GOLDSTEIN'S (BLOOMFIELD STREET)
HORS-D'ŒUVRE.
Smoked Salmon. Solomon Gundy.
Olives.
SOUPS.
Frimsell. Matsoklese.
Pease and beans.
FISH.
Brown stewed carp. White stewed gurnet.
Fried soles. Fried plaice.
ENTRÉES.
Roast veal (white stew).
Filleted steak (brown stew).
POULTRY.
Roast capon. Roast chicken.
Smoked beef. Tongue.
VEGETABLES.
Spinach. Sauerkraut.
Potatoes. Cucumbers.
Green salad.
SWEETS.
Kugel. Stewed prunes.
Almond pudding.
Apple staffen.
When I looked at the above I groaned aloud. Was it possible, I thought,
that any human being could eat a meal of such a length and yet live? I
looked at my two companions, but they showed no signs of terror, so I
took up knife and fork and bade the waiter do his duty.
The _raison d'être_ of the dinner was this: Thinking of untried
culinary experiences, I told one of the great lights of the Jewish
community that I should like some day to eat a "kosher" dinner at a
typical restaurant, and he said that the matter was easily enough
arranged; and by telegram informed me one day last week that dinner
was ordered for that evening at Goldstein's restaurant in Bloomfield
Street, London Wall, and that I was to call for him in the City at six.
When I and a gallant soul, who had sworn to accompany me through thick
and thin, arrived at the office of the orderer of the dinner, we found
a note of apology from him. The dinner would be ready for us, and his
best friend would do the honours as master of the ceremonies, but he
himself was seedy and had gone home.
On, in the pouring rain, we three devoted soldiers of the fork went, in
a four-wheeler cab, to our fate.
The cab pulled up at a narrow doorway, and we were at Goldstein's.
Through a short passage we went towards a little staircase, and our
master of the ceremonies pointed out on the post of a door that
led into the public room of the restaurant a triangular piece of
zinc, a Mazuza, the little case in which is placed a copy of the Ten
Commandments. Upstairs we climbed into a small room with no distinctive
features about it. A table was laid for six. There were roses in a tall
glass vase in the middle of the table, and a buttonhole bouquet in
each napkin. A piano, chairs covered with black leather, low cupboards
with painted tea-trays and well-worn books on the top of them, an
old-fashioned bell-rope, a mantelpiece with painted glass vases on it
and a little clock, framed prints on the walls, two gas globes--these
were the fittings of an everyday kind of apartment.
We took our places, and the waiter, in dress clothes, after a surprised
inquiry as to whether we were the only guests at the feast, put the
menu before us. It was then that, encouraged by the bold front shown by
my two comrades, I, after a moment of tremor, told the waiter to do his
duty.
I had asked to have everything explained to me, and before the
_hors-d'œuvre_ were brought in the master of the ceremonies, taking a
book from the top of one of the dwarf cupboards, showed me the Grace
before meat, a solemn little prayer which is really beautiful in its
simplicity. With the Grace comes the ceremony of the host breaking
bread, dipping the broken pieces in salt, and handing them round to his
guests, who sit with covered heads.
Of the _hors-d'œuvre_, Solomon Gundy, which had a strange sound to me,
was a form of pickled herring, excellently appetising.
Before the soup was brought up, the master of the ceremonies explained
that the Frimsell was made from stock, and a paste of eggs and flour
rolled into tiny threads like vermicelli, while the Matsoklese had in
it balls of unleavened flour. When the soup was brought the two were
combined, and the tiny threads and the balls of dough both swam in a
liquid which had somewhat the taste of vermicelli soup. The master of
the ceremonies told me I must taste the pease and beans soup which
followed, as it is a very old-fashioned Jewish dish. It is very like a
rich pease-soup, and is cooked in carefully-skimmed fat. In the great
earthenware jar which holds the soup is cooked the "kugel," a kind of
pease-pudding, which was to appear much later at the feast.
Goldstein's is the restaurant patronised by the "froom," the strictest
observers of religious observances, of the Jewish community, and we
should by right only have drunk unfermented Muscat wine with our
repast, but some capital hock took its place, and when the master
of the ceremonies and the faithful soul touched glasses, one said
"Lekhaim," and the other answered the greeting with "Tavim." Then,
before the fish was put on the table, the master of the ceremonies told
me of the elaborate care that was taken in the selection of animals
to be killed, of the inspection of the butcher's knives, of the tests
applied to the dead animals to see that the flesh is good, of the
soaking and salting of the meat, and the drawing-out of the veins from
it. The many restrictions, originally imposed during the wandering in
the desert, which make shellfish, and wild game, and scaleless fish
unlawful food--these and many other interesting items of information
were imparted to me.
The white-stewed gurnet, with chopped parsley and a sauce of egg and
lemon-juice, tempered by onion flavouring, was excellent. In the brown
sauce served with the carp were such curious ingredients as treacle,
gingerbread and onions, but the result, a strong rich sauce, is very
pleasant to the taste. The great cold fried soles standing on their
heads and touching tails, and the two big sections of plaice flanking
them, I knew must be good; but I explained to the master of the
ceremonies that I had already nearly eaten a full-sized man's dinner,
and that I must be left a little appetite to cope with what was to come.
Very tender veal, with a sauce of egg and lemon, which had a thin sharp
taste, and a steak, tender also, stewed with walnuts, an excellent dish
to make a dinner of, were the next items on the menu, and I tasted
each; but I protested against the capon and the chicken as being an
overplus of good things, and the master of the ceremonies--who I think
had a latent fear that I might burst before the feast came to an
end--told the waiter not to bring them up.
The smoked beef was a delicious firm brisket, and the tongue, salted,
was also exceptionally good. I felt that the last feeble rag of an
appetite had gone, but the cucumber, a noble Dutch fellow, pickled
in salt and water in Holland, came to my aid, and a slice of this,
better than any _sorbet_ that I know of, gave me the necessary power to
attempt, in a last despairing effort, the kugel and apple staffen and
almond pudding.
The staffen is a rich mixture of many fruits and candies with a thin
crust. The kugel is a pease-pudding cooked, as I have written above,
in the pease and beans soup. The almond pudding is one of those moist
delicacies that I thought only the French had the secret of making.
Coffee--no milk, even if we had wanted it, for milk and butter are not
allowed on the same table as flesh--and a liqueur of brandy, and then,
going downstairs, we looked into the two simple rooms, running into
each other, which form the public restaurant, rooms empty at 9 P.M.,
but crowded at the mid-day meal.
Mr. Goldstein, who was there, told us that his patrons had become
so numerous that he would soon have to move to larger premises, and
certainly the cooking at the restaurant is excellent, and I do not
wonder at its obtaining much patronage.
What this Gargantuan repast cost I do not know, for the designer of the
feast said that the bill was to be sent to him.
I think that a "kosher" dinner, if this is a fair specimen, is a
succession of admirably cooked dishes. But an ordinary man should be
allowed a week in which to eat it.
13_th December_.