New York, city of aggressive, grinding, unyielding self-promotion and hype, does on rare (okay, not so rare) occasions reveal a side of itself that really is the most outstanding, most exceptional, most ingenious, best example of whatever it is that’s going on. In that regard, I give you Russ and Daughters, a fish store with the daring motto: “Appetizing Since 1914.” I can’t do better than their own sell line so: “Puveyors of the highest quality smoked fish, caviar, and speciality foods, Russ and daughters is New York’s premier appetizing shop. Since 1914 the New York institution has been run by four generations of the Russ family. The tastes, traditions, and old world class of this landmark shop are a true landmark experience.” R&D resides on Houston Street in the East Village, and along with Katz’s Delicatessen (smoked meat) and Schimmel’s bakery (knishes), comprises what’s been described to me by Ray Michalek, a retired NYU professor of mathematics and aficionado of all things Jewish in New York, as “the holy trinity” (smirk, giggle) of old New York food. Michalek and his fellow mathematician Helmut Hofer (formerly at NYU, recently installed on faculty at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton) have for the last couple of years acted as my sherpas, helping me scale the heights of fishdom. Specifically, they’ve been my hosts two years running at the Russ and Daughters “herring pairing”. This annual event is to herring as Wimbledon is to tennis. Held this year on a warm Tuesday evening, June 28, at the Astor Center in the heart of Greenwich Village, it’s part food tasting, part rock concert and part schmooze-a-thon. From six to nine, the great and the good chow down on fresh herring from various corners of the ocean –Icelandic (schmaltz), Swedish (Matjes) and French (oak smoked) – paired with selections of exotic booze (Spanish vermouth, Swedish potato vodka, blended scotch whiskeys extra aged in American oak casks). But the piece de resistance, the crme de la crme, top of the pops are the Hollandse Nieuwe or new catch Holland herring. These are the first Dutch herring of the season, flash frozen and flash transported for immediate consumption. In Holland, the day is marked by a national holiday and the first barrel of herring is auctioned for upwards of $85,000 (who knew). In New York on the night in question we happily laid out $75 per ticket and lined up like reverent Anglican choir boys for all the herring we could eat. There wasn’t much small talk. Helmut’s mind was somewhere between his contemplation of the herring and the slightly higher contemplations of sympletic geometry (a field he helped found; his contributions spawned “Hofer geometry”). After five minutes we arrived at the table serving the fishy ambrosia. The classic manner in which these herring are meant to be eaten is “by holding the whole herring by the tail and dropping it into your mouth.” This, however, was not the preferred method of my sherpa, who took the herring, dropped it into a fresh roll and slathered the entire bon bouche in chopped pickle and onion. While he chewed and swallowed, a Basso profundo sound almost musical in tone emerged from somewhere deep in Hofer’s throat. Words cannot do it justice. But if there were a way of bottling and mass-marketing the sheer pleasure one of the world’s great mathematicians takes in wolfing down his favourite form of herring, well let’s just say you might want to buy a couple of those shares. As the evening progressed, Michalek, Hofer and I orbited the various herring stations like moons around Saturn. And the herring was only half the story. John Zorn, the avant garde composer and saxophonist, blew a mighty set that was attended by a fleeting Lou Reed who led the applause after one particularly sparkling solo (followed by hardy cheek kisses and hugs), and then took his leave. Also swirling through the room were the New Yorker‘s Calvin Trillin, actors Harvey Keitel and Michael Murphy, and a guy who looked so much like the author Oliver Sachs I decided against all evidence to the contrary that it just had to be him (“Sachs” said he was a local landlord and academic named Tom Ettinger, though I’ve got to admit by that point in the evening the guy could have been Helen of Troy and I wouldn’t necessarily have believed him). Halfway through the evening, Hofer noticed that the tables once piled high with herring were alarmingly diminished. “They definitely miscalculated on the herring,” he noted with concern. But then replenishments arrived assuring everyone could eat many too many herring, and agree on a happy equation: All things being equal we would do it again next year.
