In yet another *glassShallot food flash...
I have decided to spearhead (no pun intended) the grandest virtual gefilte fishing expedition ever attempted.
Back in the '80s, my grandmother Lillian ground up by hand the tastiest gefilte blend this side of Warsaw. She found her willing gilled friends at some of Brighton Beach's finest mongering establishments, but failed to detail exactly what ingredients she used. Grouper? Whitefish? Sturgeon? And the spices? Anything's possible. We were all too busy stuffing our faces with that delectable grout-hued gold, swimming in gelatinous juice, with a pale orange slice of carrot on top, to ask questions. The result? Neither I nor Beeferman, I presume, has had a piece of store-bought gefilte since. It's not that it's just not the same. It's that it's something entirely different. And putrid.
Which is why I implore you, dear reader, to please help me on my hunt for that elusive gefilte clearly still thriving on certain Jewish New Year tables at the celebratory beginning of Autumn. Do you have a Jewish grandmother still living in Brooklyn? (Or L.A.'s Fairfax district, Phoenix, or any other hidden gefilte haunt?) Does the half-Jewish guy that your third-cousin divorced still have one? I have access to all the foodie mags, Web sites, and television cooking networks an amateur chef could want. What I need is someone with some old-school experience. Someone who has done real -- pardon the expression, Mom -- ghetto-testing -- or watched someone who has. Share with the world your best gefilte recipe, and worry not about killing family secrets. You have one month, as the High Holidays are upon us, and I refuse to look hatefully at one more jar of that ripe, rubbery mess known as canned gefilte come celebration time. All entries will be tested and detailed online with photo and video of the tasting process before a final winner is announced on October 3. The grand prize? A whole year free of guilt. (And your story published.) You know you want it. Now get grindin' and enter.