This is not my mother. These are not the world's best latkes. Read on for the full story.
My mother sells jewelry on the Bowery. Unless it's some lovely vintage piece, I ain't into it. But other people like the glitter stuff, like the Olsen twins. Mary Kate and her sister Ashley were in "the place," the other day, their limo parked outside, they were pouring over diamonds inside.
What were 
doing in 82 Bowery? Good question but Mom needs more customers like them, so go visit her! (Email me if you want details. You really have to go before she retires.)
But, today, I'm not here to talk about diamonds, I'm here to talk about potatoes.
Last winter, with frequency, I'd get a call from Ethel who said, "Come. I've got some." She wasn't talking about some gold or some fancy pants watch, she was talking about the world's finest potato latkes imported from the land of her competitors, the uptown diamond exchange. These are the ne plus ultra of latkes.
Today, my brother, the cardiologist, was in town for a rare visit. I love my brother and rarely get to see him, so it didn’t take much to get me to play hooky. After a long morning in MOMA I took us on a mission. I wanted to find the latkes.
We walked along 47th Street. Shills lurk outside, trying to lure in the jewel hunting. After the second person asked if I was looking for something special that day I said, "Yes, I am looking for a latke place inside of an Arcade."
The young, shill, no more than 19 I imagine, really wanted to hear I was looking for a 4 carat vvs2, yet he sent me in the right direction.
There it was, as advertised. A stall, at the end of the Arcade on 48th Street. The House of Pita. As it was mid-town, 1pm: we stood on line. When it was our turn I said triumphantly, "Four latkes."
The man said we don't make them anymore.
I did not want to believe him and pointed to the sign that said, latkes, house specialty. "They’re there! On the board! The best ever. You can't do this. This is criminal.”
“Sorry.” He took his time with me even though the line was building.
“You will rot in hell for this!" I said. Ok, I didn’t say it. I was getting carried away.
He merely said they were indeed very good.
Not very good, incomparable! Godly!
"People thought they were too unhealthy, too oily," he explained. “We didn’t sell many.”
"They know nothing! These people ordering falafel,” said looking around, mentioning their most requested item, “think they are too unhealthy?" I was drooling outraged spittle. I wanted to cry.
These latkes were at least 1.5 inches thick. Not a raw potato in the shredded bunch. Onioned, densely crusted, moist and flakey inside, it was like the crunchy potato tortilla I always wanted---the way of Krakow. You have not lived in latkedom until you tasted these…who knew you could get a crust like that without using shmaltz? They worked wonders with the potato, and being a peasant girl, I know from potatoes.
He urged me take a potato boreka instead. "These are good too," he said. He was a kind man. Slight Israeli accent. He understood.
“But a boreka is NOT a latke," I pouted. "What about Chanukka? Will you make them then?" I pleaded.
"Maybe, " he said in a way that made me feel hopeful.
You know what? The potato boreka-very flakey pastry, nice touches of sesame, beautifully seasoned potates, was actually the best potato knish I ever had.
But it was not a latke.
That with some Cazin Cour-Cheverny? Yum.
