The Great Gedempte Chicken Mystery

"Why don't you make your father's gedempte chicken?" I said to my husband.  "I'll be the scribe."

It was Passover week, a time when traditional Eastern European Jewish dishes appear on many American tables, including ours. I was eager to document another piece of family culinary history.

I had recently written about Murray's Kreplach.  Gedempte chicken, another one of my father-in-law's recipes, seemed like the perfect follow-up.  He had learned to make both dishes by watching his mother Rose, who emigrated from her village in Poland at around the same time my grandfather left Slovenia.

Murray had introduced us to this rich chicken dish during one of our visits.  The second time he made it, my husband watched and made notes.  Back home, he reproduced it, using his father's cooking as a model.

Gedempte chicken is an unusual dish with simple ingredients.  It is a rich, onion-laden stew or fricassee with a twist: little meatballs simmering along with the pieces of chicken. The seasonings are nothing more than salt, pepper, paprika, with a touch of catsup at the end.  The key is to brown the ingredients well and then simmer slowly, so the meats and onion release their juices.  In theory, no additional liquid is need to create a thick sauce.

"Why don't you check your notes?" I suggested to my husband, before he started to cook.  I wanted to be sure we came as close as possible to his father's original version.

"Notes?" He looked puzzled.  He didn't have them. In fact, he didn't recall writing anything down.

Hmm.  I could swear we had an old envelope with a rough sort of recipe jotted down. Oh well. I suggested he call the source, Murray himself, for a quick refresher course.

When he got off the phone, my husband gave me an odd look.  "There are no meatballs."

"No meatballs?  You mean he's changed the recipe and now he leaves out the meatballs?"

"No.  He says he never used meatballs.  That's not part of the dish."

We were both baffled.  Had we imagined those little meatballs, the most distinctive element in the dish? Or perhaps my husband picked up the idea on his own and had completely broken with Jewish tradition.

It was time for some research.  My Jewish cookbooks weren't much help, but I discovered plenty of information on the Internet. "Gedempte" is a Yiddish term that means "well-cooked." I found at least a a half dozen recipes for gedempte chicken, some with meatballs and some without.

I was relieved.  The meatball variation wasn't some rogue version of gedempte chicken my husband had invented, even if the source remained hazy.


What to do?

My husband had a good solution.  He would follow his father's latest directions, with chicken only. Then he would make a separate batch of meatballs, relying on his own memory and intuition.

When it came time to eat, we did a taste test. The first night, we ate the chicken and meatballs separately. By itself, the chicken was tasty.  In fact, it reminded us of my own Slovenian-style chicken paprikash, minus the sour cream. (Dairy products in a meat or poultry dish would violate Jewish dietary laws.) The meatballs were just fine. Matzo farfel, another Passover favorite, was the perfect accompaniment.  Other good (non-Passover) options to accompany the chicken stew immediately came to mind:  buckwheat kasha, homemade egg noodles, or even some nice Slovenian mlinci!

But this was not the gedempte chicken we had come to know and love.  So, after dinner, the chicken and meatballs went into the same pot, where they mingled overnight. The next day, the flavor was even better after reheating.

Our verdict:   Gedempte chicken is great, however you make it.  But mixing in the meatballs takes the dish to a whole other level.

But why take our word for it?  Try it yourself!

Recipes follow.

UPDATE: In spring of 2018, the mystery deepened. On one of our visits to Florida, were were shown a fifteen-year-old profile of Murray, along with his gedempte chicken recipe, from a local Jewish newspaper. It included meatballs!

For the chicken:

1-1/2 lb chicken breasts, bone in
1-3/4 lb chicken thighs
2 large onions, sliced
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 T. paprika
salt
black pepper
2 T. catsup


Sprinkle paprika, pepper and salt on chicken.  Brown thighs, skin side down, in Dutch oven. Remove and brown the breasts.  The goal is to brown the skin and remove some of the fat. Remove chicken from pot.  Saute onions with additional paprika, salt, and pepper until softened. Add chicken.  Cover and simmer for several hours.  You should not need extra liquid, but if you must, add a little water or broth. Add catsup in last hour. Taste and adjust seasonings before serving.


For the meatball option:

1 lb. ground beef
1/4 c. matzo meal
1 egg
salt
black pepper
2 t. paprika
1 large onion, sliced
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 T. catsup at end

Mix beef, matzo meal, egg, and seasonings well. Form meat mixture into small balls the size of a walnut. Brown in vegetable oil in a large saucepan.  Drain off fat. Add onion and garlic.  Return meatballs to pan. Cover and simmer for several hours. You should not need extra liquid, but if you must, add a little water or broth. Add catsup in last hour. Taste and adjust seasonings before serving.

The chicken and the meatballs can be served separately or combined and simmered together.  Serve with matzo farfel, buckwheat kasha, noodles, or mlinci.

Slovenian Dinner Week 20: Roast Duck and Mlinci

Menu
Mlinci (Baked Noodles)
Roast Duck
Red Cabbage with Apples
Red Pepper and Tomato Salad

This was another dinner where the side dish became the main event.

Mlinci (m'LEEN-tsee), also known as baked noodles, seemed like an intriguing but improbable dish.  I had to give it a try.

I first heard about mlinci when The Professor, a Facebook friend who lives in Slovenia, posted a photo of a festive St. Martin's Day dinner he'd just prepared: A roast duck, accompanied by a strange sort of dumpling or noodle called mlinci.

Months later, I came across a recipe for mlinci/baked noodles in the Progressive Slovene Women's cookbook.  I found a few other recipes through an Internet search.  It's a simple dish.  A noodle dough, rolled into thin rounds and baked, then cooled and broken into bits.

To serve, the bits are moistened with boiling water or dropped into soup. Presto! Instant noodles.  Or dumplings.  Or something.  Often mixed or fried with the drippings from roast poultry or meat.  I couldn't quite picture it.  An unleavened flatbread or cracker, soaked in liquid.  What was the point?

Suddenly, I realized this wasn't so odd.  It reminded me of the way they serve matzo for breakfast in my husband's family.  Moistened and salted, then wrapped in a napkin, to make it a little more bread-like. Or like matzo farfel, nothing more than bits of broken matzo, another staple in Jewish cooking, especially for Passover.  Or, for that matter, those little oyster crackers we used to drop into soup when I was a child.

Some recipes, like the Progressive Slovene Women's, use yeast.  But most don't.  So I followed the unleavened approach:

Mlinci

2 eggs
1/2 t. salt
1 c. flour
Milk, if needed (but I didn't need any)


Mix the above ingredients, as though making standard egg noodles.  (With my finger still in a splint, I used a food processor.)   Since the eggs were extra large, I didn't need any milk.  In fact, I had to add some extra flour.

Let dough rest 30 minutes, covered.  Divide into four pieces.  Roll each one into a thin disk. (Note: thinner than what photos here suggest!  See update at the end of this post.) Prick.  Bake on ungreased baking sheet at 350 degrees.  Turn over when dough begins to brown.  The finished product should look brown and blistered, like a giant cracker.  It will be much firmer that matzo. Remove from oven and cool on rack.

Meanwhile, I had roasted a nice duck.  Nothing fancy, but I've posted the recipe here.

To prepare the mlinci:

Break rounds into pieces.  (I used two rounds.)   Put in glass or ceramic bowl.  Cover with boiling salted water.  Let sit until soft, 5-15 minutes, depending on thickness of mlinci. Drain. Add to drippings left in pan from the roast duck and stir to mix. Put back in bowl. You can put bowl back in oven to keep warm, while someone carves the duck.

The verdict?  This unlikely dish was luscious!  Sinfully rich, of course, with the duck fat and crackly bits mixed in.  Something like stuffing, something like Yorkshire pudding.  But better.  A perfect special occasion accompaniment to roast fowl or meat.

Oh, and those unused rounds of mlinci kept well.  They made a nice replacement for croutons in salad and served as a crunchy bread substitute in next week's dinner.


Update:  In July of 2014, I purchased ready-made mlinci at the source: a vendor in the Ljubljana Farmers' Market!  Having seen (and cooked with) the real thing, I now know that mlinci should be much thinner than my photos here suggest.  I have also developed a delicious sweet mlinci dish for breakfast or brunch.  To read about it, go here.

Murray's Famous Chicken-Beef Kreplach

Kreplach or Zlikrofi?

So what is kreplach, a traditional Jewish dumpling, doing in a Slovenian food blog?

If you have read my recent posts about Slovenian zlikrofi, especially here, you already know part of the answer.

The two dishes are so similar that you could easily mistake one for the other. In fact, my mother often referred to her meat-filled dumplings as kreplach. She probably figured it sounded more American than zlikrofi!

There is another reason for sharing this. Murray's Kreplach is also a family recipe. But it's from my husband's side of the family.

Murray Tabak is my father-in-law. As a boy, he used to watch his Polish-born mother hard at work in the kitchen. He went on to become a fine cook himself. Luckily, he had the foresight to preserve some of his mother's prized dishes. He watched her, asked questions, and made notes. The result was a handful of traditional Jewish recipes. This is one of them. Every fall, Grandma Rose used to make a big batch of kreplach and then deliver them, a couple dozen to each household, to her five children and their families for Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year.

Rose, my husband's grandmother, cooked from memory and feeling. Just like my own grandmother, she lived through hard times and had the knack for doing a lot with very little. Her kreplach, like Slovenian zlikrofi, are labor intensive.

The filling uses two kinds of meat, chicken and beef, each cooked separately and then ground or chopped in a food processor. The shape is also more complicated that my mother's simple wonton triangles. There is a second step here: Pinching two corners of the triangle together, so they resemble tortellini.

During a recent visit, my father-in-law proudly showed us a printed version of his recipe, dubbed Murray's Kreplach, in a 1988 cookbook called "Almost All My Secrets: Recipes from the Bakery." This cookbook, probably self-published, was the creation of Deborah Davidson, who used to own a bakery in New York's Westchester County. The cookbook is out of print, the bakery no longer exists, and Murray moved to Florida and lost touch with the baker-author. So I saw this as one more vintage cookbook that helped preserve a piece of the past.

Except for one small problem. The cookbook got it wrong.

This came to light during a subsequent visit,  just after I had posted the first version of this recipe. When I showed Murray the blog entry, he was pleased and started to read it. Then he took a closer look.

I had the proportions of beef and pork reversed, Murray said. So I went to my original source, the cookbook he'd shown me. She got it wrong too. The filling was supposed to be mostly beef and just a little chicken, in a ratio of about 4:1.

In the recipe below, I have made the correction. I also specify chicken breasts, since Murray's mother used white meat only. And I have substituted fresh herbs for dried.  

Murray also agreed with me: The instructions in the cookbook were too detailed. In fact, his observation was a little more pungent: Anyone who needed every step spelled out had no business even attempting such an ambitious recipe!

For the filling, I have simplified the directions even more and put them into my own language.

When it comes to the dough, I offer only brief instructions.

The cookbook version gives detailed directions for using a pasta machine. I no longer own one of those, and I have happily returned to the old-fashioned hand-rolled approach, at least for making noodles and dumplings. If you would like to find instructions for using a pasta machine, I am sure you can.  For a reminder on how to make noodles by hand, you can look back at my zlikrofi recipe.

I have given the ingredients for the dough, to give an idea of the quantities in this very large recipe. Unlike the Slovenian egg noodle dough,  this recipe includes a little oil, but no salt. Oil is supposed to make pasta dough more supple and elastic. I'm not sure how much difference it makes. The Slovenian recipes, and some kreplach recipes, skip the oil.  So it's up to you.



Murray's Chicken-Beef Kreplach

Ingredients

Filling:

8 oz. boneless chicken breasts
2 lb.  boneless beef chuck
2 T. flour
2 1/2 c. chopped onions
2 T. chicken fat
2 cloves garlic, crushed
1/4 t. paprika
2 T. fresh parsley
salt and pepper to taste
additional chicken fat if needed

Dough:

3 1/2 c. all purpose flour
4 eggs, beaten
2  T. oil


Instructions for filling:

Poach chicken breasts in water seasoned with salt, pepper, and a little minced garlic. Drain. Murray, his mother, and my mother all used hand grinders. If you use a food processor, be careful to chop coarsely. You don't want a paste! Refrigerate.

Murray refers to this next step as "making potted beef." Cut beef in cubes, coat with flour, and brown on all sides. Remove beef from pan. Using the same pan, brown the onion in 2 T. chicken fat. When brown, add beef back to pan. Add 1/2 inch of water, along with salt, pepper, paprika, parsley, and garlic. Cover and simmer on low heat, adding more liquid if needed. When beef is tender, remove from pan and grind or chop coarsely in food processor.

Combine chopped beef, chopped chicken and whatever remains in the pan. If needed, add up to 2 T. additional melted chicken fat, both for flavor and to hold the filling together. Taste and adjust seasoning. Filling should taste somewhat salty.

Murray notes that the texture of the filling should be something like ground meat, as though you were making meat balls. Also, to make a lower fat version, you could omit the chicken fat and use additional browned onions. If the filling seems too soft, add some bread crumbs.


Instructions for dough, shaping, and final preparation:

The original recipe suggests using a a food processor to mix the dough and a pasta machine for rolling it out. If you use a pasta machine, divide into 4 portions. You should end up at the thinnest setting. Or you can follow the old-fashioned approach: mixing and rolling by hand!

Either way, cut the thin sheets of dough into 3 x 3 inch squares. Put a heaping teaspoon of filling in the center. Here is where things change a little: The Murray Method is to moisten the edges of the square before folding into a triangle. The edges are simply pressed together. Then, the final step: Two points of the triangle are joined and pressed together. The finished product should look like tortellini.

Ultimately, the shape doesn't define the dish. I have read about Slovenian zlikrofi that are shaped the very same way, and I have enjoyed kreplach that are simple triangles. Again, it is your choice.

To prepare: Cook in boiling salted water, a few at a time, and "cook until they rise to the top of the water." Remove and drain. The printed recipe suggests that the kreplach should be coated in oil or melted chicken fat to store. They can also be frozen and then simmered for five minutes in soup or broth.

Serve in soup or on their own.

Enjoy!


Update: Two years later, I finally made Murray's kreplach. Even with a few healthy modifications (no salt, oil instead of chicken fat) it was wonderful!  For details, go here.

Slovenian Dinner Week 15: Zlikrofi, a Wonton by Any Other Name

As a special treat, my mother used to make a tasty dish she called wonton dumplings. They were large, meat-filled triangles made of noodle dough, boiled and then served in soup or topped with browned bread crumbs.  Sometimes she called them kreplach, like our Jewish friends.

But she never suggested they were Slovenian.  I wasn't sure she even knew what I had just discovered:  Filled, boiled dumplings are considered a Slovenian specialty, highly touted on all the tourist websites.

"So Mom," I asked her, "did Grandma ever make something like wontons?  Called, maybe, zlin-krow-fee?"

I hesitated over the pronunciation, since I'd seen a few different variants of the Slovenian name in my cookbooks: zlinkrofi, zlikrofi, zinkrofi.

But my mother didn't hesitate at all.

"Oh, sure.  Only we called them zhleee'-kro-feh."

Amazing.  Not only did she know all about them, but she had come up with the proper Slovenian pronunciation, right down to that tricky little ž!

Now I was determined to make them, whatever they were called.

Both spellings, žlikrofi and žlinkrofi, are used in Slovenia.  The Professor, my translator-linguist friend in Ljubljana, tells me the proper way is the first one, without the "n" in the middle.   According to him, it is probably derived from a German term that means "slippery dumpling."

In Slovenia, you can find zlikrofi in many fanciful shapes that are filled with meat, potato, cottage cheese, millet, and even dried fruit.  The most famous seems to be the potato/bacon version made in Idrija, with the name and the recipe protected by law.  It also seems to be the fashion, at least in these English language translations, to describe žlikrofi as ravioli or pasta.

But my vintage Slovenian American cookbooks were more down-to-earth.  Zlikrofi were dumplings or noodles, filled with meat.  The meat combinations, unfortunately, left me a little cold.  Liver or cooked lungs, put through a meat chopper? Veal pluck?  Ham and sausage?

I decided to come up with a version that would be close to what I recalled of my mother's:  a fairly plain meat filling, probably beef with onion and a little parsley.

As a child, I used to love helping her turn the crank on our old-fashioned cast iron meat grinder.  It was such a mysterious alchemy, to watch those leftover chunks of roast beef emerge as a fluffy bowl of shredded meat.  I had inherited that old grinder from her, some years back.  Sadly,  I no longer had it. It had been the casualty of one too many moves.  I wish I had it now.

I figured cooked ground beef would be a reasonable alternative.  And I did spot a recipe for a meat pie ("Meat Pita") in the American Slovene Club's cookbook, with a filling that looked like it might work.

I also had in mind a traditional Jewish recipe from my husband's side of the family.  We had just been visiting my father-in-law in Florida.  He had proudly shared with me his special recipe, Murray's Kreplach, learned from his Polish-born mother.  It had even been published in a cookbook a friend of his had written.

The secret, my father-in-law had told me, was to use lots of browned onion.  And none of this ground meat business. His very elaborate recipe used poached chicken cutlets and a smaller amount of sauteed beef chuck, cooked separately and then chopped in a food processor.

Well, I still wasn't prepared to cook whole chunks of meat from scratch.  But I agreed with him about the onion.  And I took one important seasoning addition from his recipe: Paprika.  I also used matzo meal instead of the bread crumbs called for in my Slovenian cookbook.

So maybe I had made my family's new version of an old favorite,  a marriage of Slovenian zlikrofi and Jewish kreplach.  That would be fitting!

Recipe follows here.