Bring Me a Bowl of the Good Stuff
On Comfort Food at PJ Bernstein
Now we’re on the cusp of winter. The oncoming chill, the oddity at the fluctuation between too much and not enough down (or puff, as I like to think of it).
What warms you? Thoughts, yes, of beloveds and other loved ones. Materials, the down, the quilts. Piles of scarves. Heating systems—bless their onslaught at shop entrances, their blasts rushing the room.
But, perhaps. there is nothing like broth. You get close with tea, surely, the natural flavors of the leaves of your choosing, sweetened with your sweetener of choice. But broth simmers for hours, developing flavor, pulling from vegetables and bones. And to get to clarity—a true consommé—is a feat.
I’m not skilled in the art of broth-making. But broth consumption? As if in my blood.
And while I dream of soups, ‘tis the true season of one of my favorites: the matzo ball.
What if I told you there could be a better matzo ball right under your nose? You’ll discover it when you go to PJ Bernstein, an Upper East Side delicatessen that even quotes that all orders begin with consommé or matzo ball soup—almost like a law.
Our meal began with their triple delight soup—matzo ball, chicken kreplach, noodles, and carrots. God, I love a warm carrot. The kreplach were tiny but burst with seasoned chicken. The matzo ball? Heaven—like cutting through a cloud (the cloud not dense, but sturdy enough to hold its shape). The noodles the exact size and texture you desire—slurpable. And the touch of dill, an herby lilt.
As if we need another law of a true delicatessen: You must get latkes. And these latkes are everything. Golden. Not dripping in oil. Perfectly salted. Crunchy in all the right bits (the edges and the shredded potato bits that poke out—the true sign of a fresh latke approach), yet soft interior. I’m not a sour cream or applesauce kind of girl, but I dabbled in the sauce—again, a sweetness.
And little did we know the bountiful feast of cured fish alongside us. Long strips of lox, gorgeous in color. Sturgeon, a rich white fish that has the bite of turkey or deli meat (odd to think of, I know) but delicate. And a whitefish salad, easily spreadable on the bagel chips we were provided, fresh and not overly dressed. The fish plate would be something I come back for immediately, to share with friends (and have an excuse to order more).
We know, we know: The stars of the delicatessen show are sandwiches, piled high with meats. Accompanied by slaws and pickles. I said, “Why not pile the sandwich immediately with slaw and meat?” The item already on the menu: The Real Curb Your Enthusiasm, with turkey, coleslaw, and Russian dressing between two slices of bread. There is nothing like a fresh sandwich, my father says. Turkey cut fresh and thin. Coleslaw providing crunch. The tang of Russian dressing. And the pickles—a new and a true classic—the accomplishment of a true experience as you snap and bite your way through.
And perhaps it should be said that a rule to live by is to judge delicatessens not by the content of their pickle jars or soups, but by their pastrami. My beloved always treats himself to a pastrami. Look at it, piled high, the bark and bits of marbling, layers of flavor. Accompanied, of course, by the new and classic pickles, a slide of slaw. Above, he tries it with some Russian dressing. Yes, enjoyable. Yes, he could have turned the sandwich into a Rachel (pastrami, coleslaw, and Russian dressing—which my sandwich also classifies under as you can sub turkey). But he loves a plain pastrami, letting the meat shine in its decadent glory.
We were far too full for dessert, but I wouldn’t mind a quick rugelach next time. And if you want the hot take (you have come this far, after all): I rank PJ Bernstein as my top choice New York deli. Yes, I said it! I will still accompany you on a stroll to Katz’s. I will still enjoy their wares. But let me take you to PJ Bernstein for a triple delight—I promise you will thank me three times over.
And Now, We Further the Plot: Your Literary Rec
What warms you, I asked in the beginning. I may have mentioned before that I enjoy poems that sound like they’re from a close friend. A type of intimacy, of knowing the voice even as it turns and surprises you.
I’ve been spending my cold months warmed by Aracelis Girmay’s Kingdom Animalia, a book that’s been on my periphery for years. I read the black maria a few years back, texted friends about it and have been teaching its ending poem in my classes ever since.
But in Kingdom Animalia is a poem that has haunted my periphery for years: “Elegy”. How curious to me that the poem, as presented in the link, keeps the question intact, a long line: “What to do with this knowledge that our living is not guaranteed?” In the book, the line is italicized, a voice off in the distance, asking and broken as such: “What to do with this knowledge / that our living is not guaranteed?” A wonderful linebreak, a complete thought complicated and extended by the next line. And, of course, the ending:
Listen to me. I am telling you
a true thing. This is the only kingdom.
The kingdom of touching;
the touches of the disappearing, things.
My goodness. How these lines have found me and startled me every time. “Listen to me,” a command from a friend when we will be told something true—the truth tender yet terrifying. When will I be able to hug my beloved next? To hold their hand? To tell them I love them?
The world is full of these thoughts right now. I hold my loves closer than ever. And this poem gives me hope to still hold out for them—to still love them, and pursue connection.