Pettit Brandon - Delancey: a man, a woman, a restaurant, a marriage

Turn the page to read an excerpt from
Molly Wizenbergs previous memoir,

A HOMEMADE LIFE.

I had meant to start with something more glamorous than potato salad. I always thought it would be good to begin with hors duvres, something appetizing and sexy, or maybe dessert, to cut right to the chase. A bowl of chunked potatoes in creamy dressing isnt any of those things. But when you grow up under the wing of someone who felt as strongly about potato salad as my father did, your priorities are special.

Plus, you can tell a lot about someone by their potato salad. I like to think of it as the Rorschach test of foods. Potato salad means many things to many people. For some, it means mostly mayonnaise and starch; for others, it means oil and vinegar and fresh herbs. Some people add eggs; others swear by pickles. For Burg, as we called my fathera nickname my mother made up, a shortened version (and inexplicable misspelling) of our last nameit was something in between. Like his potato salad, he was hard to pin down.

I guess the first thing to point out about his recipe is the presence of Ranch dressing. Im not sure how to make much sense of it, since Burg was, in all other cases, against bottled salad dressing. He was a staunch advocate for homemadethe house vinaigrette maker, in fact, with a dedicated jar and a complex system for creating his signature slurry of oil, vinegar, mustard, and herbs. But he was also full of contradictions. He was a doctor who never went to the doctor, a Republican on fiscal issues and a Democrat on social ones. He had a fat belly and pencil legs. He was, by the calendar, an old man, but he had an almost full head of black hair. He was a Francophile with terrible French. He liked foie gras on the one hand and Ranch dressing on the other. And I cant really blame him. It tastes good.

Then, of course, there were the caraway seeds. His recipe calls for one to two teaspoons worth. He liked them in almost everything. Whenever he bought sandwich bread, it was Jewish rye, flecked with those tiny, canoe-shaped seeds. He was the son of Polish Jews, so they were in his blood, I imagine, along with bagels and beet soup. But much to his mothers chagrin, that was about as Jewish as he got. He married two shiksas (one a Catholic, even) and raised nonreligious children. I remember once, as a kid during the Gulf War, hearing one of my fathers cousins in Toronto say something about Tel Aviv, worrying that it might come under missile attack. Id never heard of Tel Aviv. I thought she had mispronounced TV, and that our television was some sort of military target. I would hear scarcely more about Israel until I was in high school and took a world history class, and it would take my going away to college to learn what Passover was, when I read parts of the Bible in a Western civilization course. Ive always known, however, what a caraway seed was.

Then there s mayonnaise. My father did not mess around when it came to mayonnaise. His potato salad called for 1 3/4 pounds of baby red potatoes and, to bind them, a ballsy 3/4 cup of mayonnaise (mixed, of course, with Ranch dressing). If my math is correct, that works out to approximately one tablespoon of mayonnaise per small potato. You cant be timid when youre dealing with ratios like that. You have to be the type to go after life with your arms open and your teeth bared. Thats the type Burg was.

He could be pouty, of course, and a real huffer-and-puffer. His favorite weapon was the silent treatment, and he wielded it with impressive skill. But he had more love, and more passion, and more enthusiasm for pretty much everything than you and me combined. He loved being a doctor. He loved Dixieland jazz. He loved the old Alfa Romeo Spider that sat in the driveway and never ran. He loved crossword puzzles, Dylan Thomas, and Gene Krupa banging on a drum kit on the stereo upstairs. He loved omelets and olives; murder mysteries and short stories; and a hideously ugly ceramic wild boar that sat on his bathroom counter. He loved his children, even while he forgot our birthdays; loved a cold beer on Saturday at noon; loved lamb shanks, smelly cheese, and my mother in high heels; loved mayonnaise, and me.

He was the kind of person who could teach you a lot of important things, such as how to ride a bicycle or drive a stick shift, or that dill and potatoes were made for each other. He always put dill in his potato salad. We had a kitchen garden out back that he and my mother planted, thick with tomatoes and herbs. He would rub rosemary under the skin of roasting chickens and stir thyme into his corn chowder. He got such a kick out of that garden. He taught me to make pesto from the basil we grew there, using a recipe by James Beard, who Im sure, would have gotten a kick out of it, too.

When your father dies, especially if he is older, people like to say things such as, He was so lucky. He lived a long, full life. Its hard to know what to say to that. What often comes to mind is, Yes, youre right. He was seventy-three, so I guess it was his time. But did you know him? Did you see how he was? He bought wine futures seven months before he died. He saw patients the afternoon he was diagnosed. He wasnt finished.

My father woke up each morning wanting that day. You could see it on his face. He was the one at the end of the table, laughing so hard that his round face split open like an overripe watermelon and his fillings shone darkly like seeds. He laughed so hard that he gagged a little and pulled out his handkerchief to wipe his mouth. He knew what he had, and he loved it.

He could have taught me a lot of things. Wed hardly begun. But I have his recipe for potato salad, and when all else fails, its a place to start.

I am biased, no doubt, but I love this potato salad. The key is to prepare it the day before you want to eat it. It needs to sit overnight in the refrigerator, so that the flavors can mix and mingle, so to speak.

Also, youll note that Ive made the caraway seeds optional. Not everyone loves caraway seeds as much as Burg did, and Im sure he wouldnt mind if you left them out. (I usually do.)

FOR THE SALAD

1 3/4 pounds red waxy potatoes, scrubbed

4 large eggs

8 scallions (white and pale green parts only), thinly sliced

1/4 teaspoon salt, plus more to taste

FOR THE DRESSING

3/4 cup mayonnaise, preferably Hellmanns/Best Foods or homemade

4 tablespoons bottled Ranch dressing, preferably Hidden Valley

2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh dill

1 to 2 teaspoons caraway seeds (optional)

Put the potatoes in a Dutch oven or large saucepan and add cold water to cover by 1 inch. Add a generous dash of salt, and bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Reduce the heat to maintain a gentle simmer and cook, uncovered, until the potatoes are tender when pierced with a small, thin knife, about 15 minutes. Drain them into a colander, rinse with cold water, and set them aside to cool. (If youre in a hurry, put them in the refrigerator to speed the process along. You want the potatoes to be completely cool when you dress them.) When the potatoes are cool, cut them into rough 1-inch chunks. For the smaller potatoes, I halve them; for the bigger ones, I cut them into quarters or eighths. Put them in a large bowl.

Meanwhile, cook the eggs. Place them in a small saucepan, and add cold water to cover. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat. When the water begins to boil, remove the pan from the heat, cover it, and let it sit for exactly 12 minutes. Immediately pour off the hot water and run plenty of cold water over the eggs. When the eggs are cool, peel them, chop them coarsely, and add them to the bowl of potatoes. Add the scallions, sprinkle with 1/4 teaspoon salt, and toss to mix.

In a small bowl, stir together the mayonnaise, Ranch dressing, dill, and caraway seeds, if using. Pour the dressing over the potato mixture, and stir to evenly coat. Taste, and adjust the salt as needed. Cover and refrigerate overnight before serving.