Farewell launch to a lost love of the past: Liverwurst

Boar's Head's decision last week to end production of liverwurst made perfect business sense, of course. A listeria outbreak at a plant in Virginia killed nine and sickened dozens; The least the company can do is to shut down operations indefinitely and eliminate the root culprit.

Besides, who on earth would mourn the dwindling supply of a cold cut that has the look and consistency of wet cement? Whose name is the argument in favor of vegetarianism?

Me, for one. And as I write this, I can almost hear the long awkward pause, someone somewhere, sheepishly whispering, “Me too.”

Liverwurst is not part of my daily diet, I am still upright. Years will pass before I give. But every once in a while I want to see a piece of the American past.

This thought occurred to me when, not too long ago, I left the newsroom in search of the once-ubiquitous liverwurst. My holy quest led me to Manhattan's Hell's Kitchen, where the display cases of various delis and bodegas were devoid of liverwurst but overflowing with turkey: smoked turkey, maple turkey, peppercorn turkey, buffalo turkey, turkey, turkey, turkey.

I finally wandered into a Ninth Avenue establishment that was once a reliable purveyor of cold cuts. A marquee above the counter advertised a variety of sandwich options, including liverwurst, and my heart leapt with joy or fear.

On rye with mustard and tomato, please, I said.

“Sorry, boss,” said the counterman. “No liverwurst.”

“But it's signed!”

He looked at the board above him, shrugged, “Sorry, boss. Türkiye?”

I walked away with a sad-sack turkey on rye and realized I'd transformed into another crank who thought everything was fine in his day, till sunset. When this transformation is complete, please hit me with a stickball bat.

The general absence of liverwurst makes me doubt my memory of its ubiquity. This feeling was intensified after a discussion about cold cuts with my older daughter's 27-year-old, well-educated partner. He had never tasted liverwurst; In fact, he hadn't even heard of liverwurst. That he grew up in suburban Philadelphia only explains that much.

What liverwurst ever A thing? Have I been hit in the head with a stickball bat? I consulted the New York Times archives.

oh In June 1945, following the Allied victory in Europe at the end of World War II, four million New Yorkers hailed General Dwight D. Eisenhower lined the streets of the city to cheer him on. He and other honored guests enjoyed lunch with Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia at Gracie Mansion, where the menu included “cold turkey and chicken, liverwurst, tomato surprise, coffee and bottled beer,” according to the Times.

If liverwurst was good enough for Ike, pal, it's good enough for me.

In the 1970s and '80s, liverwurst and its equally problematic cousin, bologna, remained cylindrical mainstays at lunchtime, at least in metropolitan areas. They were eaten because they were cheap, and they were cheap because — well, let's just embrace the bliss of ignorance.

At the Catholic grammar school I attended on Long Island, you brought liverwurst or bologna for lunch Monday through Thursday and peanut butter and jelly on Friday. A half-pint of milk, stale Shoprite cookies, and you were ready to tackle the idea of ​​transubstantiation.

In my teens and early 20s, I was a deli clerk for hire, with a white paper hat on my head, a quick draw with a pencil behind the ear. A cold cut paladin.

But the undisputed master of the deli domain was Bower's head deliveryman, Hermann. Dressed in a dark work uniform that fits him like a Brooks Brothers suit, chest hair slicked back from above the unbuttoned top button of his shirt, he'll wheel in his precious cargo, then help himself to a coffee and a Danish. He knew that without herman—that is, without the pig's head—there was nothing but potato salad.

Cylindrical lunch meats will be arranged in deli display cases like missile shells — liverwurst, bologna, hard salami, Genoa salami, mortadella, Taylor ham — roast beef and turkey sitting on silver platters befitting their royal deli status. Parents would line up to order the meals their kids needed during the week, hovering over the slicer and demanding that everything be thinly sliced.

thin. No, thin. thin. I could hold a breath of air to visit them and still hear: thin.

Ordering a pound of ham was a welcome deviation from the bologna-and-liverwurst routine; Perhaps an anniversary or birthday justifies the extra cost. But ordering a pound of roast beef in the presence of others was considered an unseemly way to boast about improved family prospects, “I guess liverwurst just isn't good enough for some people.”

In the decades that followed, liverwurst lost its display-case prominence as eating habits changed in the ever-distracting pursuit of health food. A good protein source of nutrients including iron and B vitamins, liverwurst is also high in fat and sodium. And, of course, there's that wet-cement color. And that semisolid texture. And, um, ingredients.

I know, I know. I know that liverwurst is still available, in some fancy display cases, at specialty stores like August Schaller and Weber's on the Upper East Side. But the gradual disappearance seems to have removed something from the menu of life.

We all hold on to things that return us to where we came from, a place centered in time rather than geography. A certain doll, a certain television show, a certain snack—they're the life preservers we cling to as the riptides of the year drag us farther from familiar shores.

For me, one of those items is, unfortunately, liverwurst. I see the long-time mothers of my childhood friends again, they call me Danny because they order the cold cut thin. I see Hermann, Danish in hand, leaning against the walk-in refrigerator, confident that the world will always need his bologna and liverwurst.

And, sometimes, late at night, I just want another piece of whatever that is.