HUNGRY GERALD

The Berlin Wall came down. The Soviets left Czechoslovakia and the Czechs had a gleeful taste of freedom. It was 1990…time for HG and Beautiful Sharon to visit Mittel Europa with Prague being the high point. We found Prague extraordinary. Untouched by the war and bombing, Prague retained a medieval atmosphere with stunning architecture and a great castle dominating the skyline. The Jewish Cemetery,  literally jammed with headstones, did seem the appropriate place for the birth of The Golem.  And, with its air of melancholy and mystery it was fitting that Prague was Franz Kafka’s hometown. Twenty years ago, Prague was a city of dingy store fronts featuring the worst of behind the Iron Curtain fashion displayed in a jumble of dust and disarray. Everything was laughably cheap. Street life was joyous, with musicians on every corner. Street style was odd. Men, from teens to middle age, favored short-short shorts, black socks and unspeakable local sneakers. Their appearance was not edifying.   HG feared, because of envious glances, that his Nikes might provoke a mugging. The food was inedible; the Czech menus impenetrable. Whatever we ordered we received brown stuff (pork? beef? lamb? dog?) covered with brown stuff (sludge? worse?). We didn’t starve. Old ladies sold steaming sausages on the street that were hearty and good. We encountered a delicious Prague custom. A window opened in an otherwise blank wall. A sign appeared: VAFFLES. Instantly a crowd gathered to buy sweet, crispy, very tasty waffles topped with lush whipped cream. Toward the end of our visit, we came upon a very chic Chinese restaurant run by Germans: CZINKY.  it attracted the city’s fashionistas and the cuisine reminded HG of
Brooklyn circa 1950. Quite good. We also went to the city’s ultimate gourmet heaven, a restaurant specializing in roast duck. It was in an unspeakably ugly structure built by the Communists (and this in a city of fairy tale buildings). The restaurant was vast, virtually unpopulated, tacky, dirty. Our slovenly waiter spent much of his time trying to seduce some local frump. After much shouting, the surly guy brought our duck (admittedly, rather good).  It summed up life under the Communists.  Waiting for our train to Berlin, HG visited the pay men’s toilet guarded by a stolid lady at a desk. “Pee-Pee? Kah-Kah?”, she inquired. The price varied, it seemed. A few years later son Jeremy spent his post college graduation year in Prague.  Between reggae DJ stints on radio (Vaclav Havel was a fan), Jeremy was a steady customer at a bar where he liked the Pilsener and beef roasted in “the Jewish style.” He suggested to the proprietor,  since there were many American and English tourists,  that the menu be translated into English. And, so Jeremy’s favorite dish soon appeared: ROAST JEW.

HG and Beautiful Sharon will be in Paris for a few weeks early in 2011. So, why Paris for the umpteenth time rather than Copenhagen or Hong Kong or Vienna or other great destinations? Sure, there’s great art (but not better than New York or Madrid). Great architecture (but not better than Barcelona). Great street life )but not better than Venice). Great cafes (but not better than Buenos Aires). Good looking women (certainly not better than the beaches of Rio de Janeiro). Is it the food? Well, to be truthful you eat better in New York. And, Steven Lemon, the chef at “O”–The Eating House (five minutes from HG’s New Mexico home), makes a better duck confit than you’ll find in Paris and better pizzas than in Rome). So, once more, why Paris? The answer is attitude and ambience. The Parisian attitude is that dining is a delightful, but serious, ritual. A meal, whether a tartine at a bar or a gala dinner, demands attention. It is a collaboration between the waiter, the chef and the diner. At a restaurant gastronomique there is the sommelier to consider. Judgments have to be made. Does the menu (the fixed price meal) have some good choices or should one delve into the more expensive carte? Modest dishes and an expensive wine or vice versa? Cheese platter or dessert or both? A gourmand is not a glutton. Rich must be balanced by relatively austere. And, the entire meal (lengthy or brief) must have a pleasant rhythm…allowing for conversation and laughter with friends, intimacies with lovers and fond recollections with life partners. That’s why the Paris waiter serves a drink (almost never strongly alcoholic) and allows the diner ample time to evolve the appropriate gastronomic and vinuous strategy. HG mentioned ambience. In a Parisian restaurant you are a guest not a mere customer. Everyone in a good establishment takes pride in performance. At HG’s favorite brasserie, Le Stella, the chef lauds the expertise of the men in charge of the outdoor bank of oysters and shellfish; the waiter tells you the Ile Flottante is prepared in house and is the best in Paris; the maitre d’ summons a captain expert in choosing modestly priced but very drinkable wines…and so on. Since the diner is a guest there is the question of good manners. Whether a grand restaurant or a modest bistro, there is a pleasant buzz but voices are kept low. Though the trend is toward the casual, diners are well dressed.  The Parisienne in nicely fitting (not skin tight)  jeans, sweater or shirt and a creatively tied scarf, is a very pleasant sight. And, that goes for young women and ladies of a certain age. How can HG sum up the special essence of Paris? Okay. One incident. HG enters Cave de Abbesses (the funky backroom bar of a wine shop where oysters are being served at a bargain one Euro each). HG orders a dozen and a carafe of chilled muscadet. They are presented. The oysters glisten. There is the fragrance of the sea.  HG says to the waiter: “Say prayers. I have died and am in oyster heaven.” The waiter translates for the crowded bar. Hilarity. Glasses are raised. HG is recognized as a member in good standing of the international tribe of gourmands. Ah,Paree!!

Murray Bernthal (1911-2010) is gone. The Syracuse,N.Y. music/theater impressario and music educator died a few days ago. Age 99. His daughter, Bobbi Schlesinger,  is HG’s long time friend and a former colleague and collaborator in the nefarious business of public relations, so HG met Murray a number of times.  A remarkable, fortunate guy.  He married well.  Rose,who predeceased him, was a beautiful, stylish elegant, super-smart woman.  A shapely dynamo adorned with bravura false eyelashes, she lit up any room she entered. Their children were Ricky, a very successful lawyer and Bobbi, publicist extraordinaire. Murray left behind a host of accomplished grandchildren and cute great-grandchildren. My favorite of the brood is his grandson, Adam Schlesinger, Academy Award nominee, Broadway composer, member of the “Fountains of Wayne” rock group. Funny and generous (Adam and wife gave me some great couture ties for my last birthday).  Murray was steeped in nachis (the Yiddish word meaning pride in the accomplishments of your family). His professional career was distinguished. He was a prominent member of the Syracuse University music department. In addition, he could also be termed The Impressario of Syracuse. For many decades, as a private entrepreneur, Murray brought to that city the great musicians of our time for concerts. He also attracted the best touring companies of Broadway dramas and musicals. There were many doubters. As if you didn’t know, Syracuse isn’t exactly Paris. Also, weather’s a factor. The city is in the middle of the New York State snow belt and, for many months of the year, it’s worth your life to venture out for the morning mail let alone go to play or a concert. But, Murray (aided by Rose,of course) made it work and year after year brought (at a profit, surprisingly) music, art and enlightenment to Syracusans. No subsidies. No grants. Pure private enterprise. He was recognized and appreciated by his audiences. Murray was an athlete (a talented tennis player, he only stopped playing doubles a few years ago) and a proper gentleman. As young marrieds, Murray and Rose were pals with Bud Wilkinson and wife. Bud was the Syracuse football coach and later achieved great fame as the coach of the invincible Oklahoma Sooners and as an Oklahoma political figure. Murray, recalled with admiration, that Bud, a tough and demanding guy, never sullied his lips with a dirty or profane word. HG did not point out to Murray that his daughter, Bobbi, could use some mighty salty language when circumstances warranted it. So, what has all of this to do with food, HG’s primary interest (obsession) ? Be patient. The Bernthal/Schlesinger clan has some food oddities. Despite her protests, HG knows that Bobbi could live very happily on candy bars, cigarettes and Coca-Cola. As for Murray, he would eat anything but insisted the food be smothered in ketchup. No exceptions. Okay, maybe breakfast cereal and ice cream. There’s a family legend about how a famous chef tried to brain Murray after he covered one of his creations with ketchup. HG has contemplated Murray’s passing at such an old age. Could it be true? Is ketchup the key to longevity? Murray, a remarkable man, will be missed by many. Not, least by the Board Chairman of the H.J. Heinz Company.

Why does looking at great art make me so hungry? In Madrid, there’s a great art walk along Paseo del Prado. There’s El Prado, of course, with scores of master works by Velasquez, Goya and El Greco. The Reina Sofia has Picasso’s Guernica and outstanding examples of Italian Futurism.The Thyssen-Bornemisza has good examples of everything from Rembrandt to Braque. Now there’s a new place along the Paseo, the Caixa Forum. Completed after my last visit, this former power house renovated by the Swiss Team of Herzog and De Meuron (the duo who did the Tate Modern) features one of the world’s largest vertical gardens, a spectacular staircase and a collection of contemporaries. Enough to give HG a raging appetite.  During his last visit these museums forced HG to eat sumptuous amounts of pulpo al gallego (tender chunks of stewed octopus in a smoked paprika sauce) and pimientos del padron (lauded in a previous post).  In Paris,  after a good helping of Legers and Picassos at Centre Pompidou and Degas at Gare d’Orsay,  HG’s cry is:”Shuck those oysters!! Sizzle that duck confit!!  And, please,  encore those pommes frites.”

Shishito peppers are a standard Japanese nosh, done tempura style and washed down with beer or sake. In Spain, pimientos del padron are consumed by the zillions in tapas bars (with dry sherry) or as part of a casual meal (with sangria).  In the United States: Virtually unknown.  Let HG enlighten you.   Shishitos are small green peppers (two to four inches long).  Pimientos del padron are a close cousin but often slightly smaller than the Shishitos.  Preparation is simple. Heat a pan until really hot.  A splash of olive oil.  Stir fry until slightly charred, adding some finely chopped garlic at last moment so it doesn’t burn.  Plate. Give it a hit of sea salt and a pinch of cayenne, if you like.  Kumpai !! Ole!! Ole!! But wait, HG has a warning: These are sweet peppers but every ten peppers or so there’s a rebel, a really hot, blazing guy.  Zap!!  Don’t say HG didn’t warn you.

I’m talking about kasha (formal name is buckwheat groats). This excellent food (cereal? grain?) is a staple of the East European diet but rarely appears on American tables. Pity. It’s good stuff with a unique nutty and toasty flavor. Try it as an accompaniment to a beef stew or brisket (one with lots of sauce). Toss ladlefuls into some steaming chicken broth. Use the pepper mill generously. Instant lunch. Better than any packaged ramen. Try a bowl topped with some Greek yogurt (HG likes to put Greek yogurt on almost anything but oysters). Kasha’s good with sauteed onions and mushrooms. Where to buy it? In the bulk section of Whole Foods or boxed in many supermarkets (the brand is Wolf’s, I believe). How to cook? Add a cup of kasha to a heated pan. Beat one egg. Add beaten egg to the pan.   Stir, under reasonably high heat, until the egg is absorbed and the grains of kasha are coated and dry.  Add 2 to 2- and -a- half cups of boiling chicken broth, salt, pepper and a bit of butter (my Mom, the health addict, would give it a big hit of chicken fat). Cover. Lower the heat and cook until the kasha gets soft (but not mushy). Give a few stirs during the cooking process. Eat like a Slav.

The Tin Roof. Don’t know what a Tin Roof is? Vanilla (or chocolate) ice cream with a generous pour of Hershey’s Chocolate Syrup. Topped with Planters Cocktail Peanuts (salted) packed in a can. The Tin Roof is the perfect blend of sweet, salty and crunch. Do not, I repeat, do not go upscale with fancy chocolate topping or exotic nuts. Has to be Hershey’s and Planters in the can. Sometimes low end is the best.

Never buy anything in the supermarket labeled “Lite,” “Instant” or “EZ.” In the ethnic section never buy anything labeled “Kosher Style.” It is or it ain’t. Avoid all salsas described as “Mild.” What, exactly, is the point of a “Mild” salsa? Avoid risotto at Italian restaurants. It’s never any good. Risotto demands lots of attention and lots of stirring. Make it at home. In Italy, stirring risotto (or polenta) is man’s work. Women have better things to do.

In years past whenever sadness, depression or just plain blues hit me, I had the perfect antidote: A chat with publicist, TV host Richard H. Roffman, the champion of the famous unknowns of New York. Richard represented as publicist and presented on his public access TV show,  an amazing crew of characters such as a lady who wrestled in a vat of Jello and a man who whistled (creditably) through his nose. (These were the headliners…he also represented lesser talents). You can get the full flavor of the inimitable Richard by hitting Google and logging into a You Tube clip of his TV show. It has been said that Woody Allen based his “Broadway Danny Rose” character on Roffman. So, when down in the dumps, I would call Richard. His voice was ripe with enthusiasm. His joy was boundless. This was his inevitable greeting: “Gerald!! Gerald!! You’re doing wonderful things, wonderful things!! The whole town’s talking about you!!.” Bye, bye, blues. He made my day.

In Paris a few years ago I had the stimulating experience of seeing the definitive show of the Dada movement organized beautifully at Centre Pompidou. The work of Hans Richter..his films, paintings, woodcuts, graphic designs..were given great prominence. I was pleased.  Hans Richter is one of my heroes and mentors, little known or remembered in the United States but as the Dada show indicated,  much appreciated in Europe. Some background on Richter (1888-1976): Born in Germany.  Wounded while fighting with the German army in World War One.   An artist almost from birth, he left for Switzerland (Zurich) after his army discharge. He was convinced of the total absurdity of war and its trappings…medals, uniforms, marches, flags, patriotic songs, jingoistic speeches…..accompanied by booming guns and ending with the meaningless maiming and murder of young men. This anti-war stance coupled with his belief in revolutionary change (only modified during World War Two) was part of his belief structure and artistic thrust. The absurdist Dada movement seemed an appropriate response to war madness.  With great enthusiasm, Richter joined Zurich’s Dada circle of artists, writers and musicians. I am not going to give the very literate followers of HG a lengthy description of Dada. If you’re not familiar with Dada, look it up.  In 1940, Richter moved to the United States and for the next 18 years divided his time between New York and his summer home in Southbury, Connecticut.  His principal activity during these years was making films..abstract, surreal films. They are remarkable.  Here are three: Dreams That Money Can Buy (my favorite); 8 x 8: A Chess Sonata In 8 Movements (with Marcel Duchamp, Jean Cocteau, Max Ernst, Fernand Leger, Alexander Calder);  Dadascope (poems written and spoken by Hans Arp, Kurt Schwitters, Marcel Duchamp).  As you can see by his list of collaborators,  Richter knew,  worked with, and was admired by,  many of the towering figures of modern art.  He was a particular hero of the avant garde in the United States and Europe.  I met Hans when I was an undergraduate at City College of New York and he was teaching at the College’s Institute of Film Techniques. My concentration was in journalism so I spent a year at his classes,  watching the great films and writing lengthy film critiques,  envisioning a future career as a film critic like James Agee and Manny Farber.  Richter was a great, passionate teacher.  His German-accented voice sometimes grew  hoarse as he rhapsodized about von Sternberg,  Griffith , Renoir,  Pabst,  Von Stroheim and others. Basically, he taught me how to see.  His dissection of my papers was meticulous.  I was a favorite student, received only ‘A’.  I admired Hans.  He was the picture of European elegance.  Straight steel gray hair.  Casual, but well tailored clothes.  Never a tie (too bourgeois).  Rather, a silk ascot and a casually draped wool scarf (followers of HG may note that he continues this tradition of dress albeit without the requisite elegance).  One afternoon after class, Hans invited me for coffee so we could continue our heated discussion of “Grand Illusion.” He maintained that it was a film about war but without any villains. It was totally anti-war but didn’t have any carnage scenes.  Instead, it focused on the absurdity of the entire enterprise and intimated that those who believed in it would be, as Lenin put it: ‘Swept into the dust bin of history.” Well, Renoir was a great film maker but not historically prescient. Not only is war still with us…maiming and murdering…but it becomes more absurd with each passing day. Segue back to Hans Richter and the young HG at The Campus Griddle on Broadway. Hans ordered a grilled cheese sandwich with his coffee. I was mesmerized by the grace of his table manners. Fork in his left hand, knife in his right. He cut the sandwich into eight segments. Deftly picked each one up and ate. No crumbs. He took his leave. On his way to a dalliance, I thought. For he was not only a dandy but even at late middle age a bit of a libertine, I suspected. He returned to Switzerland in 1958 (probably sickened by McCarthyism)  while still spending some time at his American summer home.   He gave up film making and returned to painting.  Hans died in Switzerland in 1976.