THENEWYORKER,SEPTEMBER14, 2020 13
PHOTOGRAPH BY ERIC HELGAS FOR THE NEW YORKER; ILLUSTRATION BY JOOST SWARTE
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TABLESFORTWO
Pulkies
428 W. 16th St.
“Only Texans and Jews understand
brisket,” Anthony Bourdain once
said. An exaggeration, undoubtedly:
as carefully catalogued in “The Bris-
ket Chronicles,” published last year by
the cookbook author Steven Raichlen,
brisket is a cut of beef beloved around
the world. The French slow-cook it in
wine for boeuf à la mode. In Cuba, it gets
boiled and then deep-fried to become
vaca frita. Sliced paper-thin, it is likely
to appear in a bowl of Vietnamese pho.
Still, brisket is particularly prominent
in both Jewish-American food (braised
by home cooks, pastrami-cured at delis)
and Texas barbecue (dry-rubbed and
pit-smoked). This overlap is key to
Pulkies, which describes its food as
“Jewish-style BBQ.”
Pulkies’s brisket, which is sold by the
half pound, in slices lean or marbled,
falls on the Jewish end of the spectrum:
it’s confited in its own fat and served
in a sauce that includes Manischewitz.
The context, however, nods squarely
to Texas and, in so doing, highlights
many further points of intersection.
A side of beans is pure barbecue, but
if you told me that the excellent mini-
loaf of honey-butter corn bread was a
honey cake, and served it for dessert at
a Rosh Hashanah dinner, I wouldn’t
think twice about it. The noodle-kugel
mac and cheese makes you realize that
one is the other by a different name.
Pickles and coleslaw bat for both teams.
It’s a testament to the quality of the
food that the further you get into the
menu, the more inclined you are to toss
aside taxonomy altogether. A big dollop
of chopped barbecue beef (for which
brisket burnt ends are jumbled with
caramelized carrot and onion) drizzled
in creamy pink horseradish sauce and
squashed onto a Martin’s potato roll is
what I would call, simply, a great sand-
wich. Sure, I’ll use matzo chips to scoop
up a pint of pimento cheese—a mix of
coarsely shredded Cheddar and jalapeño
cream cheese—sprinkled with every-
thing-bagel seasoning. Gobstopper-size
matzo balls with carrot coins in nine-
hour turkey stock achieve a Goldilocks
textural quality: not too soft, not too
firm. Who cares that the soup seems
to have nothing to do with barbecue?
In fact, there is a through line: at
Pulkies, the other white meat is turkey.
(Pulkies, a Yiddish term of affection
for chubby baby thighs, can also mean
“drumsticks,” as in poultry.) Turkey
legs are shredded and slathered in a
tangy barbecue sauce to approximate
pulled pork. Breasts are coated in
brown sugar, thyme, and black pepper
and slow-roasted; extra skin is ren-
dered into schmaltz (fat) and gribenes
(the crispy bits) to top chopped liver;
and the bones are saved for the stock,
which is also the base of “Grandma
Nini’s turkey gravy.” “Legend has it,” the
restaurant’s preparation guide explains,
“Grandma Nini served cold turkey one
Thanksgiving and, upon receiving her
first complaint, snapped back, ‘Just pour
some hot gravy on it!’”
There’s a preparation guide because
Pulkies is a true carryout concept. It was
hatched in May by the chef and restau-
rateur Harris Mayer-Selinger, while he
noodled around in the kitchen at his
Chelsea Market burger joint, Cream-
line, which was temporarily closed
owing to COVID-19. Many dishes are
meant to be heated at home, and all
must be ordered for delivery or picked
up from a loading dock on Sixteenth
Street, which lends the experience a
furtive sort of charm.
Dining in is part of Mayer-Selinger’s
plan for the future of Pulkies, and he
recently signed a contract on a stall, with
stools, at Brooklyn’s DeKalb Market.
For now, what he calls his “scrappy
quarantine project” feels worthy of cel-
ebration. Family-style meals for Rosh
Hashanah, meant to serve four to six
people, are available for preorder. And,
assuming we’re still socially distancing
in November, it’s hard to imagine a bet-
ter small-scale, no-fuss Thanksgiving
dinner than cold turkey with hot gravy
(plus Manischewitz wine jelly), made
by somebody else. (Dishes $6-$48.)
—Hannah Goldfield
