riff’s rants #1: don’t forget the gravy

Two restaurants last weekend forgot the gravy (photo by twi-ny/mdr)

In the 1951 Warner Bros. cartoon Chow Hound, a big bulldog bullies an innocent little kitty for food.

The cocky canine dresses up the pretty pussycat as Butch, Harold, and Timothy, dragging him to three houses where each owner gives the red and white fur baby a hunk of raw steak for being so adorable and, in one case, catching a mouse. The dog even disguises him as a “saber-tooth alley catus” at the zoo in order to get fed.

Of course, the cat does not get to partake in any of the lovely filets.

To make matters worse, the bulldog harangues the feline mercilessly when he doesn’t get him a key element.

“What, no gravy?” the mutt complains, slapping the poor cat around. “Next time, remember the gravy.”

I understand the dog all too well.

Last Friday night, after seeing a show called The Ask at the wild project, about a young nonbinary fundraiser visiting an older widow who has suddenly stopped donating to the ACLU after many years of giving, my wife and I went to B&H Dairy Kosher Restaurant in the East Village for takeout. I ordered the $12 Studivarnishkes special, consisting of kasha varnishkes, a round potato knish, and mushroom gravy. After joining two deli groups on Facebook, I have been stuffing myself with too much pastrami, corned beef, and brisket, so I thought I’d take a little break and go veggie for a change.

When we got home, I opened the container to find a beautiful golden knish, a ton of kasha — and nary a drop of gravy.

“What, no gravy?” I called out to my wife, who immediately realized what had happened. It’s far from the first time a restaurant has gotten my order wrong; it’s a perennial problem for me, more than just a pet peeve.

She offered me some of the gravy from her vegetable cutlet, but it was impossible to spoon enough out without getting significant amounts of cutlet or rice attached to it.

I ate the knish, which was delicious, but left more than half of the too-dry, overcooked kasha.

The next night, we went to the Birthday Girl / Bikini Kill concert at the Brooklyn Paramount, and lo and behold, right across the street is Junior’s, where a few years ago I had a terrific brisket sandwich between two large latkes — served with memorable gravy.

So I ordered one potato pancake and a side of gravy to go.

“Giblet gravy?” the woman behind the counter asked.

“Absolutely!” I declared with probably too much glee.

I could barely hold myself back from tearing into the food on the subway ride home, but I decided to wait so I could douse both the kasha and the latke in luscious, rich gravy.

When we got home, I opened the bag to find a beautiful golden potato pancake and two small containers — one sour cream, the other applesauce.

“I can’t believe it!” I called out to my wife, who immediately realized what had happened, again. “They forgot the gravy!”

She offered to go out and find me some, but it was already midnight and we were both tired and hungry. The potato pancake — with sour cream and applesauce instead of giblet gravy — was very good but not what I wanted.

Seeing how dejected I was, my wife split her slice of Junior’s lush, rich cheesecake with me, which was sweet and a big help, but it wasn’t gravy.

At the end of Chow Hound, the cat and his mouse pal seek revenge on the now-enormous bulldog, so fat from all the meat he’s devoured that he’s in the hospital, barely able to move.

“This time, we didn’t forget the gravy,” the cat snidely says as they get even with the pooch.

Well, I guess things, for me, could be worse.

In the meantime, I’m contacting the ACLU.

[You can follow Mark Rifkin and This Week in New York every day here.]