$21.95 paper
ISBN 0-8078-5623-1

Published: Spring 2005

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With Photographs and a New Introduction by the Author. Foreword by Willie Morris.

Copyright (c) 2005 by the University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.




Author Q&A | Book News | Family Album

Kosher Grits: The Key to Southern Jewish Oral History

Kosher Grits: The Key to Southern Jewish Oral History After The Provincials was published in 1973, I received a phone call asking me to enter a contest the Quaker Oats was running to promote a new line of quick grits. The caller explained that the idea of "Kosher Grits," the title of Chapter 17, had seemed charming to some advertising agency. Just for fun, I sent the company a recipe I had been introduced to during an oral history experience interviewing Morris Abram, the great lawyer from Atlanta and Fitzgerald, Georgia. I wound up with 3,000 pages of dialogue with one of the South's great conversationalists, whose secret formula for unlocking his subconscious was a daily bowl of "kosher grits."

You can imagine my astonishment when my entry was selected as a contest finalist. I suspected, when it came to grits, Morris's gimmick had caught the judge's eye and an Atlanta-originated idea must have fit the bill.

All the finalists were invited to an evening at Tavern on the Green to mill around with the judges for the competition—such Southern celebrities as Tommy Tune and Lynda Bird Johnson from Texas, Tom Wolfe from Virginia (before he wrote The Right Stuff and Bonfire of the Vanities), and Craig Claiborne from Mississippi (food critic for the New York TimesM). They would spend the evening sampling the huge selection of grits exotica and, as a finale, declare the winners. We cocky competitors wandered around with a gleam in our eyes because we all knew, blue ribbon or not, we would each be receiving the equivalent of an Academy Award in this field—a year's supply of grits. It was one of those crazy New York events, packed with every Southerner in town, dressed to the nines and sipping champagne to wash down the evening's unassuming fare as if it were caviar. Meanwhile, the dark-suited Quaker Oats officials jabbered into walkie-talkies and scurried around taking themselves and this competition very seriously indeed. The center of attention was the fabulous array of grits concoctions beautifully arranged on a long table featuring silver platters, white linen tablecloths, and candelabra. Bustling butlers served with elan, as if to disguise for the evening the humble origins of the regional delicacy we were celebrating.

It was a grits festival in the Big Apple with background melodies like "Autumn in New York" and "I'll Take Manhattan" played by a Julliard Quartet. Here and there and everywhere were grits puttin' on the ritz. Gourmet grits with brie and toasted almonds elegantly shared the long tables with trendy, health-conscious grits with asparagus and sprigs of watercress; there lay Mexican grits with black beans and guacamole; even dessert grits with all manner of fruits and flambées and sauces. And then, as a reminder of its versatility, there was a mound of unadorned plain lifeless grits, lying inert (as grits are wont to do), ready for the topping of your choice, when it would turn into a plain ingenue in a party dress. Grits amidst the glitz.

But, boy, was I proud to see "Eli's Kosher Grits" out there on the bedazzling groaning board, with a light bulb beside the china to dramatize the secret of the recipe. I watched with an air of nervous nonchalance as the distinguished judges tasted it and harrumphed among themselves. Finally, in a white tuxedo, Tommy Tune, the 6-foot, 10-inch tap dancer, rat-a-tat-tatted over to the table, and all eyes were riveted as he spooned my masterpiece all the way up to his mouth (no short trip), savored (without expression) a sizable spoonful, and declared as if he wore black robes: "Cute idea—but ordinary, really."

Oh well. It's still the closest I've ever been to becoming immortal, to getting to eat lunch with James Beard, or to trading recipes with Julia Child. So, y'all, here is the prize-eluding recipe 100 percent guaranteed to release hidden memories of childhood if consumed before an oral history interview:

Put Quaker Oats Instant Grits into boiling salted water and stir over low heat until firm. Then take an old light bulb, and push the large end into the grits to make an indentation. Break one or two eggs into the impression, then cover so the eggs poach gently in the steaming grits. Sprinkle with crisp crumpled-up bits of sautéed (or fried, as they say Down South) pastrami (that's the kosher part), or buttered rye-toast croutons. Add salt and pepper to taste. Remove from the heat and spoon into a bowl. Enjoy. A 10-inch skillet will accommodate six eggs. The light bulb detail adds character to the undertaking. (But, frankly, it won't get you into Gourmet magazine.) By the way, since everyone at the contest wanted to know, a 40-watt bulb does fine for one egg.

Atlanta Brisket

My mother, Sara, never really had the patience to cook. Besides, she had a business to run and, like all the Nachamson girls, she was a great manager. Brisket was a weekly occasion, a marvelous, succulent, gravy-laden triumph that took hours to marinate and simmer and baste. Lifting the lid of the Dutch oven to savor the aroma and taste a sliver was as heady as a first kiss. When I was a kid, Ethel Benjamin and Zola Hargrave and Roady Adams, our family cooks (about whom I wrote in Chapter 19), used to let me help. And as the official family taster, I got to crunch the crispy ends that had burned a little as the rest of it finished cooking. I once heard someone mysteriously refer to it as "Atlanta Brisket," but I never really knew why or what its secret was until I moved to New York and discovered its magical powers. Each time I would leave home in Durham to go back to the City, Mom would hand me a large, ice-cold package—an already sliced brisket, each portion wrapped in tinfoil with gravy frozen in. Back in my bachelor apartment, I could take it out of the freezer one serving at a time and "eat great" in what she viewed as the barren canyons of Manhattan. Like magic, I could produce Southern Jewish "home cookin'" in the Big Apple.

I even invited dates over to dinner for Atlanta Brisket. I'd just heat up a few slices, serve them with Birds Eye vegetables and candlelight, and the Northern girls would exclaim such compliments as, "It's to die for! Such a gourmet cook you are!"

One day, after consulting Zola and Roady, I decided to try cooking it myself from scratch. I bought fresh onions, plus onion-soup mix, bay leaves, and paprika. But before I browned the meat in oil (to retain the juices), they told me the "secret" ingredient. It was so Southern, really. Fundamentally and soul-deep Atlanta bubbled up from its epicenter. (I've been wondering whether it was Jennie's secret, too, passed on to all eight sisters). The secret was not fine wine, not Heineken's, not a special marinade handed down for generations from the old country. The secret was—dare I reveal it?—the exotic elixir was . . . Coca-Cola! Or, rather, marinating the meat overnight in the dark epicurean liquid, which has so much fizzy potency, breaks down the fibers and transforms this brisket into the tenderest, softest delicacy you ever put in your mouth. But whenever I leaned across the table to whisper the secret to a very impressed date in my candlelit dining nook, she would invariably look wide-eyed in astonishment . . . before howling with laughter. I got taunted unmercifully. But no matter. I tell you, this Coke-amamie delight is delicious.

So try it. Just soak three pounds of meat in Coca-Cola overnight. Remove it and let it drain. Brown it in oil, then put it in a Dutch oven with sliced onions and onion-soup mix and bay leaves in an inch or so of water. Cook about two hours on low, basting and checking it every so often, and adding boiling water when needed (cold water splatters). Slice and serve with the onion mixture as gravy. It's great cold or reheated. And you can eat it for a week in sandwiches.

Just one caveat: Don't reveal Sara's secret. Savoring this maverick culinary invention will make you feel at one with the lifeblood of Atlanta, the very essence of its body politic, the pulse beat of its universities and downtown spires and church steeples and cloverleafed interstates and white mansions dotting the rolling hills. As you savor Atlanta Brisket, you will also be absorbing the spiritual force of the dark, vivacious liquid in the female-shaped bottle that, way back when, built a city on the red clay of the Georgia Piedmont.