One Foot In The Gravy (24 page)

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Authors: Delia Rosen

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Chapter 30

I belonged.

For the first time since coming to Nashville I felt like it—the house, the deli, the city—was home.

That wasn’t the result of being part of the murder-solving, though that had its own rewards. It was forcing myself to know the people, to overcome doubt and hard-wiring and to let Gwen Katz through. I had mistakenly seen Nashville as the enemy; it wasn’t. It was my past life that held me prisoner.

Not anymore.

I slept soundly that night, partly from a draining of the adrenaline rush, partly from the painkillers they gave me at the hospital. I was able to drive myself to the deli, but I wasn’t much good there . . . except to delight and worry the staff.

“You tigress you,” Newt said when I told him what had happened.

Luke started singing the theme from TV’s
Wonder Woman
.

Thomasina just kept tsking and casting looks heavenward, alternating praying for God to watch over me and thanking Him for my deliverance.

Grant had called around ten to find out how I was, and tell me he was kind of crushed with paperwork and briefing Deputy Chief Whitman, but would stop by after lunch. He arrived a little after one with a look of concern for me that offset the spring in his step.

I was standing behind the counter,
shmoozing
with the customers who came by to ask about my wound; the newspaper had carried word of my adventure, which would also explain why we were unusually busy with diners and pointers.

Grant walked to the far end of the counter, to the swinging door. “How are you?” he asked.

“Sensationalism is good for business,” I said. “How are you?”

“Tired but getting things sewn up,” he said—immediately regretting his choice of words as he looked at the sling I was wearing. “I just got finished briefing Deputy Chief Whitman so he can finish his investigation.”

“How’s Mollie?” I asked. “Apart from the obvious.”

“Distraught, of course, and trying to figure out what to do next. They’ve got Poodle in a psych ward at Vanderbilt. Her involvement with Hoppy was obviously quite a shock to her mother, but she confided that it did help to explain a lot of her behavior.”

“What kind of charges do you think Poodle’s facing?”

“Too early to say. She’s probably looking at manslaughter on Hoppy but it’s Lizzie that may put her away for life—if not in jail, then in an institution. I don’t think anyone would argue that she was in her right mind after the party. Your testimony may be crucial there, since you’re the only one she really talked to.”

“Before she came to the house and tried to kill me, you mean.”

“Yeah.”

“I guess the real casualty is Gary,” Grant said. “Solly was pretty forthcoming this morning. He said that Anne Miller’s intention is to give all the money from the sale of the shop to Gary. Could net him two or three hundred thousand, maybe more.”

“That’ll be a good start.”

“As long as he doesn’t use it to self-publish,” Grant said.

“I was thinking. I know some book publishers in New York, some professionally, a few socially. I wonder if they’d be interested in a memoir about this whole affair. Could make Gary a lot of money if someone worked with him on it.”

“That’s awfully nice of you,” Grant said. “I got the feeling a little of the mist cleared from his mountaintop yesterday. Sounds like all of this was something he had to work through.”

“He definitely didn’t have things easy emotionally. It’s too bad his mother’s not going to try and come to the U.S. to run the chocolate shop,” I said. “That would be good for them both.”

“Maybe, but the BPOL still wants her. If she came here, I’d be obligated to report it. No way around that.”

“Even if you sort of didn’t ‘know’ she was here?”

“I couldn’t. Women should think about stuff like that before they start kidnapping, bombing, and having kids.”

The absurd juxtaposition sounded almost Yiddish. Maybe one day I’d be able to explain the concept to him.

Grant gave me a lingering look. “You did great,” he said. “You’re really something.”

“Thanks. You didn’t do so bad yourself.” I replayed that quickly in my head. Added, “
Aren’t
so bad yourself.”

“It’s gonna be like this, isn’t it?” he said. “A dance.”

“Pretty much, at least for now,” I said. “Can you handle it?”

“Watch me,” he grinned. “Oh, yeah.” He reached into his shirt pocket. “Remember I told you Clancy owed me a favor? The insurance guy?”

“I do.”

“It’s because I told him I could get the Tennessee Insurance Providers League a way better deal for food than those crooks that catered their last convention,” Grant said. He put a business card on the table. “Call him.”

I smiled. “Gee. Thanks!”

“My pleasure.” He turned to go.

“And by the way, they’re not crooks,” I said.

“How do you know? I didn’t tell you who they were.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “What they are is
gonefs
.”

“Gawnuffs,” he said. I didn’t correct him. “I’ll remember that.”

“Do that, and if you come around later I’ll teach you some more.”

“I’ll remember that too,” he said with a noncommittal wink that made me burn . . . but just a little.

What was it my grandmother used to say ? “A lung un leber oyf der noz.” Literally, don’t imagine there’s a lung and liver on your nose.

Sound advice. Don’t talk yourself into an illness.

I’d take it all as it came. Life, like the menu at Murray’s, would always be an evolving work-inprogress.

Note: When Murray the Pastrami Swami passed away, hundreds of delectable recipes passed away with him. However, his Uncle Moonish from Romania, who ran his own delicatessen on Manhattan’s Lower East Side (where he hung a sign that said, “Our tongue sandwiches are so delicious, they speak for themselves”) and taught Murray everything he knew, did in fact write down some of his recipes, which we, the authors, found among his other possessions (including a stringless ukulele and a signed photo of Alice Faye) that were stored in his daughter’s attic in Long Island.

We’ve updated the recipes where necessary but here they are, in Uncle Moonish’s own words.

Moonish’s Delancey Street Cole Slaw

Ingredients

3 cups green cabbage, nicely shredded

cup mayonnaise
1 tablespoon white wine vinegar
2 teaspoons granulated white sugar
(skip the sugar if you got the diabetes, it’s OK.)
½ teaspoon kosher salt (regular salt if you don’t
have access to kosher salt. I know it’s hard to
find kosher salt at gentile stores.)
½ teaspoon celery seed
2 tablespoons prepared horseradish (Gold’s
Horseradish is best, but get the white one, not
the red one, because the red one has beets in it.)

Directions

Put the shredded cabbage in a big bowl. What, do I have to do everything?

In a smaller bowl you should blend mayonnaise, white wine vinegar, sugar, kosher salt, celery seed and your horseradish until it’s nice and smooth. Pour the whole thing over your shredded cabbage. Mix it nice and you’ll put a smile on your face with my coleslaw. Hey, Lucky Luciano, the racketeer, loved my coleslaw. And if it was good enough for Lucky Luciano, who are you to complain? The man killed people for a living. Come to think of it, as a deli owner, so did I.

Serves six.

Deli-Style Kosher Dill Pickles

Per gallon jar:
8-10 cucumbers Kirby cukes are best
1 large handful fresh dill with flower heads (or
add ¼ teaspoon dill seed if flower heads are missing)
4-6 large cloves of garlic, and make them flat.
Water (what, you were maybe expecting beer?)
½-cup kosher salt or pickling salt
4 teaspoons pickling spice
1-2 large bay leaves

You’re probably wondering why there’s no vinegar in this recipe. For one, did I say to use vinegar? I did not, so don’t. Second, these kinds of pickles get their pickleness from fermenting them, like back in the old country. Who had money for vinegar?

Pack each gallon jar with cucumbers, sprinkling salt between each layer.

Add pickling spice, salt, dill, garlic, and bay leaves.

Fill jar with water but leave two inches of room for brine to form.

Make sure the cucumbers are all under the water. Then cover.

After two or three days, skim off the scummy mishagoss on top. If there isn’t any, not to worry.

Let them ferment for three more days (and nights) and check for doneness by cutting off a slice of one cucumber. (Try not to slice a finger in the process.)

Once they are fermented to the right stage—they should still be green—transfer the little bubalehs to a glass jar and put them in the refrigerator.

If you like them more sour, leave them out for a couple of days uncapped, and they’ll ferment even more. But not too long—you don’t want they should get soggy. A good pickle should squirt your husband or wife from across the table. And mushy pickles don’t squirt.

Romanian Potato Salad

First, steal 5-6 pounds of potatoes
1 medium yellow onion, finely chopped
3½ cups of water
¾ cup white vinegar
1¼ cps sugar (A little less sugar
if you got the diabetes. In fact, if you do,
don’t use any sugar.)
¼ cup salt (A little more salt
if you like it saltier, a little less
if you’re watching your blood pressure.)
2 cups mayonnaise

Boil potatoes with skins on until they’re soft. Do not overcook,
shmendrick
. Poke frequently with a knife because a spoon makes a mess. When fully cooked, place in cold water for about an hour. Peel potatoes and refrigerate for one hour. Cut potatoes into cubes (not too small, not too large. Somewhere in between is nice) and place in large bowl, sprinkle with chopped onion. Set aside.

To prepare brine, in a saucepan, mix together:
3½ cups water
¾ cup white vinegar
1¼ cups sugar (see above)
¼ cup salt

Bring this mixture just to the boil, and immediately pour over the potato/onion mixture in bowl. Let the whole shmear soak for an hour.

Drain brine from potato/onion mixture (large strainer is best for this).

Carefully stir in:
2 cups of mayonnaise

Chill overnight. Or, if you’re hungry, don’t chill overnight. We won’t tell.

Serves six, unless fat cousin Irving drops in unannounced, in which case it’ll serve three.

KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018

Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

ISBN: 978-0-7582-7415-1