Nick side, Spanish is used prominently in signs and also heard throughout the neighborhood. There are street vendors of all kinds, many selling fruits and vegetables common in Caribbean cooking and foods like chicharrón and tamales (obviously not Dominican, but delicious). And, most clearly, the majority of the people you see on the street are Latin American (Latine), Dominican particularly. The income is also apparent. It’s no coincidence that Goodwill was located in that part of the neighborhood (it’s since closed), along with storefronts like Boost Mobile, health insurance companies that service Medicaid and free federal plans, and community-owned businesses. Looking for housing later, I learned that those couple of blocks from Bennett to Wadsworth/St. Nick are worth a difference of $200-300+ in rent.
(Photo MaxPixel/CC)
If the neighborhood is so clearly Dominican, why was I introduced to it as a Jewish neighborhood? To me, part of the answer lies in the history of the Heights. Jewish immigrants, particularly in the aftermath of the Holocaust, were a prominent community in the early 1900s. Because of the historic roots in the neighborhood, there can often be this sense of reclaiming and returning to the neighborhood. “We’re not moving in, we’re moving back.” I understand the temptation, especially for individuals whose families were early members of the Jewish community in the Heights. At the same time, it ignores why Jews left the neighborhood. A lot of the Jewish community moved out during the White Flight of the 1960s/1970s. That’s when the Dominican community moved in in large numbers following the assisination of the dictator Rafael Trujillo, transforming the neighborhood to the largest Dominican community outside of the Dominican Republic. And things were not great when they arrived, only getting worse when the crack epidemic began. Violent crime, particularly through gun violence, was prevalent. The Dominican community came together in the 90s/early 2000s to change the neighborhood and make it what it is today. That’s when we see the boom of young white Jews moving to the Heights and clear gentrification-fueled attempts to rebrand the neighborhood to WaHi after SoHo (thankfully these have failed).
Those dynamics influence what I see as a core reason for seeing the Heights as a Jewish rather than Dominican neighborhood: segregation. While of course there are Dominicans living west of Broadway and Jews living east, the racial demographics largely fall along geographic lines. Perhaps more notable, though, is the very limited interaction between the two groups, outside of customer service, childcare providers, domestic help, and (Jewish) landlord to (Dominican) tenant. If you live in the Heights and you’re Jewish, almost all, if not all, of your social contacts are also Jewish. It would make sense, then, to see it as primarily a Jewish neighborhood, especially if you live on a street that is largely Jewish.
Fried sweet plantains (maduros), one of my first posts, from when I myself lived “in the Heights.” (Photo J. Katz, December 2015)
Going back to food, these contribute to some of the answer for why I meet a lot of Jews in a Dominican neighborhood who don’t know what a tostone is, even though that’s the cultural equivalent of not knowing what a tortilla is in a Mexican neighborhood. If you don’t realize and/or care that the neighborhood is Dominican, you’re not going to really be exposed to those foods. It’s often more than lack of exposure. There is a profound lack of curiosity and often a desire to be separate that people justify on religious terms, particularly kashrut.
I naively underestimated that dynamic when I entered a conversation over a Shabbat meal shortly after moving back to the Heights. I’d shared that I chose to move away for a while because I found the clear segregation (and Jewish apathy toward it) too difficult to deal with, particularly with some personal challenges at the time. Somehow the conversation moved to suggestions about how that could be approached. I suggested convening religious leadership from both communities, as the Catholic church and local synagogues have a lot of sway in their respective communities. Immediately I was met with this litany of reasons why the synagogue leaders wouldn’t feel comfortable. “Okay, so what about the Reform congregation?” According to this person, that wouldn’t work because the neighborhood was “too religious” for that community to be a good representation. I started to get the sense that my roommate’s friend was wanting separation.
The ingredients for kosher Dominican cooking: green plantains for tostones, and the ingredients for sancocho – all kosher. (Photo M. Faccini, December 2021)
Starting to feel the futility, the conversation switched to tactics. Heavily influenced by a lifetime of watching Anthony Bourdain, I suggested a communal meal to start the process. Food, after all, has always been my soft entry into other cultures, including Dominican culture. Immediately the concerns about kashrut came forth. Which, you know, have some validity. Dominican food is not exactly known for its great vegetarian options and those would still pose some difficulties for people only eat hechshered kosher food (food prepared with supervised ingredients in a kosher kitchen). “Okay, what about if they prepared vegetarian food in our kitchens under supervision?” For those unfamiliar, this is a totally legitimate, although not universally accepted, way of solving the kashrut issue because the food would have hechshered ingredients, be prepared in a kosher kitchen, and there are ways to deal with concerns about someone not Jewish doing the cooking. And that’s how I finally understood that the issue wasn’t about kashrut or religion.
Her face was filled with absolute disgust at the idea of a Dominican cooking in her kitchen or the kitchens of anyone she knew. A year and a half later and I am still horrified at her response. Dominicans can stock our food at the store. Dominicans can scan and bag our food. Dominicans can clean our kitchens. But God forbid they cook in our kitchens, at least if they’re cooking their cultural foods and doing so as our equals. I find it hard to believe that a non-Jewish Italian making fresh pasta or Japanese person rolling sushi in our kitchen would have elicited the same disgust.It was fear and hatred of the racial Other dressed up in the guise of religion and kashrut.
This is an extreme example, but, when it comes to Latine food particularly, kashrut is often used as an excuse not to explore and form closer bonds. There are some real challenges. I won’t deny that. I experienced them when I used to keep kosher. It’s hard to find things that you are confident are vegetarian and there’s often a language barrier in verifying ingredients/preparation. While there is at least one vegan restaurant that serves Dominican food, I don’t expect to see a successful kosher-certified Dominican restaurant in my lifetime. That’s why I learned how to make things like tostones and sofrito and bacalao. I wanted to experience the food, but needed to make it kosher. Was it as good as the real stuff? Probably not. But I didn’t let kashrut keep me from exploring food so I could get a better sense of Dominican culture while also getting to know Dominican coworkers. Kashrut is only a barrier if you let it be.
Some would argue that that’s one of the reasons behind kashrut. Not being able to eat with your neighbors makes it really hard to form close bonds and, therefore, to marry with them and have children with them. Ignoring that this doesn’t seem to apply to pizza or Eastern European foods that commingled to make some quintessentially Jewish foods or sushi or a whole lot of other things, this begs the question: is that a value we want to have in 2022? And what does it mean when a majority white group applies that to Latine and/or Black communities and certain Asian communities**? None of us can say with any certainty that reluctance and/or refusal to make kosher mofongo isn’t a reflection of racism. For me, the answer to values in 2022 and beyond is no. My reasons for no longer keeping kosher are many, but the greatest benefit I’ve seen is my ability to experience other cultures and form closer bonds with people from those cultures. I wouldn’t have been able to form some of the close bonds without unrestricted food sharing. I love making tostones on my own. But I love making tostones with a friend and eating their food even more.
Now for that tostones recipe…
Tostones (photo M. Faccini, December 2021)
Tostones
Select green plantains, the greener the better; 1 plantain makes 8-10 tostones.
Peel the plantains- I cut a slit through the skin the full length of the plantain to start the peeling process (if you are making more than 3 plantains, soak them in salted water to prevent discoloration).
Heat a skillet with an inch of canola or other neutral oil over medium heat.
Slice the plantains into ¾” slices.
Fry in the oil until lightly browned on each side.
Remove and immediately flatten using a glass or other flat object.
Return the flattened plantains and fry until light golden brown.
Drain on a paper towel and salt to taste, or season with Adobo for more flavor.
*I’m choosing to use geographic and other street markers even though they may mean little to people who don’t live in the Heights or haven’t before. Living in St. Louis and now the Heights, I’m very familiar with the ways in which a street is often the line of segregation and how much difference a block or two can make for demographics, housing prices, and safety. In St. Louis, that’s Delmar Boulevard. In the Heights, that line is Broadway. My goal is to make the invisible visible to fellow Jews living in the neighborhood that find a way to ignore those lines of segregation.
**Asian cuisines that have been made kosher, such as Chinese and Japanese food, have a pretty clear class correlation. Jews felt comfortable sharing Chinese food and making Chinese food kosher at a time in which we, too, were new immigrants and shared a similar socioeconomic status. Japanese food, adopted more recently, is primarily associated with upper-middle/higher class. Asian cuisines from cultures that have had less economic success, such as Vietnamese and Thai food, rarely find their ways onto kosher menus. (Jonathan note: Krishnendu Ray has an excellent book about this broader trend.)
A bit of a short post this time: a number of readers have asked me for some easy Jewish recipes – things that do not require a lot of effort or metaphorical spoons. I am more than happy to fulfill this request. So I have included three recipes:
Apple lokshen – a simple noodle recipe with apples and mustard. This is a slightly unorthodox take on classic Ashkenazi egg noodles, with a traditional savory use of apple and a slightly wacky use of mustard. The mustard actually works – trust me on this.
A simple salad, without raw tomato, that goes with many different dishes.
Poached eggs – something that is easier than it seems to make, and very traditional in many Jewish traditions.
Enjoy!
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Lazy Apple Lokshen
1 package egg noodles
2 apples, cored and chopped
8-12 cloves white garlic, crushed
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon mustard
1/2 cup water
2 tablespoons oil (mild-flavored preferred)
Cook the noodles according to package directions.
Heat a skillet on a high flame, then add oil.
Add the apples and garlic. Sauté for 4-5 minutes, or until the apples are more tender.
Add the salt, mustard, and water to the apples. Mix in thoroughly. Cook for another 5-10 minutes, or until the apples are soft and the water has reduced.
Turn off the heat. Pour the apple mixture over the noodles and mix thoroughly. Serve hot.
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Lazy Salad
2 medium cucumbers, chopped
2 bell peppers, cored and diced
4 scallions, chopped
1 tablespoon maple syrup
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
1 tablespoon soy sauce
2 tablespoons olive oil
Mix the dry ingredients together in a bowl.
Mix the wet ingredients together in a glass, and stir together.
Pour the dressing over the vegetables. Mix.
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How to Poach an Egg
You will need:
-an egg
-about 2 cups of water
-2 tablespoons vinegar
You will also need
-a small cup
-a small saucepan or skillet
-a normal spoon
-a slotted spoon
Crack the egg into the cup.
Bring the water to a boil in the skillet.
When the water is boiling, reduce the heat and add the vinegar. Wait until the water is simmering – bubbling a bit but not rapidly.
Pour the egg from the cup into the water. Do this with the cup close to the water – it helps the egg keep its shape.
The egg will be in the water and the white will be pushing around the yolk. Use the spoon to push the white towards the yolk a little.
Let the egg cook for 3-4 minutes. You will be able to see the white “firm up” when it is cooked. The egg will also be closer to the surface.
Remove the egg with a slotted spoon. You can also pat it dry with a paper towel. Poached eggs keep for up to two days in the fridge. I put them on everything.
Nota bene: if you are poaching several at a time, try not to have more than three or four in the pot at once. The starch in the egg bubbles up a lot sometimes. I usually poach two for myself, three if I am hungry.
Poached eggs in a squash soup! (Photo mine, September 2016)
I originally published the directions for poaching an egg on my Facebook in July 2017.
Happy Secular New Year! May 2018 bring you many blessings.
Of course I had tacos. And many things besides.
I recently returned from a week-long trip to Mexico City and its surrounding areas, which was lovely in all regards. One particularly attractive aspect for me was the delicious food in Mexico – from the antojitoslike tacos and huaraches, to the staples like atole, to the incredible variety of chilies, vegetables, and fish there. It is a food nerd’s dream. And there are a lot of Jewish parallels, a few of which I will point out here.
I am going to skip over the beautiful and complex Mexican Jewish food tradition, which blends old Ashkenazi and Sephardi flavors with common Mexican ingredients. Rachel Laudan and Joan Nathan have already written excellent articles on Mexican Jewish food, and the Ashkenazi-Mexican blog Challapeño is a real pleasure to read. In addition, one of the most famous interpreters of Mexican food in the United States, Pati Jinich, is a Mexican Jew herself – and has written extensively on Mexican Jewish cuisine. There are many delicious things in Mexican Jewish cooking, including gefilte fish veracruzana, where the fish is poached in a spicy tomato sauce, and guacamole topped with boiled eggs and gribenes!
Beyond this cuisine, however, one can see links between “traditional Mexican” and “traditional Jewish foods.” Modern food really began in Mexico, where the first cuisine blending Old World ingredients like dairy and wheat combined with New World ingredients like corn and tomatoes. Several of the world’s most consumed foods – corn, pumpkins, zucchini, peanuts, chili peppers, guavas, tomatoes, black beans, vanilla, and chocolate among them – were introduced from what is now Mexico to the Old World after contact in the early 16th century. Some of these, like corn, arose in Mesoamerica, while others – like the tomato and the peanut – reached the form closest to the most common ones today in Mesoamerica. As a result, there are many culinary parallels between the Mexico from where these plants originated, and the Jewish cuisines of the Old World that took a shine to them. Beyond that, many of the foods introduced from Europe by the Spaniards were those that the Jews took with them on their exile after 1492.
Enough blathering. Let’s go eat!
In the cup, you see atole, a traditional corn-based porridge or drink. It is made from corn hominy flour (masa), which is ground from kernels that have been nixtamalized. While nixtamalization did not cross over to Europe, corn did, and corn-based gruels became common in many Jewish communities. In Romania and Georgia, mamaliga and gomi are common parts of meals.
The tamale, which is also made from corn flour, was delicious too.
This is a huarache – an oblong disk of masa filled with beans, cooked, and then topped akin to tacos or other antojitos. This example here is topped with nopal (cactus), mushrooms, and cheese. Similar topped breads or doughs exist in many Old World Jewish cuisines, such as lahmajun in the Mediterranean or lobiani in Georgia. All are portable and easily consumed with one’s hands – though I, being a klutz, do use a fork and knife with huaraches. Spanish speakers may note that this is also the word for “sandal” – and indeed, huaraches are called that for their sandal-like shape. The word itself for sandal derives from the Purépecha language, native to the Mexican state of Michoácan. I spoke with the cook while he prepared the huarache at a small neighborhood eatery, and he told me that huaraches initially started out as a variant on the extremely delicious tlacoyo prepared by a street vendor in Mexico City, but flatter and crispier than its bulky father. (I also ate delicious tlacoyos.) Surprised by his assertion, I did some research when I got home … to find that he was right! (The link is in Spanish.) Food, as we must remember, is ever-changing.
Here is some fish for sale at the Mercado del San Juan, which is one of the most famous – if by no means the biggest – food markets in Mexico City. Many tourists come for the “exotic” foods like grasshoppers, but what captivated me more were the workaday fishmongers selling sea and freshwater fish to locals. Particularly beloved here are guachinango (red snapper), corvina (croaker), and lenguado (flounder). In Mexico, local Jews do what Jews have done everywhere, and adopted the kosher local fish as their own. Hence the aforementioned gefilte fish veracruzana, and countless fish dishes besides. The way the fishmongers described the fish reminded me of fishmongers in my father’s hometown of Cape Town: brutally honest, but still trying to get you to buy the fish. I am wondering if a guachinango-tamatiebrediemight be in order.
Near the fish, I found some squash, or pumpkin (calabaza) for sale. I talked in a recent post about the long Jewish history of and love for pumpkin and squash in all forms, and Mexico is the country where it all started! The native region of the squash is Mesoamerica, and the variety of squash here is nearly unparalleled. As in Jewish communities, squash products find themselves in all parts of the meal in Mexican cuisine, from toasted pumpkin seeds (pepitas), to squash flowers (flor de Calabaza) on tacos and quesadillas, to squash-based sweets.
This beauty is a nopal, or the Opuntia cactus, whose delicious paddles and sweet fruit are a common food in Mexico. The fruit, called prickly pear in English, is also common across the Mexican Southwest. However, many Jews associate prickly pears with Israel – after all, the “sabra” is seen as the essence of the Israeli himself: prickly on the outside, sweet on the inside. Yet all Opuntia are native to the Americas, including those grown commercially in Israel today. Prickly pear was introduced to the Mediterranean by the Spanish in the 16th century, and once there, this cactus quickly established roots in what was an ideal climate. Like many fruits, it was considered “green gold” by Spanish crews – likely to be valuable, and taken back with other plants to Europe and the Old World. Besides, other desert plants’ fruit had been common since time immemorial. Now, five hundred years later, Opuntia is so established in the Middle East and North Africa that it is considered by some a pest. Today, Tunisian and Moroccan Jews make jams from the pears, and Sicilians even make a liqueur! And the fruit itself is enjoyed by Jews in Israel, the United States, and of course Mexico.
This gorgeous nopal is in Tula de Allende, 70km north of Mexico City, which was the site of the capital of the Toltec people in the early post-Classic period (roughly 900-1100 CE). It is well worth a visit.
Ice cream is popular in Mexico as anywhere else – and perhaps even more so. I’m flabbergasted at the number of neverías and heladerías I saw, both in Mexico City and in the provincial town of Tula de Allende. This ice cream, however, is special – it’s made with dulce de membrillo, or candied quince paste! This recipe came straight from Spain, where it probably developed during Moorish rule. It is popular in sweets in Mexico – but also among Sephardic Jews, who serve pastries and cookies with bembriyo. Candied quince is also a traditional Rosh HaShanah and Tu Bishvat food among Tunisian and Iranian Jews, and quince jams and candies remain popular in Israel today. Quince jam was one of the first recipes I made for the blog, and is incredibly delicious.
These little rolls are called conchas, and are a roll topped with a biscuit-like dough. These are vegetarian, though fellow kosher-keepers beware: ask, because sometimes they are made with lard. Beyond that, however, they are oddly similar to the classic bulke challah role of Ashkenazi cooking: sweet, small, and delicious!
This is not so much a culinary influence as a fun little parallel. I went to a mezcalería to try some delicious mezcal. When my drink arrived, it came with some orange slices. I asked the bartender why the oranges had come, and he responded that it is somewhat improper, he was taught, to have alcohol without a bit of food. As it happens, I was sort of taught the same growing up in an Ashkenazi Jewish household, and the same tradition exists with serving zakuski with vodka among Russian Jews. From Die Alter-Heim to Mexico, some traditions persist!
Many thanks – mil gracias – to all those who gave great food advice for Mexico City: Dexter O’Connell, Rachel Laudan, Connie Prater, Atenea Rosado, Mordecai Martin, Tamara Velasquez, Nahime Aguirre, Hunter Owens, Hunter Kennedy, and Yael Wiesenfeld.
Hanukkah is not my favorite holiday, but to mark the holiday, I thought I would talk about one of my better fried food experiences recently. It was at one of my favorite restaurants in New York, Cheburechnaya, which serves Bukharan Jewish cuisine from Uzbekistan.
“There are Jews in Uzbekistan?” one may ask. Indeed, there is a Jewish community, based largely in the city of Bukhara – hence the name Bukharan Jews. Jews migrated to Central Asia from Persia in antiquity with their religion and the Persian language, which Bukharan Jews call Bukhori. Jews lived in various conditions under Muslim rule for six hundred years, and then Russian rule from 1876 to 1991. Jews were in Bukhara, Tashkent, Samarkand, Khiva, and in Dushanbe in neighboring Tajikistan. The cuisine and culture of Bukharan Jews is particularly distinct among Jewish communities, both for its Persian-based language and for its frequent use of meat. Most Bukharan Jews left during the Soviet years, and settled in Tel Aviv and New York, where the Forest Hills and Rego Park neighborhoods have large Bukharan communities. Several Bukharan restaurants are found in these neighborhoods, which serve a mix of Central Asian food and Russian dishes picked up during the century of Russian rule. Though strictly kosher and owned by Jews, many Muslim Uzbeks work at these restaurants.
(Photo Kate S. on Yelp)
These Bukharan restaurants have a cult following among many non-Bukharan Jews in New York, for the delicious food and their general affordability and good service. (The latter two are unfortunately rare among kosher restaurants in New York.) In addition, many Russian Jewish immigrants come for a taste of home. Central Asian food, including shashlik (kebabs), chebureki (triangular fried pastries), and samsa/samcy (triangular filled buns), became popular throughout the Soviet Union after World War II, and for many Russian Jews “going out for Central Asian” is the equivalent of the American “going out for Chinese.” The menus at Bukharan restaurants are uniformly bilingual in English and Russian.
Traditional Bukharan Jewish food, like all Central Asian food, is meat heavy. There is meat in the soup, meat in the pastries, meat in the rice, and meat generally everywhere. (Vegetarianism is, to say the least, uncommon.) Historically the Jews of Bukhara and Samarkand were one of the few Jewish communities that regularly consumed meat – not just because it was plentiful and cheap, but also because the Jewish community had a regularly available supply of cattle, sheep, and poultry. This matches the generally meat-based diet of the surrounding region, which is desert and not particularly given to vegetable agriculture. It should be noted that this was both unusual for Jewish communities, which reserved meat for more special occasions, and also usual in that this was eating what the neighbors did.
Cheburechnaya is located near the center of Rego Park, on an unassuming side street in Queens. It is close to other Jewish businesses, including two other Bukharan restaurants, a kosher butcher, a kosher supermarket, and a number of other kosher restaurants. Russian, Bukhori, and Hebrew can be heard along the street – alongside Chinese, Spanish, Uzbek, and Arabic. The crowd is a hearty mix: there are Bukharans and Russians, the traditional clientele, along with observant Jews from all over the New York area and foodies from all traditions. At one table, you might have a Bukharan family going out; at another table, some Ashkenazi “bros” reminiscing about their exploits in their college AEPi; at a third, a nerdy civil servant and his friends. Few restaurants in New York, in my experience, are as fun for people-watching.
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This is a cheburek, which is a deep-fried pastry filled with minced meat. It’s incredibly luscious, and the dill often placed in the meat filling provides a lovely balance both to the meat and the heavy fried dough surrounding it. Chebureks are common across the Former Soviet Union, and are especially popular among Tatars. The pastry has a Turkish origin.
Pelmeni
Shurpa
Lagman
Here are three soups: shurpa, lagman, and pelmeni.Shurpa is the traditional vegetable-and-meat soup – it has hearty root vegetables and a big chunk of meat inside! Shurpa comes from the common Turkic word for soups – in Turkish, soup is çorba. Shurpa is delicious. Lagman comes from the other direction, and is a derivative of the Chinese lamian. The Bukharan Jewish version involves noodles in a savory, tomato- and cilantro-laden broth with chunks of beef giving the soup body and a wonderful heartiness. The Forward once rated lagman the best Jewish soup. The last one is the Russian pelmeni, soup with dumplings. Thanks to two centuries of colonization, many parts of Bukharan cuisine and Central Asian food generally are Russian-influenced. The dumplings, however, are derived from those made in Central Asia, where they are called manti.
Here is plov, a rice-and-meat pilaf that makes up for the bulk of Bukharan Jewish festive cuisine. This one is a green plov cooked with many types of herbs. A wide range of plov varieties and recipes exist – I particularly like this sweetish recipe. We also had some meat kebabs, or shashlik, which are also traditional. They were delicious.
Here is noni, the pan-cooked bread of Uzbekistan, eaten by Jews and Muslims alike. The rounds are huge, and torn and shared. The stacks are very attractive and the bread itself is surprisingly soft and pleasant. Not all Jewish breads are like challah!
Samsa. (Photo from Uzbekistan Travel)
On past visits, I gobbled them down too quickly to take a picture, so here is another picture of samsa, a beautiful baked and sometimes fried triangular pastry filled with meat or vegetables. The samsa comes from the same origin as the samosa and the sambusak, and filled breads span from empanadas in Spain and Latin America to baozi in China. The pumpkin and meat rendition often served in Bukharan establishments is particularly delicious and irresistible, and if you have any room in your stomach I urge you to try it.
If you want to visit Cheburechnaya, it is located at 9209 63 Drive in Rego Park, Queens. They are certified kosher by an Orthodox rabbi, and closed on Shabbat.
Thank you to Amy Estersohn and Laura Macaddino for accompanying me to have fun at Cheburechnaya most recently! Thanks to Aaron Kaiser-Chen for catching a typo/mistake!
