Salami: Woodstock Editions Phoenicia, New York
by Devon Dikeou
“Send a Salami to Your Boy in the Army”
If you notice it, that slogan is emblazoned on the t-shirts
of the butchers’ behind the acre long counter of Katz’s deli
in New York, and on the faded circular promotional twirlers that spin
in a graphic time warp above the masses of diners in the famed Lower East
Side establishment. A must visit for in the know NYer’s and keen
tourists, celebrities, and politicians—the salami at Katz’s
makes the art of delicatessen gastronomy—a savory delicacy supplicated
only by the customers’ weekly diet or culinary travels.
“You should give that to your father for his birthday.”
A remarkably thoughtful and generous statement from my mother, given they
have been divorced for 20 years, and their relationship since has not
been amicable, by any means. My father cherishes salami as a sample of
the modern carnivorous nectar, a palate he cultivates in each city he
visits, determining the nuances of not just salami, but pastrami, hot
dogs, bratwurst, even McDonald’s. So yes, indeed, this Katz’s
salami was an excellent gift for a difficult man to buy a present. He
has few hobbies. His commitment to watching all sports simultaneously
on TV, eliminates the practicality of participatory sporting gifts such
as racquets and clubs—they do not apply to his lifestyle, much less
untenable. And as we are not natives of Nevada, an in house bookie seemed
a little too racy. A subscription to SI would be wasted, as he has little
predilection for reading periodicals—forget about the obligatory
sports biography—they will remain untouched in my father’s
possession. But thanks to the most unlikely of sources, my mother, my
yearly gift quandary for my father was solved, and solved ad nauseum.
Salami. 12 years and going, salami from Katz—every birthday and
every Christmas. (One year, walking to Katz’s, I cut my walk short.
Stopping at Russ & Daughters, I substituted the annual salami for
caviar, only to learn that, later, he was disappointed upon not receiving
a salami).
Journalistic segue. Salami, the book. Like a “boy
in the army” with his care package of goodies unexpectedly arriving,
here I was with a 20 lb tome, measuring 12 x 17 inches. Opening it, I
was astounded at the quality of the product, so to speak. It felt like
a hard salami in its look—so gigantic and overwhelming in its presence,
that immediate embarrassment swelled in my cheeks like the gradations
of red on the cover. The cover—an enlargement of the spectacular
meat marbling of the salumirei complexity, a pattern reiterated on the
sides of the pages like Four Edge books, was divinity in itself. Intimidating
to touch, unlike its subject—usually the first hors d’oeurves
to go at cocktail parties where the host is in close proximity to a Gourmet
Garage—the book, Salami, is an object of art (you can even order
individual prints from the book Salami @ www.woodstockeditions.com), and
so pristine one almost dares not enter or breach it.
Beyond Salami’s physical presence, however, is
Salami’s content. Pictorially, it offers an alphabet of what else,
salami—issuing one photograph per page, by Hans Gissinger. Offset
printed in six colors, and isolated against the seductive cream background
of the heavy pound paper, the salamis appear one after another, each differing,
yet remaining intrinsically the same. The text by Gérard Oberlé,
originally written in French, is translated by Richard Pevear. The 14
passages pay tribute to salami in a range of different food memoirs. You
may need a dictionary to look up words like “cephalotruncating”,
but you do learn the origin of the word “salami ”. Each passage
begins with a citation. From Albert Cossery, to Stendahl, to Oscar Wilde,
the various treatments bring forth ideas of class, taste, literature,
sexuality, memory, expectation, even Pop culture, with titles such as
“Pedigree”, “Boarding School”, “Salaminikins”,
“Coco Bill, Salami Western and Spaghetti Western”. As much
as these remembrances might seem unique, its weird how awfully urbane
they become. Mr Oberlé’s memory of the various saleswomen
who dispense the charcuterie in the “Beauties of Sausagery”
like Mme Gebhart, “this priestess of the louchebem cult incarnate
the most beautiful human person I know,” or of Donna, “The
heiress to this dynastic establishment, she is endowed with the kind of
sex appeal fatal to men of my generation, who, as adolescents, smothered
their puds in dark theaters before the charms of various Cinecitta enchantresses,”
are just few of the many reflections of salami. But these likely kind
of responses towards salami in their exuberance and abundance make the
reader reflect on their own personal relation to the substance at hand,
mouth, or memory, and save it from its own over indulgence.
In the voice of this gastronomic Cicero, accompanied
by the Minimalistic, photographic features that could substitute for a
porcine portrait by Giuseppe Arcimboldo, Salami does become caviar. But
as quickly as it is an expensive commodity, it is the food of the Proletariat.
Salami can’t help itself, much as product itself, it takes the reader,
and eater, through a triage of personal references from the French and
Italian versions of Katz’s and Dean & DeLucca—making the
small villages of Alsace and the regions Italy seem like the road trip
stops of minor league baseball team.
So the question is, do I give it, Salami, that acre of
a book, as a gift to my father? Answer. No. But I will keep on giving
the gift that keeps on giving, salami. Because it is nice to see that
there is a universal feeling towards this Dagwood delectable. Notice:
Salami, the book, a sausage caught in memory. Send a salami to your boy
in the army, any boy, any army, any salami.
Devon Dikeou
New York, New York
2001