Is schmaltz the most unfairly maligned of all fats?
That’s the question at the heart of food writer (and trained cook) Michael Ruhlman’s new book, “The Book of Schmaltz: Love Song to a Forgotten Fat” (Little, Brown, $25), which hits stores Tuesday.
For those of you unfamiliar with schmaltz, it is clarified chicken or goose fat, which Eastern European Jews used as their substitute for butter when frying up potato pancakes, or adding that extra pinch to a serving of chopped liver.
Over the years, it has gone from being synonymous with Jewish cooking, to high cholesterol and an early death. (It also became the de facto term for something sappy, being defined in the Merriam-Webster Dictionary as “sentimental or florid music and art.”)
“It has something to do with Jewish culture and Jewish guilt,” says Ruhlman. “When you mention schmaltz to Jews, they suddenly start talking about heart attacks. We’re not talking about eating buckets of schmaltz!”
Ruhlman — who is, in his own words, “100 percent goy” — might have a clearer perspective on the fat than the average joe, when he happened upon schmaltz in his neighbor Lois Baron’s Cleveland kitchen as an adult and fell in love with some chopped liver. The feelings of guilt that seem to dog Jews whenever they taste something delicious didn’t rub off on him. “I’ve long been a proponent of animal fat, in this fat-phobic country,” says Ruhlman. “It’s too much animal fat that makes you fat.”
While no one in their right mind would declare schmaltz is good for you, some — like Arthur Schwartz, author of “Arthur Schwartz’s Jewish Home Cooking” (and whose recipes Ruhlman openly cribs in his book) think its nasty reputation is unwarranted. “It’s not nearly as saturated a fat as butter,” notes Schwartz.
Ruhlman further makes the case that there’s no reason why schmaltz can’t be used in the same way that fats like butter or lard are used in cooking and baking — and to prove it, he includes recipes you would never see in a balabusta’s kitchen: Parisienne gnocchi, vichyssoise, and scones with roasted red pepper and Parmigiano-Reggiano — all of which use schmaltz as their primary fat.
Might schmaltz also be unfairly maligned because it seems too easy to make? The ingredients and necessary equipment consist solely of chicken skin, chicken fat and a saucepan. An onion and water are optional. Take the fat trimmings and skin off of a chicken, cook it in a small amount of water, and once the moisture is cooked off and the schmaltz begins to brown, add chopped onions and render the liquid-gold fat (just don’t overcook it).
And if you want it at home, you’ll have to make it yourself. Supermarkets don’t carry it, not even in New York City. There may be a stray kosher butcher or Jewish specialty shop that carries a jar — but more likely, the only thing you’ll get from the butcher is some leftover chicken skin and fat to make your own.
This doesn’t mean it’s entirely absent from the New York food scene. At Sammy’s Roumanian on the Lower East Side, for example, the tables are adorned with pancake-syrup jars filled with schmaltz. And schmaltz is making its way onto the menus at even more high-end Jewish eateries. When asked if he gets any requests for schmaltz, Zach Kutsher — whose eponymous Kutsher’s Tribeca, which specializes in Jewish cuisine — answers: “About once a week.” (The restaurant happily obliges.)
The request usually comes from some customer who yearns to slather it on a piece of challah or rye bread. But Kutsher’s — which is one part hip, gourmet hot spot, one part Borscht Belt extravaganza — also serves up French fries cooked in duck schmaltz. And their matzo ball soup has its fair share of duck schmaltz.
“The whole country is embracing the genuine stuff,” says Ruhlman.
“I was fascinated by the way schmaltz explains Ashkenazi Jewish history. It underscored the poverty of Jews; the fact that they were forced to use everything. You’d never throw your schmaltz away!”
Vichyssoise with gribenes and chives
This chilled potato and leek soup is an easy and elegant first course that is ideal when the weather’s warm, though it could also be served hot when the weather’s cold. The key to its elegance is the texture. The schmaltz flavors the onions, and the gribenes (fried chicken skin) add both textural contrast and flavor to the soup. I like to leave chunks of onion for texture and visual appeal, but the onions and leeks can be sautéed together if you prefer a perfectly smooth soup. Don’t overblend the potatoes or the texture can become gummy. You’ll need about a tablespoon each of the gribenes and chives per serving.
Heat 2 tablespoons of the schmaltz in a medium sauté pan over medium-high heat, add ½ Spanish onion (cut into medium dice) and a three-finger pinch of salt, and cook until the onion just begins to brown, about 5 minutes. Transfer the onion to a plate. The onion can be browned up to a day ahead of time, covered, and refrigerated.
Melt the remaining 2 tablespoons schmaltz in the same pan over medium heat. Add 1 large leek, white and pale green parts only, cleaned and roughly chopped, and a four-finger pinch of salt. Cook until the leek is tender, but not browned, 3 to 5 minutes.
Add 1 large russet potato, peeled and cut into large dice, and stir to coat with the fat. Add ¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper and 2 cups chicken stock, plus more as needed. Raise the heat to bring the stock to a simmer, then reduce the heat to maintain a gentle simmer. Cook until the potatoes are tender, 10 to 15 minutes.
Using a blender, purée the soup just long enough so that its texture is uniform, then pass through a fine-mesh strainer. Taste and add more salt if necessary. This soup will be eaten cold, so you’ll need to season it aggressively. Stir in the browned diced onion. Stir in ½ cup heavy cream. If the soup is too thick, thin it with chicken stock. It should be the consistency of heavy cream.
Chill the soup thoroughly. Taste the soup and season it with lemon juice or white wine vinegar as needed. Serve the soup garnished with finely-chopped gribenes and minced chives.
Serves 4 to 6.
Recipe is taken from ‘The Book of
Schmaltz: Love Song to a Forgotten Fat’ by Michael Ruhlman.