I recently tried (and failed) to sell corned beef sandwiches at the New Taste Marketplace food hall. This is a cautionary tale/headnote – one of those “life lessons” to be looked back upon and learned from, laughed at over gin and tonics on the front porch several years from now. Several. The homemade celery soda made to go with it is absolutely delicious, and it will be highly nostalgic for anyone used to Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray. Like my story, it’s both salty and sweet.
I had every reason to think that selling sandwiches was going to be a success. First off, I love this monthly San Francisco event and I was thrilled to be a participant. New Taste Marketplace is an excellent breeding ground for small-time artisan food entrepreneurs such as Ooh La La Lumpia (stationed to my left) and Snapdragon Baking Co (to my right). The event is also a fundraiser for the food pantry of the church where it’s housed, and it brings in thousands of dollars for people who have no food at all.
I’ve never sold cooked food in my life, but I went into the idea with total confidence in my food and menu. My corned beef is delicious (make it and see – the recipe is in Can It). I’ve made it untold times and reheated whole hunks of it with steam, as the flavor of warm corned beef just kicks cold corned beef’s ass. Ba-Tampte mustard is the de-facto mustard to be served with all Jewish deli meats, and I had plenty at hand. The homemade kraut was rocking and sandwich-ready. And Semifredi’s sliced rye bread is excellent for sandwiches. Homemade cumin-scented carrot pickles were poised to brighten things up along the side and, of course, glasses of homemade celery soda to make it real.
I cured 25 lbs. of Five Dot Ranch brisket for a week, lovingly simmered it for two hours, trimmed it of its fat cap and carefully, patiently, sliced it thinly by hand to have it ready to serve the next day. This process took the better part of a day.
Saturday morning, the day of the market, I packed the car of all my gear and gently heated the sliced meat in a safe and snug aluminum pan tightly covered with foil, along with a dish of water in the oven for added steam, just to heat it through. The heat was low, the oven was moist. I arrived at the event, painstakingly set up my table, added boiling water to my chafing dish to keep the meat hot. Upon pulling back the foil to steal a piece of delicious pink, cured meat – to my horror I saw that my excellent, rosy cured beef had turned the most heinous shade of gray. Like grandpa’s sock water gray. Grungy, hideous, rolled-over-by-tires-in-the-slush gray. There was no way on earth I could sell this food, never mind give it away.
After all of my efforts, I refused to be downtrodden. I slapped a smile on my puss and let people passing by taste the carrots. For my friends who had arrived expecting to support and buy a sandwich, I gave them a glass of celery soda (and I sold and traded a couple, too). For me, this isn’t just a refreshing and unusual soda. It’s also a drink of redemption; of making the most out of what you have – a Depression-era inspiration to celebrate what’s in front of you. I learned that food retail ain’t for me. I gave money to a great charity (my vendor fee), and I encouraged other food eaters to come out and do the same and help build burgeoning local businesses. While I still taste the salt in here and consider it a necessary flavor component, this celery soda is also deliciously sweet.
**
read more
Read More