I met my future husband in a local bar in which I worked and often spent my off-time drinking with the strange menagerie of customers who hung out there. 

For weeks, Uzi sat at the bar, but never ventured over to introduce himself to me, yet I felt his eyes riveted my way. I learned from another bartender, Ava, (an Israeli) that after serving in two wars, Uzi, also Israeli, was loath to serve again during the conflict in Lebanon and had gotten permission from his commander to get a traveling visa and return to Israel once things had quieted down. 

Whenever we were both sitting at the bar I felt his eyes on me. Finally, one afternoon I confronted him, “Do I owe you money?” He threw back his head and laughed. The ice broke in a moment’s time. We were married eight months later.

So, Uzi moved into my one-hundred-square-foot studio apartment and we began navigating a life together. He met me when I was eating only fish, fowl and vegetarian dishes, but he never balked because I was an inventive cook and served him a great deal of varied foods from India, Italy, Spain and Asia. When we ate out, Uzi was free to eat meat to his heart’s content.

 In the time we were together, he prepared two dishes for me that were representative of his country. The first was a delicious chopped salad of cucumbers, tomatoes, red onion and romaine lettuce doused with fresh lemon juice, salt, pepper and extra-virgin olive oil. It was refreshing and went with just about anything I prepared. The second was a frightening experience, at least for me. 

Uzi wouldn’t tell me what he was cooking and, to be honest, when it was done I wasn’t sure exactly what he had set before me. It turned out to be sauteed chicken hearts and gizzards! The hearts were small and chewy but not inedible. The gizzards, however, were like trying to eat rubber bands, and I had trouble sparing Uzi my opinion of the dish.

I didn’t much enjoy grocery shopping with Uzi, as he was incensed by the amount of toilet paper, tissues, paper towel rolls, aluminum foil and plastic wrap I tossed into the cart he steered. 

“There’s nothing to eat here, Juju!” he commented frequently, frustrating us both. 

One day as we were walking the aisles of the supermarket Uzi mused, “I miss my mom’s schnitzel so much.” 

“What’s schnitzel?” I asked. 

My husband looked at me in amazement. He thought a moment in an attempt to describe this most popular Israeli entrée, sold pre-prepared in stores and served in just about every casual restaurant around. His English was improving, but not every word was yet in his vocabulary. “Well, you take chicken breasts and pound them until they’re skinny; then dip them in flour, egg and bread dust before frying them in oil.” 

It took me a moment to figure out that “bread dust” was bread crumbs. We bought a packet of chicken breasts and brought them home.

Many years later I discovered that schnitzel had originated in Austria, Vienna and Germany and was most often made with veal cutlets. Eastern European Jews who fled Europe during and after the Holocaust had brought the dish to Israel and because veal was not widely available, chicken or turkey became the substitute.

A few blocks from our apartment, on Bleecker Street, was a revered bread bakery, Zito’s, which sold bags of fine, fresh breadcrumbs (that had no preservatives) made at the end of the day from leftover loaves of bread. I always had them on hand and I doctored them up with herbs and spices (never garlic or onion powder, though) to use when I wanted to add flavor and crunch to pan-fried fish or chicken. I rarely bought chicken breasts and disdained white meat chicken in general, but for this recipe I wanted to reproduce something Uzi would find comforting and familiar. In those days chicken tenders or thinly sliced breasts were not available, as they are today. So, I pounded halved chicken breasts with a heavy, flat meat tenderizer until they were slim. 

Uzi was clearly excited the day I set out to make the schnitzel. I followed the instructions he’d given me on how his mother prepared them, but I was unable to leave well enough alone, and after they were pan fried until crispy, and while they were kept warm in a low oven, I pulled together a bunch of dipping sauces I thought Uzi would enjoy trying. The first batch consisted of little bowls of honey mustard, ketchup, Asian hoisin sauce and BBQ sauce. My husband was delighted. I soon found myself making schnitzel a couple of times a month and changed up the sauces as I had new ideas. But that first time I made schnitzel for Uzi was the most moving. When he finished eating, he turned to me and said, “Juju, do you know how expensive you are to me?” I did, even though I knew he didn’t yet have the words to say I was dear to him.