Creamed Spinach

The Jewish community in Chicago had two private clubs to which they could belong in the 1970s. The Standard Club, founded in 1869, and the Covenant Club, founded around 1916. My family, of which my sister and I are the fifth generation to inhabit the north side of Chicago, was solidly in the Covenant Club camp. My great-grandparents, their siblings, my grandparents, all their friends, everyone belonged to the club. It was a downtown oasis in the heart of the city, convenient to everyone and, most importantly, known for having good food. Light fluffy matzo balls floating in crystal-clear chicken consommé with tiny cubes of carrot. Crisply fried breaded veal cutlets. A killer Sacher torte.

This focus on food was especially useful as my great-grandmother notoriously did not cook. She and my great-grandfather lived in the Belmont Hotel, like elderly Jewish Eloises, and took many of their meals in the first-floor restaurant, Nana occasionally absconding with pieces of the silver to use in their apartment. I still have a small heavy silver nut dish gracefully engraved with a swirly B, which I had always presumed was for Ballis, but was, in fact, for Belmont.

So, on any occasion, be it a holiday gathering or a birthday or anniversary celebration, if Nana and Papa were hosting, we were eating the festive meal at the Covenant Club. We'd take one of the private dining rooms, or a corner of the main room, and assemble at a long table with Papa at the head, and a menu chosen carefully by Nana. Nana would preside over the festivities as if she had been toiling herself in the kitchen, and Papa would reach over with his fork to taste your dessert, "just the northeast corner," never accepting a whole one for himself.

The one constant for my family, no matter what else was on that menu, was their exceptional creamed spinach. It would come in small shallow bowls, one for each guest, and everyone would wipe the last bits out with pieces of bread. Occasionally someone would cheekily request a second portion. That someone might have been me.

The creamed spinach at the Covenant Club was different than any I had encountered before. The spinach was finely chopped, no long straggly leaves falling off your spoon en route to your mouth. It was intensely spinachy, with just enough creamy sauce to bind it together, always smooth but never soupy, seasoned simply with salt and pepper and a hint of nutmeg. When the club announced it was shuttering for good in the mid-1980s, my intrepid grandmother immediately went to the club, asked for the chef, and wheedled the spinach recipe out of him. While creamed spinach isn't really a traditional holiday side dish for most families, that Covenant Club creamed spinach always tasted like special times to all of us.

Over the years, my grandmother made her own changes, and I have made mine. This version is a bit lighter, using a cornstarch slurry to lightly thicken the sauce, instead of the traditional butter-and-flour roux. Half-and-half instead of heavy cream, and half the sour cream replaced with Greek yogurt. But the feeling is the same, a wonderfully verdant side dish, with just enough dairy to smooth the edges and give it a luxurious festive feel.

I make it for most holidays and frequently for dinner parties. It freezes beautifully, so I can make it ahead and reheat it as needed. You can halve or even double this version without a problem, so adjust it for the size of your group. I have converted many a "I don't like spinach" skeptic into a spinach lover with this! And since it uses frozen spinach, you can make it any time of year.

Making it was always a love letter to my dad, who didn't love vegetables but adored creamed spinach. This year, we'll have it in his memory.