The Kitchen - a reminiscence

The Kitchen

by Maureen Gamble

When I was in grade school, I always looked forward to overnight visits with my best friend Gloria. Three generations of Goldbergs lived in a small, midtown apartment, where the dining room had been converted into a bedroom for Grandma Goldberg. This made the kitchen the hub of activity for the household. It was the eating room, the reading room, the homework room, the conversation room--in short--the family room. I loved that room. It was always filled with laughter, the buzz of conversations in several languages, warm smells of delicious, traditional dishes from the "old country" (many of which I could not even pronounce) and love--plain, bare-faced, undisguised love--of each other, the food and the lives they shared. On those occasional weekend visits, I became part of that family and was welcomed into the "group hug" of that wonderful kitchen. I don't think Gloria ever knew that I envied her for that kitchen. You see, I didn't have one.

Well, to be absolutely accurate, we did have a kitchen, but not in our apartment. We lived upstairs over the family business, the Jackpot Grill. Our kitchen was like another planet compared to Gloria's. It was much larger, but had so much less room for people, activities, conversation or love. This kitchen was all business, from its 450-degree deep-fat fryer to the giant, double-door refrigerator. This was a serious kitchen that not only fed us, but clothed us and kept us as well. It was more like a food factory, where a never-ending supply of raw materials was hauled in the back door, converted into the daily specials, sent into the restaurant on the conveyor line of the steam table or grill and dished out on the front counter to waiting, appreciative customers. Like any good factory, it was arranged and tooled for the specific tasks of food assembly.

The primary manufacturing center was the tall, imposing butcher's table that covered one entire wall. It easily held the sides of beef and pork that my father whittled into individual servings. It bore deep scars from many years of honorable service to the family. On one long side was a slot, into which went the instruments of battle on this playing field, knives--lots and lots of knives. There were short knives, long knives, fat knives, slender knives, serrated knives, curved knives, saw-toothed knives and, of course, the ominous meat cleaver. Perhaps the cleaver was not so ominous in itself, but it was the instrument Daddy usually grabbed when sounds of a developing altercation required him to play proprietor and peace maker in the restaurant. Sometimes when a customer became abusive and had to be asked to leave, Daddy would appear at the kitchen doorway with one of the longer knives and the equally long sharpening steel. He would sharpen the knife continuously while explaining to the unpleasant customer that it was time to leave so others could enjoy their meals. The knife would flash on the steel so rapidly that it became a blur, a presence that could be felt rather than seen. Most offenders didn't have to be asked to leave more than once.

On the wall next to the table loomed the refrigerator. It was large enough to stand in, but there was never enough room. Its gaping maw regularly swallowed and disgorged every possible manner of fresh foodstuff. The white enamel interior was lined with crates of eggs, cauldrons of soup, whole roasts, mounds of individually-pressed hamburger patties, cartons of produce, vats of salad and waxed-papered stacks of fresh meats, casualties of battle on the tall table. It is a tribute to the manufacturer that the hinges did not fall off. During rush hours, it opened and closed with the frequency of wind-up, clicking teeth, making its own little snapping sound each time the latch caught. Unlike most family refrigerators, there were no unrecognizable, moldy leftovers. Any by-products of the day's manufacturing efforts were labeled and later recycled into soups, salads, snacks or stews. Nothing was wasted. Yesterday's bones from meat carving were tomorrow's soup base. The refrigerator was like a warehouse that held the spare parts, sub-assemblies and finished products of the kitchen.

On the other wall, next to the deep-fat fryer, stood a small stove with two ovens. Every day, long before the restaurant opened, the ovens were busy slow-cooking a beef roast, pork roast and turkey breast. These were the basis for the ever-present hot beef, hot pork or hot turkey sandwiches, staples of any family restaurant. About every three days, a ham was thrown in for good measure. Although we were in a predominantly Jewish business district, many of the shop employees, delivery drivers, clerks and other workers in the area did not observe a ban on pork or adhere to strict kosher practices. Our kitchen was "semi-kosher", in that we respected the general cleanliness and non-contamination aspects of preparation. It was not only a deference to our clientele, but good hygiene.

The four burners of the stove were always covered with pots of simmering, stewing, boiling or frying foods. The admixture of odors was exotic. It could be, at once, pungent, sweet, sharp, mellow, sour and spicy. No pretentious, delicate aroma could survive this onslaught of herbs, condiments and spices. This was real food, with real flavors, for real working people. If you weren't hungry when you walked in the door, you were by the time the smell of those bubbling pots cast their spell.

In the corner, between the refrigerator and stove, a floor-to-ceiling rack was decorated like a surrealistic Christmas tree with every manner of utensil one could ever use in the kitchen. For example, how do you like your potatoes? Whether you wanted them deep fried (thick cut, thin cut, crinkle-cut, julienne or curly), pan fried (thin sliced, thick sliced, minced with onions or cubed for home fries), grilled (shredded for hash browns or sliced), mashed thick, whipped smooth, chunked into potato salad or even riced for special dishes, there were specific utensils for preparing them--and at least three for peeling them. Just stirring was an art form that required special tools. Some foods needed a wooden spoon, some a slotted spoon, some a whisk and still others a multi-pronged fork. Then there were the serving instruments--ladles, tongs, hinged salad tools, spatulas, pasta forks--an endless list of them. On this overwhelming wall of stainless steel implements, there was "a place for everything and everything in its place." I was reminded of that whenever I helped out with the dishes and had to hang each utensil on its proper hook, so that it could be grabbed with scarcely a glance when needed.

When Gloria came for overnight visits with me, it was this rack of strange and unique items that most fascinated her. She would stare at it and ask the purpose of one or another of the oddly-shaped instruments. I have often wondered if, while marveling over each of the specialized tools in that cluttered corner, she, in turn, envied me.