We Were What We Ate

I was in Denver from October 30 to November 1 visiting my brother. He moved there nearly 20 years ago and we don't see each other very often. We grew up in New York and our mother, who is still living in New York City, is considering leaving the apartment we grew up in and moving to Denver to be closer to my brother and his kids. Most of the family is gone from New York- to Florida or to the graveyard- as they commonly say in the city. So one of our cousins got Mom on a plane and we all met up in Denver.

When we get together, whether it's the four of us on this trip or what's left of the twenty-plus aunts, uncles and cousins we used to be, the social agenda centers on food. The words, "Whaddya' wanna eat?" are frequently uttered and debated. Needless to say, none of us could be considered svelte.


To us, food is memory. We believe food is a connection to the past, our culture, our very essence. This is especially pertinent to local foods, foods unique to our city or neighborhoods and ethnicities. I'm confident that there is nothing more annoying to a non-New Yorker than the New York transplant constantly lamenting the unavailability of a decent slice of pizza in their new city. But I believe the anguish is real to us.


And so as we sat at the local pizzeria in Denver my first night in town we talked of the pizza of our past, from the sharpness of the cheese to the oiliness of the pepperoni to the fennel and spice of the sausage. And we reminisced about the old neighborhood pizza shop owners-Peppy and Joe from around the corner and Big Sal and Little Sal from the one in the shopping center-and how we grew up with their kids, and how Mom would give us $1.00 for lunch and how that would buy two slices, a drink and still left enough money to go to the candy store and buy a pack of baseball cards. We remembered how they always knew to make my father's pizzas well done and how they personally delivered pizzas to our house when Dad passed because food is what you brought on those sad occasions and food, family and friends is what got you through.


The next day my brother suggested we go to a place ironically called the New York Deli and since none of us could pass up an opportunity for a good pastrami or Hebrew National hot dog we jumped at the chance. He made his disclaimer "It ain't Fassberg's. You can't get a square knish, the turkey's not cut off the bird and the corned beef and brisket are...eh." They did have pickles on the tables but not the hot cherry peppers that dad and his brothers used to pop like pretzel nuggets and act as if they weren't hot to lure us kids into indulging even though their faces glowed red and sweat beaded on their brows.

We talked of the hot dogs, or franks as we called them, sizzling on the grill right under the front window of our local deli, beckoning us through the window. We remembered how mad Dad got when they raised the price from 75 cents to $1.00. "At Nathan's in Coney Island you got a hot dog and a soda for 10 cents!" he would rail. He would turn in his grave if he heard that we paid $5.95 for a hot dog and that they used a MICROWAVE!


After leaving the deli my brother and I dropped off the rest of the family and went to the local sports bar. This bar had something called a torpedo. It's an 88-ounce "pitcher" with a place for ice on top and its own tap. We ordered one filled with Budweiser and sat at the bar.


The stories, good and bad, flowed from our mouths as freely as the beer from the tap, and so did the laughter and the tears. "If Mom leaves New York, well, that's the last tie. There will be no one left. " Visiting Mom was always a solid legitimate reason for us to go back regularly and get our food fix from the handful of places that remain from our past. But, with the help of the beer, I dared to tell my brother that I had written a blog on Wellness.com about my struggles to eat healthier and that as fun as this trip was I really was committed to get in better shape and change my philosophy on food. Maybe Mom severing the ties to New York is a blessing in disguise. "The memories are the memories, right? They're not going anywhere." He was supportive. He told me that he feels confident that this time his attempt to quit smoking would be successful and that he hasn't been going to the bar so much and that he has been riding the bike at the gym pretty regularly. So maybe he is on the same page, we'll see. He's got a 4-year old daughter that is precious to him.


We left, stopped at the 7-11 to pick up some antacid, and called it a night.

The next morning my brother, mother and cousin picked me up from my hotel (his house had enough people staying there already). I took my complimentary USA Today newspaper with me and we headed for the airport. Mom was struggling with the thin Denver air and I still wonder if she is going to make the move for sure. But the neighborhood we grew up in no longer exists as we knew it and she needs a change and intends to do something about it. She's stubborn enough to do what she says she's going to do. I can learn a lot from my mother.

We said our goodbyes and I got on my plane and pulled out my November 1st issue of USA Today. There was a very interesting article on the front page that made me laugh and shake my head and come to grips with saying goodbye to much more than just the old neighborhood.