Bruner Blog

Ildi, Andras, Elizabeth and Ildi’s Italian friend (who’s name I should remember but do not) caught the Casandra Wilson concert in Bryant Park, which was excellent, and then went for a bite a Belgian bistro in Tribeca, Petite Abeille (review of 14th St. location; map of the Tribeca locale we were at). The place was very good and the prices weren’t too bad (but a bit much on the Tin-Tin memorabilia).

Anyway, while we’re waiting for our orders to arrive, we’re served good sliced baggettes and butter, but Ildi asks for olive oil. I was the first to dunk my bread in the oil and taste it, and I immediately commented on how delicious it was. It was a rich, warm, savory flavor that was very familiar but I couldn’t quite place what it was. Was it something woody, a smoke flavor, perhaps?

Ildi tasted it next and immediately named what the delicious flavor was: lard. That was it exactly, and it’s hardly surprising it took a Hungarian to pick it out. I developed several guilty pleasures living in Hungary, but one of the guiltiest is zsiros kenyer — lardy bread. Yes, you’ll often be at parties, a friend’s house or a wine bar when someone will plunk down thick slices of Hungarian bread slathered richly with lard — normally pig fat, but sometimes duck or goose in more sophisticated (aka Jewish) circles. Diced red onions sprinkled on top. De-freakin’-licious. They eat it with red wine normally, which is hoped to have enough curative powers to somehow mitigate the obvious ills of a few helpings of congeled bacon grease. (Elizabeth didn’t exhibit the usual agast reaction most Americans tend to have to the concept of zsiros kenyer, as being an Alabama native it seemed pretty much like home cooking.)

But Ildi was right, this olive oil had the distinct and delicious flavor of pork drippings with, presumably, not only none of the same ill health effects, but just the opposite: olive oil is good for you! A flash of epiphany brightened Ildi’s face like she’d just entered Hungarian Heaven. Immediately we summoned the waitress and asked what on earth this precious olive oil was, could we possibly see the bottle of it so we could get the name.

Seeing Ildi sopping of the stuff till it was dripping from her bread, the waitress waitress seemed leary of us. She dubiously conferred with the cook and then surprised use with a gallon can of the stuff (what the hell did we expect, it was a restaurant). Anyway, boring story short, the waitress let us only catch a glimpse of the name. None of us was sure exactly, but with Google I found exactly one web page (and one PDF) for “Petria Olive Oil Pomace” (Ildi, your Italian friend was right: “p” not “r”), courtesy of Philly-based importers the Novick Brothers.

Elizabeth said the lardy flavor was like the opposite of Virgin Olive Oil, to which I replied it was like Extra Slutty Olive Oil.

Novick Bros. only sell the gallon cans. Tell you what, Ildi, buy a gallon and I’ll split it with you. We’ll be the envy of every Hungarian in New York.

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This entry was posted on Monday, September 2nd, 2002 at 9:32 pm and is filed under aa-home. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.