Call Him Bubbe

At age 91, my father, the Jewish Mother, is still the king of his kitchen. But in a recent burst of patrimonial planning, he announced that it was time for me to write down in recipe form the most labor-intensive delicacy for which he is justifiably famous on three continents: homemade gefilte fish.

Thus it was on a recent Saturday that I drove him to Washington’s riverfront seafood market, where he bought a gorgeous 8-pound coral-colored carp (a member in good standing of the goldfish family), which we took to the cleaning shed to have scaled, decapitated, cleaned and filleted (bones and head to be taken home along with the succulent meat).

The next three hours were a magical combination of cooking class, language lesson and oral history. He explained each step, pointing out that his method was less complicated (but only comparatively) than his mother’s, perfected nearly a century ago.

His mother, Chana Leah Grosfater, like thousands of other turn-of-the-century homemakers in Warsaw’s Jewish quarter, did all her chores without electricity or refrigeration (if you don’t count windowsills in wintertime).

For this particular dish, prepared every Friday for the Sabbath for her husband and eight children (my father, Aron, was the seventh), she cut her carp into steaks, removed the flesh from the bones while leaving the skin and spine of each steak intact, ground and seasoned the fish and stuffed each steak portion back inside its skin, then poached each little bundle in a rich fish stock. Hence the name “gefilte”--the Yiddish version of the German word gefullte, filled.

My father, like most Americans, skips the stuffing step and simply shapes the fish mixture into patties, gently simmering them for two hours. But even this abbreviated method takes an entire morning, involving as it does an ancient steel meat-grinder and battered pots, bowls and utensils that seem only slightly removed from the Jewish community of Eastern Europe.

Having donned an apron and surgical gloves, he split the fish head, removed the eyes, cleaned the gunk from the bones and put the good stuff into a pot of water to which he added sugar, salt and pepper.

“In the old country, my mother kept the head whole and cut it off below the gills so there would be room to fill it. The head was considered a treat, and it was always given to my father,” he recalled.

While the stock simmered, he prepared his work space, a black-and-white enamel-topped table. He screwed the meat grinder to the table and proceeded to his next ritual step--the newspaper and bowl set on the floor to catch drippings. Then he began cranking, alternately feeding in an onion wedge and a fish chunk, tiny bones and all. The process seemed interminable.

What about my Cuisinart? I asked.

“I wouldn’t know how it would work,” he said. But this man, who became quite the cha-cha and jitterbug king when well into his 70s, didn’t rule out future high-tech experimenting. And, after a while, I had to admit there was a soothing quality to the continual grinding.

When the timer rang, he strained the broth, removed the bits of fish from the soon-discarded head and bones and added the cooked fish to the raw onions, raw fish and the liquid from the dish on the floor. In the interests of precision and posterity, I measured it all: six cups. He added eggs, matzo meal, salt, pepper and sugar and mixed it all together.

I offered to help, because it seemed like awfully hard work, but he demurred.

“My shoulders don’t move too well anymore, and I can’t reach up. I asked the physical therapist at the Hebrew Home [where once a week he helps out with the “old people”] about it, and she said it’s good exercise.”

Fifteen minutes later, out came another tool: a three-ounce 50-year-old wine glass from the set that predated the “good” crystal. This was the scoop used to form uniform patties, which he then placed gently in a big pot, layering them carefully. With each layer, he dribbled stock down the side of the pot so as not to break the uncooked patties.

When all 18 were in place, he covered them with onions, carrots and parsnip, placed a baking sheet atop the pot (it never did have its own lid) and set the timer for two hours.

As we cleaned up, we talked about his childhood in an Orthodox Jewish family whose life centered on the large kitchen and dining room; of festive meals shared with dozens of cousins, aunts and uncles.

“Every Friday night there would be gefilte fish, chicken soup with matzo balls or noodles, a chicken or a roast, a tzimmes [carrot, sweet potato and fruit casserole, with a name that means “fuss’ in Yiddish]. And there would be another big meal Saturday night after synagogue.”

“Did your mother use recipes?” I asked.

He laughed heartily. “No, no. You put in a little of this and a little of that. Maybe the rich people or the intelligentsia had them. But not in a Jewish home. They got passed down by word of mouth.”

Just like his stories, which I have heard hundreds of time but which grow more poignant to me with each telling, about how he had to leave school in the third grade to find work after his father died; about working for a shoemaker 12 or 14 hours a day, going home for dinner and a nap and going out again at night as a young boulevardier; and of his decision to take his new bride to Paris in 1931 to sample the Bohemian life (they sewed piecework by day and went to the opera or theater at night with other impecunious friends).

But in 1937, the Nazi march across Europe forced them to flee to Washington, home of my mother’s brother. By war’s end, nearly everyone in both their families had been annihilated. My father believed that only one of his sisters was left, in Poland.

In 1958 my mother, who was 51, died, leaving 53-year-old Aron the father of two devastated, obnoxious teenagers. None of us knew how to cook, but long before Hollywood dreamed up “Mr. Mom,” Aron started becoming our father, the Jewish Mother.

Two years later, there was joyous news: Aron’s brother Moishe--missing since the war--was alive in Russia. Moishe settled in Paris, where Aron and his sister Bronka, who came from Warsaw, had their first reunion since my father left home in the ‘30s.

There were other visits after Moishe and Bronka moved to Israel. On Aron’s second trip to Tel Aviv, she served gefilte fish just like their mother used to make.

Aron asked for the recipe. Bronka probably laughed. Of course she didn’t have one! And so together, in yet another kitchen of the Diaspora, Bronka and Aron reconstructed my grandmother Chana’s formula for gefilte fish.

And now he has given it to me.

ARON GROER’S ANCESTRAL, EXTREMELY LOW-TECH, TRULY FAB GEFILTE FISH

1 (8-pound) carp, scaled, gutted and filleted, head and bones reserved

Salt

Sugar

Black pepper

Water

6 or 7 onions (about 1 3/4 pounds), quartered, plus 3 onions (about 3/4 pound), peeled and sliced

3 eggs, separated

1 cup matzo meal

1 pound carrots, cut into rounds or diagonals

1 large parsnip, cut into rounds

Parsley sprigs and red horseradish for garnish (optional)

Simmer carp head and bones, 1 tablespoon salt, 2 tablespoons sugar and 1 teaspoon pepper with 8 1/2 cups water in large stockpot for 30 minutes. Strain stock, picking off and saving any meat remaining on fish bones.

Cut fish fillets into 3-inch strips (fillets may have bones in them, which you grind along with flesh). Using meat grinder, grind raw fish strips, reserved cooked fish and quartered onions, alternating additions of fish and onions. Check to make sure all bones have been ground, removing any detectable pieces. Set aside.

Whip egg whites until frothy, add yolks and beat little longer. Add beaten eggs to fish mixture and blend. Add matzo meal, 1 tablespoon salt, 2 teaspoons sugar and 1 teaspoon pepper. Mix until very well blended, about 10 to 15 minutes. Set aside.

Put 1 cup reserved stock in bottom of very large pot and warm over low heat. Form patties (round or elongated, depending on personal preference) from fish mixture and gently place 1 layer of patties in pot, taking care not to crowd. Add second cup of stock by slowly dribbling down inside of pot to avoid damaging patties. Make second layer of patties, spacing between those below. Carefully add another cup of stock, repeating process until all patties and stock are used.

Cover top layer with sliced onions, carrots and parsnip. Cover pot and cook on medium-low heat 2 hours.

When done, carefully remove cooked vegetables and set aside in bowl. Remove patties 1 at a time with slotted spoon, placing patties in container to chill until serving. If patties stick together, separate gently. Strain stock and gently pour over vegetables. Chill until ready to serve.

To serve, place 1 piece of fish on small plate, garnish with carrot slice, parsley sprig and red horseradish on side. Spoon on additional jellied stock containing cooked vegetables, if desired.

Makes 18 patties.

Each patty contains about:

225 calories; 430 mg sodium; 119 mg cholesterol; 8 grams fat; 12 grams carbohydrates; 25 grams protein.