The Brisket Wars

There’s an old story about how family recipes get handed down from generation to generation. When a newly-married woman asked her mother how to prepare the traditional beef brisket, her mother said, “Cut an inch off each end before you place it in the roasting pan.” This puzzled the daughter, so she added “Why do you have to cut off the ends?” Her mother replied, “That’s how my mother taught me. I always do it and the brisket always turns out delicious.” The daughter followed these instructions and, as promised, the brisket turned out perfectly. She continued this tradition for several years until one day, when she was talking on the phone to her grandmother, she decided to find out what it was about the pre-cut that helped flavor the meat so splendidly. “Grandma, why does cutting off the ends of the brisket help develop the flavor?” “What are you talking about?” “Mom said your recipe called for us to cut off an inch from each end of the brisket before we cook it. That’s what I’ve been doing and it always comes out great. What’s the secret?” “Secret? There’s no secret. My roasting pan was too short.” “What?” “My roasting pan. A large brisket wouldn’t fit in it, so I had to cut off the ends, you know, to make it fit.” Traditional recipes. Don’t you just love them? You would if you were Italian. I don’t mean any offense to anyone of Italian descent, especially my son-in-law and half my relatives. Far from it. I’ve never met a group that loves their mother’s cooking more, except for Indians, Mexicans, Argentinians…no, scratch the Argentinians. They’re mostly misplaced Italians. You get my point, though. Real food tastes the way mother’s cooking tastes, unless you’re my children. (I’ve been told my cooking is tasty but gray. Seriously. My daughter tells me Jewish food is all gray. She may be right.) Back to Italian food for a moment. I once spent a week working with a man from The Netherlands. One night we took him to dinner. What kind of food would he like? Japanese? Chinese? Korean? Thai? Mexican? No. He wanted Italian food. Why? He was born and raised in Calabria eating his mother’s food and that’s what tasted best wherever he happened to be in the world, including anywhere in Holland. Whatever we are serving, if the Italian half of the family is involved, it’s always safe to include lasagna. Easter, Passover, Summer Solstice, a baby shower, whatever the occasion, plan on putting lasagna on the table. If not lasagna, then a big bowl of spaghetti, and make sure the sauce is homemade like Mama’s. What does this have to do with brisket? Everything. It’s my contention that each culture has a particular dish that’s served in every household in the land. However, the recipes vary from home to home, and the one that tastes the best, the most delicious, the real deal, is the way your mother used to prepare it. If this rule doesn’t apply to you, I’m sorry. You have my condolences. I think I may know how you feel, as I was partially raised on canned meats. You know, Dinty Moore stew and patties made from canned mackerel. This may be why I thought grey food was still edible. The rest of my story is based on observation of other people, with maybe a little personal experience tossed in for flavor. Many years ago, after the Rabbi died and our makeshift band of Wandering Jews decided to continue gathering together for potluck meals during the High Holidays, I noticed that when it came time for two bachelors to coordinate dinner we ended up with Colonel Sanders Fried Chicken and nothing else. So I volunteered to be the dinner coordinator. The first thing I did was draft a list of items and start calling Temple members. “Here’s what we need. What would you like to bring?” I learned the hard way this is not the right approach for all people. Some needed to be told more specifically. “Carrots or potatoes? Choose one. Bring enough to feed twenty.” When it came time to selecting the meat course, we had two choices: chicken or brisket. Better yet, chicken AND brisket. What you need to know is that the cut of beef known as brisket is the crown jewel at the heart of a Jewish table, more precisely an Ashkenazi Jewish table. In other words, my table. Why? It’s “kashrut,” or falls within the dietary laws, and if you’re not braising it, you can turn it into corned beef or pastrami, all of which are G-d’s gift to mankind. Brisket is to Jewish sons and daughters what Mama’s marinara sauce and/or homemade pasta is to Italian offspring. Here’s another side note: Jewish brisket has nothing whatsoever to do with Texas brisket. They are entirely different animals. One is braised; the other is slow roasted. One is juicy, can be eaten with a fork, and the remnants need to be scooped up with a spoon. The other is prepared with any number of seasoned rubs and sauces and stands on its own sturdily enough to be sliced for sandwiches if there are any leftovers. Same steer; two different animals. Returning to the topic of Jewish, not Texan, brisket, as with every culture each household has its own version of how to properly prepare it and what it should taste like when it’s done. Further, the maestro is venerated for his or her results and harbors a not-so-secret pride of performance. “Ma, you outdid yourself this time!” “Papa, that’s the best brisket you’ve ever made!” “Grandma, could you please share your secret with us? Ours is never as good as yours!” Here’s the reality: brisket is a tough cut of meat that should be inexpensive, and probably used to be inexpensive, but now costs twice as much per pound as a tender T-Bone. All attempts to speed cook it turn out disastrously; it’s too tough. You’ve got to put it somewhere on a low heat and convince it to disintegrate. Then you can chew it. What I find so puzzling is that whichever technique you use, if it comes out edible, your approach becomes the best one. For example, a generation or so ago someone discovered that if you pour a packet of onion soup mix over the brisket and wrap it in aluminum foil, then let it sit in the oven at 350 degrees for an hour or more, you end up with a tasty dish. This invention took off like gangbusters because the former method required two days of labor in hot kitchens. Whole villages of people now prepare their “traditional” briskets with Lipton Onion Soup Mix. Hipsters prefer Knorr’s. The first time I coordinated a meal for our makeshift Temple crowd, the family who volunteered to bring brisket used this “tried and true” soup mix method. The results were fine, just fine. You see where I’m going with this? Just fine ain’t good enough, folks. There were at least three other chefs in the crowd who knew their briskets would be WAY better for the next potluck. As fate would have it, I happened to call one of those chefs for the next gathering, and he quickly said he would be bringing the brisket. I only wish I could magically transform these printed letters into the aroma and the taste of this fellow’s offering. It was Other Worldly. We’d never tasted anything so good. We asked him, “How did you make this? What’s your secret?” Three days. He started three days earlier. Marinate it. Braise it. Let it cool. Day two: into the oven for hours. Let it cool. Slice it. Day three: back into the oven to heat in its own juices, surrounded by petite potatoes. Paradise on a plate. Soon the next holiday rolled around and I was calling people again, but before I got to the meat course, someone else got to me. “I will bring the brisket this time,” she said. No “Could I?” or “Would it be all right if?” No. A statement of fact. “I will bring the brisket.” Why? Because she knew her brisket was better. Oh, she didn’t say as much. No. Wait. Maybe she did say as much. I can’t remember. All I know is she brought a bigger platter of meat and none of it was left at the end of the meal, not even enough to scrape up with a spoon. The only people who ate the chicken were those who couldn’t bear to see food go to waste. For the next two years, the minute word was out that we’d fixed a date for our potluck whoever reached me first by phone won the brisket ticket. The caller who was ten seconds too late was clearly annoyed. Hostilities could be sensed. Storm clouds began to gather. A different selection system was needed before full-scale war broke out. So I used the “your turn” method. “You brought the brisket last time, and we don’t want to burden you with such a big cost, so could you please bring a jello mold this time?” I think that worked out pretty well. The parties in question still refused to surrender the title of Best Brisket Ever, but they knew they only had to wait a few months and then they could reclaim their rightful place as Best Brisket Ever Cook. Meanwhile, we feasted on the contest. Eventually, I retired from the role of meal planner. I figured fifteen years was almost a generation of potluck parties. Someone else could negotiate a truce, and they did. The three-day-method man is now in charge of the menu. This coming holiday we’re going to try a vegetarian meatless dinner. I am not making this up. Yet before I end, there are two more brisket stories, the ones I said were of a more personal flavor. One was when I was too sick to eat or get out of bed. The flesh had fallen off my body and I had turned into a starving zombie. When the lady brisket maven got word about it, she quickly gave my daughter a container of her braised roast to whet my appetite. In so doing, she saved my life. Literally. Saved my life. I ate a spoonful. Suddenly my digestive system kicked into gear. I asked for a second spoonful. Four hours later, I was licking the remnants of three spoonfuls off my plate. By the time the container was empty, I was upright and searching the refrigerator for more. Linda’s brisket saved my life. The last story involves a dear friend who described the brisket he used to eat a lifetime ago every Friday night at his Jewish employer’s house. He said he’d never tasted anything like it since. What’s a buddy to do, if not try to satisfy such a longing? Of course I had to invite him over to sample my version. Was it the same as he remembered from fifty years back? Yes, absolutely. Would I share the recipe so he could make it whenever he wants? Certainly. Anything to avert another Brisket War. I use the two-day method. Special seasonings? No, just salt, pepper and garlic salt…the same as my mother used. Cover it with something: a lid, aluminum foil, anything airtight will do. Oven roast it at 325 for 2-3 hours. Let it cool. Slice it. Cover it again and place it in the fridge overnight to soak in its own juices. Plop it back into the oven on low for another hour or more on whatever day you want to serve it. Et Voila! There’s no magic formula. It’s simple. That’s my recipe. You’re welcome.