Finny ‘cause it’s true
IT’S been a field day for headline writers. “Free the gefilte fish” (CBS News); “Let my gefilte fish go”(Jerusalem Post) and “Clinton carps over Israeli tax dispute” (Australian Jewish News). The one I liked best, though, was from the Chicago Tribune: “Clinton, Barak discuss Iran, Hamas and Illinois gefilte fish”.
In just nine words, the Chicago paper captured the seriousness of the bilateral issue (Clinton, Barak); gave it its due regional and global significance (Iran, Hamas); but didn’t forget its local readership base (Illinois). After all, it was a home-state Illinois fish cannery that was pressing for its Asian carp to overcome a 120 per cent Israeli import tax in time for Pesach.
But the story resonates ¬≠— at least for Ashkenazi Jews — around the Jewish world, especially as Pesach approaches. And that’s because gefilte has been around for a while; it has established itself in the folk memory. It has form. Not surprisingly, therefore, it’s also featured in our literary and cultural history, most notably in Yiddish literature and song, but also unforgettably in Isaac Babel’s brilliant short story, You Must Know Everything.
Babel’s brief but poignant description of eating gefilte fish and horseradish in his grandmother’s room in pre-revolutionary Russia — food so good it was, Babel wrote, worth becoming a “convert to Judaism” — is on a par with Marcel Proust’s evocation of his childhood experience of the “petites madeleines” his mother fed him.
More recently, at least three short films entitled Gefilte Fish have made it on to the film festival circuit, and Sex, Drugs and Gefilte Fish, a collection of short stories, is available from Amazon. (I wouldn’t rush).
For myself, I admit, I’m less interested in reading “about” gefilte fish than I am in eating it. But dear reader: fear not. This won’t be another column about the great gefilte fish debate, “Sugar versus no sugar”, or the ancillary debate, “Room temperature in liquid versus cold with jelly” — but, of course, on the first issue, definitely no sugar.
I may be a traitor to my Polish roots, but on this the Russians knew better. As for the second issue, far be it from me to be definitive. But hey, unlike “sweet v not sweet”, this is a no-brainer. Enjoy both.
In the spirit of not debating what can’t be settled, I wouldn’t dare to offer the best recipe for the gefilte fish mix, since there are literally hundreds — but¬† you can’t go past the classic “a la Juive Russian style” on page 112 in The Book of Jewish Food — Claudia Roden’s marvellous guide.
Since I’m no chef, I wouldn’t dare recommend the best way to prepare the stock for poaching the gefilte fish either — but a few slices of fresh ginger and a teaspoon of vinegar add interest. Of course,¬† nothing has to be said about the chrain (horseradish) strength — except it definitely must be strong enough to “clear the tubes”.
And finally, I won’t bore you by pointing out that, for the generation who were fortunate enough to grow up in Melbourne in the 1940s and 1950s, the “real” gefilte fish aren’t the balls or pieces or logs that we’ve come to accept under the generic title, however delicious they might be.
For us, the sublime originals were the cutlets of poached “Murrehpatch” in their skin, wrapped around the chopped fish.
The “Murrehpatch” fish is still with us under its more familiar name of Murray Perch. But for the immigrant Jewish mothers of Carlton and Brunswick, who caught the tram down Lygon Street to the Victoria Market on a Friday morning, they knew their¬† fish of choice as “Murrehpatch”. Sometimes, in season, they also bought “Murrehkot” or Murray Cod.
Today, both Murray Perch and Murray Cod, deservedly, are regarded as gourmet fish. An ability to make great-tasting gefilte fish is a highly praised mark of talented cooks and caterers. And you can order gefilte fish at high-class French restaurants served¬† as “quenelles de brochet”.
Yet, especially on Pesach, it’s worth remembering that for the centuries of Jewish life in Eastern Europe that preceded the Shoah, gefilte fish for most of the wives and mothers and grandmothers who prepared it, was, almost literally, the haggadah’s “lachma anya” — “the¬† bread of poverty and¬† hardship”.
To honour the Shabbat, they chopped up very small amounts of fish, because they couldn’t afford large amounts, with lots of bread, onions and carrots.¬† Judged by its place in Jewish life today, they made it go a very long way.
Sam Lipski is the chief executive of The Pratt Foundation and a former editor-in-chief of The AJN.