HUNGRY GERALD

The phrase “starving artist” is, of course, a cliche. But, like many a cliche it points to a truth. Making art in New York is a tough creative, emotional and financial undertaking. An artist, can, indeed, starve. But, it’s not likely as long as Vanessa’s (on Eldridge between Grand and Hester) is around. This was HG’s thought as he watched a thin, sensitive young man (the paint stained coverall indicated his metier) devour one dozen of Vanessa’s pan fried Chinese pork dumplings. The price of these rather large delicious items is four-for-a-dollar. That’s right. A buck. Four is lunch. Six is dinner. A dozen for one person? Unheard of. My sensitive painter dining neighbor was clearly suffering from the Missed Meal Blues. There’s lots more on Vanessa’s bill of fare: Chinese pancakes (really quesadillas); soups (the hot and sour is a killer); robust sandwiches (roast pork with shredded fresh vegetables is a favorite). Most dishes are two dollars. A few super-lavish plates are four dollars. All is fresh, hot and good. The place (naturally) is usually jammed. But, the Chinese women at the counter and in the kitchen are brisk, unsmiling and get you in and out. It’s a throwback to the days when joints—usually named Busy Bee—fed the New York masses for pennies. But, Vanessa’s is Chinese and that makes it really good. Gourmandise for a buck.

HG and Beautiful Sharon are in Riverside, R.I. in the bosom of their family. A spectacular clam chowder crafted by daughter Lesley Riva (whose cuisine HG praised in a previous post) awaits us.  During the HG stay (two days) in New York, HG consumed:  Congee (Chinese rice porridge);  the Chinese version of quesadillas (the Chinese take on tortillas filled with chives and egg); a classic, capacious plateau de fruits de mer; brandade  (the French puree of salt cod, garlic and sweet cream);  Korean pork and beef barbecue accompanied by six kinds of kimchi; special, lush mozzarella;  a piggy variety plate starring pork belly, pork chop and pork sausage.  And more. Much, much more. Shoju (the Korean spirit that shares affinities with both sake and vodka);  martinis; Beaujolais (Morgon);  Muscadet;  Chinese and Korean beer—–all were drunk in copious quantity with happy toasts to convivial company.  The quantity of food and drink was challenging.  HG met the challenge–and conquered.

Two days in The Apple. Lights of the Chrysler and Empire State never looked better. Checked into our Chinatown hotel at 10PM and an hour later HG and Beautiful Sharon were at Congee Village (98 Bowery) gazing at a giant flounder steamed in rice wine, ginger and garlic; a platter of crisp fried, tender squid and (for good health) Chinese broccoli with whole heads of garlic. Bowls of rice and Tsing Tao beer. Restaurant decor: Chinatown bleak (HG always finds “decorated” Chinese restaurants questionable). Food: Divine. Atmosphere at midnight: Lively. Ah,Noo Yawk.

European clams are blah…even in Paris and Venice. Pacific Coast clams are just barely so-so. Long Island (and New Jersey clams are very good). New England clams are sublime and those Yankees know how to cook ’em. For clams on the half shell (raw): Balthazar and Grand Central Oyster Bar (both New York). Boston: the Legal Seafood chain (the Logan Airport branch is a winner); Providence: Hemenway’s; Denver: Palm Restaurant (HG isn’t kidding. The little necks are really good..go figure). For fried clams: The two best are Flo’s Clam Shack in Portsmouth, R.I. and Bob’s Clams in Kittery, Maine (a Calvin Trillin favorite). For linguini with white clam sauce: Riviera Restaurant, Rt. 46, Clifton, N.J. (runner up to Beautiful Sharon). The biggest ever (very good) portion of his delightful dish was at a tiny shack (now closed) on the bike path between Riverside and Bristol, R.I. Clean plate ranger HG could nver finish a helping.  Steamed soft shells: No favorites…good throughout New England. New England Clam Chowder: Once more, Legal Seafood is the winner. Sad and wistful note: The lovely Gage & Tollner restaurant in Brooklyn (closed for some years) featured clam bellies sauteed in butter. The rubbery tails of the clams were snipped away and only the chubby little tummies basked in butter.

For the HG family the golden age of the clam was the period 1963-1975. After an active day on the beach of Fire Island (swimming, body surfing, frisbee tossing, whacking a tennis ball in our own version of sand kadimah), HG, family and friends grabbed buckets and waded into Great South Bay. For those without a New York background: Fire Island is a splinter of a barrier beach off the south shore of Long Island. It is some 31 miles long and as narrow as 100 yards at some points. It fronts on the Atlantic Ocean  and Great South Bay.   It begins at the Jones Beach Inlet and ends at Moriches.  The HG dune house was in the community of Ocean Ridge, just across the Bay from the town of Patchogue.  Fire Island has been the subject of plays, novels and poetry. The colorful communities that stretch along its length range from the out front gay to the relentlessly boy-meets-girl heterosexual.  It’s a mad mixture of bohemians, families,potheads, exhibitionists,  churchgoers,  show business and fashion celebrities.Okay, enough geography and culture. Let’s get back to clams. Once in the Bay, the HG clam posse did vigorous toe wriggling. Dodging horseshoe crabs and thrusting into the swampy Bay bottom, their  toes were seeking the smooth outlines of clams poking out of the mud. During those years  the bay was unpolluted and the bivalves flourished.  The HG clam posse was skilled and 90 minutes of clamming would yield as many as 600 clams. Back at Chez HG a clam feast was prepared.  HG possessed a shucking implement that made the job simple.  Pals and neighbors descended. White wine was opened.  Beers were pulled out of the refrigerator. Martinis were mixed. Joy commenced. First course was clams casino. Open clams got  a mixture of garlic, parsley, olive oil, oregano, light dusting of bread crumbs. Sometimes there was a topping of bacon. Into the oven they went for a brief bake. They were consumed on the back deck, facing the blazing sunset. Then indoors for linguni with white clam sauce. This was Beautiful  Sharon’s specialty: A hundred clams were shucked and all the briny juice retained.  A substantial amount of chopped garlic. Big bunch of chopped flat leaf Italian parsley. White wine. Into the saucepans the ingredients  went. The proportions and timing were Beautiful Sharon’s secret. A Beautiful Sharon clam was always plump and juicy; never rubbery and overcooked. The sauce, filled with succulent clams, was poured over bowls of al dente linguini.  The hot chili pepper flakes were passed. Wowee!!!! Make that double Wowee!!!!  Great South Bay now has pollution problems. The dune house is gone  (replaced by an ocean front paradise  on Prince Edward Island).  Beautiful Sharon is still a deft hand with seafood linguini but with clams selling for $1.25 each her bivalve of choice is the Prince Edward Island mussel.

HG and family are driving to a Cape Cod vacation. HG’s mood is foul. HG is Mister Grouch. HG is in the midst of one of his attempts to stop smoking and nicotine withdrawal is driving him nuts. HG and family are ravenous. HG refuses to make a food stop. “Just wait. We’re in New England. When we get to Falmouth we’ll have big bowls of real New England clam chowder.” Falmouth at last. HG and family enter a promising restaurant with a nautical name like: “Salty Captain Bill’s Clam Shanty.” Yum!! The bowls of The Real Original New England Clam Chowder are presented. HG has a taste. Famished little Jeremy raises a spoon. HG screams: “Don’t touch it!! This is EXCREMENT!! EXCREMENT!! EXCREMENT!! (of course, HG uses a shorter, coarser word).   HG has tasted the alleged clam chowder.  It has the hue, consistency and taste of library paste mixed with a dash of brackish water.  There are no chunks of clam.  It smells like wet dog.  Crazed HG keeps screaming. Customers try to avert their eyes.  HG and family get up to leave. A  bill is presented.  “Are you mad? Do you actually think I am going to pay to eat EXCREMENT?”  Consternation and embarrassment.  Little Jeremy tries to hide.   Pre-teenage Lesley realizes that her father is a lunatic.  Rational Beautiful Sharon says: “Hey, it’s only a bowl of bad chowder.” The waitress says: “I am calling the police.” Seething,  HG throws a bill on the floor.   Exit.   Later ironic discovery: An outstanding chowder and fried clam shack is on the Falmouth waterfront,  a block from Captain Bill’s EXCREMENT establishment.

HG at 17 was fortunate. HG had a beautiful Brooklyn girlfriend who possessed great legs and a Chrysler Woody, best car ever made. As always, amour in HG’s life was linked with food. That meant numerous forays to Lundy’s, the famous landmark restaurant at Sheepshead Bay. HG always had a dozen little necks and a dozen cherry stones on the half shell. Always served with piping hot southern biscuits dripping butter. Plus an obligatory India Pale. The girl friend ate more modestly. Often, we went to Nathan’s Famous in Coney Island. Here, we had clams but also soft shell crab sandwiches…deep fried soft shells on soft buns with plenty of house-made tartar sauce (no disgusting little Kraft’s cellophane packets). Ocean breezes. Greasy faces. Ah, young love.

World War Two makes it hard to find help so 13-year-old (lied about his age) HG is hired as kitchen worker by the Harbor Rest, a Rockaway road house fronting Jamaica Bay.  Its specialty was seafood.  The manager, a very tough guy named Reilly, presented HG to Simon, a grizzled African-American who was busy opening clams. “Show the kid how,” said Reilly and that’s what Simon did. Shucking wasn’t so easy. A very sharp, thin pointed knife was our implement.  My first attempt drew blood.  Instead of sympathy, HG got laughter.  A quick learner, HG soon became adept.  Never had tasted a clam.  Hated the first one.  Tolerated the second one.  Loved the third and after that…addiction.  As Simon and I shucked we ate.  Our chant: “One for us. One for that bastard Reilly.”

Lucky afficianados of HG. Starting tomorrow there will be a multi-post series on that wonderful bivalve—The Clam.

HG wants to visit: Buffalo (for the original wings and beef on weck).  Rochester (for white hot dogs).  St. Louis (for chop suey..that’s right, chop suey).  Milwaukee (for frozen custard).  Copenhagen (for smorrebrod).  Ann Arbor, Mich. (for Zingerman’s).  El Paso (for enchiladas). Kansas City. (for all those Calvin Trillin treats).  Austin (for barbecue).   HG wants to revisit: Terre Haute (for after church Sunday lunch at a dignified cafeteria).  Chicago (for shrimp and grits at Soul Kitchen).  Boston (oysters and clams on the half shell at the airport Legal Seafood and Dover sole at the city locations).  Los Angeles (Cobb salad at the Beverly-Wilshire).  New Orleans (Galatoire’s and Mosca’s).   Baltimore (crab boil).   Miami Beach (Stone Crab Joe’s).  Tokyo (for ramen and yakitori and everything else).   San Francisco (for sand dabs and sloe gin fizzes at Tadich Grill). Gatlinberg, Tenn. (for Wop Salad….that’s what they call it on the menu).