GRIBENES

by Norman Reisman

My favorite day to read the New York Times is Wednesday, Food Section day. Being a New Yorker, it keeps me up on restaurant openings and closings, chef comings and goings, recipes, etc. This past Dec. 18 though was even better than I was hoping for. It was about a week before Hannukah so they published a story and recipe for kasha varnishes (buckwheat, bow ties and onions). I was already salivating from the story when I read that the recipe which contained a tip. The tip was directions for making schmaltz, onions and gribenes. To me, that tip crossed the line into the realm of food porn.

There’s something about the aroma of fried onions. My earliest recollection was of my grandma Becky frying chicken skins and onions in a cast iron pan in her Miami Beach kitchen. (They lived on 8th Street before it became known as Calle Ocho.) She would use that schmaltz in her chopped chicken liver, kasha varnishes, or just by itself, maybe with a slice of bread.

My mom was a pretty good cook, too, and all of these things became comfort food to me. Her latkes were heaven, but her matzah balls were a bit on the hard side. (My father, a golfer, used to joke that he could hit one 200 yards.)

One day a number of years ago, I discovered a guy named Warren Norstein who was selling smoked meats on the side of Route 22 in Pawling, New York, about 70 miles north of the city. Warren became interested in food by watching his mother cook in their Brooklyn apartment. He was a classically trained French chef who previously had worked at the finest French restaurants in New York City but wanted something different for himself. I became a regular customer because I used to pass his smoker on my way upstate.

After a few years, Warren, a large friendly guy, opened a real restaurant. It was called Big W’s Roadside Bar-B-Que Restaurant in Wingdale, NY. His menu expanded and he served side dishes, desserts, etc. Not only did he attract people like me who were traveling up or down state, but he developed quite a large following of “bikers.”

One day on our way upstate, we pulled in to Big W’s just as a group of bikers did. Since Warren did all of the food order taking and prep himself, we waited on line. The biker in front of us ordered a sandwich which Warren was constructing when I noticed him putting something very familiar looking on top before placing the top bun on it. When the customer took his sandwich and it was now my turn to order, I said to him, “You know, Warren, that looked a lot like gribenes to me.” Warren leaned his very large body over the counter and whispered, “Sssshhhh. Up here we call it cracklings!”

But all good things must come to an end and Warren closed Big W’s several years ago after nearly a 20 year run. He left a note on social media thanking all of his loyal customers for the great experience. He got to do what he loved, but it was simply time to stop. He may not be on Route 22 any more, but I can still sense the aroma of gribenes (pardon me, cracklings) when I drive by.