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Last night, in a hurry to get to a party at the chowhoundita's school, we slapped together some turkey sandwiches (very fine turkey from Fox & Obel, thanks for asking). With about ten minutes to spare, I hauled out a cabbage and made cole slaw. That's what I do. I make cole slaw.
Everyone should have a dish. Thousands of Frenchmen know how to expertly swirl an omelet pan in such a way that the eggs always avoid the ashes of the Gitane. After all, in the other hand one would expect to find a glass of wine. Wiseguys learn red gravy as they go to the mattresses, and if they get caught, they fry steaks on the hot plate with garlic literally sliced razor thin. Whether seeking seduction or a sit-down or just a way to moisten up that turkey sammy, I make cole slaw.
It is not a dish that brings accolades. John Kass has not contacted me to take my five step cole slaw process. I cannot, like my friend Joan, impress people with birthday cole slaw. Cole slaw is never a star dish. It is the Ned Beatty of cuisine. You recognize the face each time, even as it takes on new accents, but you are not at the movie because of him. It seems odd, perhaps for some to think of me as committed to such an unassuming dish, as unassuming is surely not they way I am typically described.
Cole Slaw appeals to nearly everything I want and need out of the kitchen. First of all, it is cheap. I can almost always buy a cabbage for under a buck, and that one cabbage will always create as much cole slaw as I need. In fact, cabbage is a rather spiritual vegetable is it not. I mean ever notice how one tiny cabbage, smaller than a Chicago softball can suffice for both teams, the umpires and most of the cheering sections. I believe that cabbage was the food described in the bible as manna, as today it makes a fine topping to those twin desert staples, falafel and shwarma. Cabbage also appeals to my fetish for eating seasonal and eating local. I fantasize about going a whole winter with eating pretty much only cabbage from my root cellar, the way a Hasid wears the clothes of the shtetl, just to do it like they did it. For another thing, cole slaw plays to my kitchen skills. Rather, I shall say, cole slaw barely taxes any kitchen skill. I can take my chef knife, almost core the cabbage and then blast away like I have real knife art 'cause there is hardly a way to screw up cutting the cabbage for cole slaw. And if it does not work one way, I just turn the pieces around and try another. I've made cabbage with thin shreds, chips, platelets, food processor mince, box grater grate and all manner in between. Who cares.
No matter how I slice the stuff, I can make it taste good. I learned how to make cabbage from my mother, who unlike me, has a more impressive dish, rack of lamb. Hers is a no lose formula: salt, sugar, mayonnaise and vinegar mixed in parts until it tastes good. Of course, being a cole slaw specialist, I moved on from the basics. I'll add things. I mix up mayo with oil. I'll make it spicy. I'll make it garlic heady. With cole slaw, I can be of a thousand places. Yellow mustard and I've made it Carolina style [ed is that not Memphis style?]. Caraway seeds and it is something Nordic. Rice vinegar and not much else and is summo, Japanese cole slaw. The variations go on. If I was Chef G at Trio, I would make cabbage ice cream with aerated mayonnaise foam, but I am not. I am Ned Beatty.
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