HUNGRY GERALD

The late Anatole Broyard wrote a pleasant memoir of his early years—just post World War Two— in Greenwich Village–“When Kafka Was The Rage.” Worth reading. At that time, HG was young and Greenwich Village was the hangout for HG and his left-wing, amorously adventurous, artistically striving pals.   Rent was cheap and $35- a-month one-room apartments were occupied by fresh faced young women from the midwest—each apartment complete with bullfight posters, a cat and a fragrant litter box.   Permit HG some nostalgic sighs.   There was a culinary feature of those Greenwich Village streets—the back of the truck Italian sausage.  On the bed of a pick up truck hot and sweet Italian fennel sausages grilled over charcoal.  In a big, black pan onions and peppers sizzled.  The gate came down.  The Italian guy parked.   Let the good times roll.  The juicy sausage (when you bit into it there was a squirt of liquid glory) was topped with the onion and pepper mixture and placed in a split Italian loaf from Zito’s Bakery.  It cost a quarter.  HG must pause to wipe away a nostalgic tear.  For midwest romance and juicy two-bit sausages.  Both were delicious.