My mother made great brisket when I was growing up: slow-cooked, more sour than sweet. We ate it every year for erev Rosh Hashanah, with Goodman’s tiny egg-noodle farfel. I loved it.
So, I never understood, when I was a child, why people made terrible jokes about dry, overcooked brisket. Now I know: Many people weren’t as lucky as I was.