HUNGRY GERALD

New York is a steak eating town. Every now and then promoters of good health manage to decrease the number of steak houses but the carnivores always manage a comeback. HG was literally at the center of the golden age of New York steak.. A Hearst journalist, HG in the 50’s worked out of E. 45th Street and could take few steps without stumbling into a steak house. Beef Valhalla.

The East 40’s was known as “Steak Row” and these were the places that grilled well marbled, perfectly aged beef: Christ Cella (HG’s favorite); Palm; Danny’s Hideaway, The Assembly, Press Box, Pen and Pencil, Pietro’s, Joe & Rose, McCarthy’s. Some blocks away on W.36th Street was Al Cooper’s (beloved by garment center biggies and HG). The theater district standbys were Frankie & Johnny’s and Gallagher’s. Off the beaten track were Cavanagh’s on E. 23rd Street, The Steak Joint in Greenwich Village and venerable Peter Luger’s in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn.

All wonderful. But, HG’s private joys were steak and vinegar peppers at Delsomma on W. 47th and steak with Spanish potatoes and onions at Fornos on W. 52nd. HG would search but it was very difficult to obtain a nice plate of tofu and sprouts.

Long, leisurely Sunday roast beef lunch. Yes, waiter, a bit more Yorkshire pudding, please. Savory? Yes. Welsh Rarebit. Good accompaniment to the remains of the claret. No, I’ll pass on the Spotted Dick. Is that trifle I spy on the pudding list? That’s the dialogue HG is looking forward to during London visit in a few weeks. Classic English dining in London is sheer delight (BSK agrees). It doesn’t come cheap, however. The Euro goes further at a modest Paris bistro. What London does have (and Paris emphatically does not) is a huge variety of very good and inexpensive Indian, Korean, Lebanese, Chinese, Turkish and Japanese joints. Fish and chips in London is overrated. The best fish and chips can be found on HG’s beloved Prince Edward Island. The true essence of aristocratic London can be found at tea time at classy hotels like The Ritz, Brown’s, Claridge’s. Stylish, elegant, high caloric, chloresterol defying, pricey fare. Even BSK, The Moderation Advocate, is heard to mutter “The hell with moderation,” when confronted by scones, jam and overflowing mounds of clotted cream. BSK has also been know to do considerable damage to fruitcake and smoked salmon sandwiches. Of course, HG and BSK will be walking off the treats at the Tate Modern, the National Gallery, Albert & Victoria, British Museum. But, HG and BSK will manage to snare some edible good things at Harrod’s capacious food hall to eat in front of the TV. Though Anglophiles to the hilt, HG and BSK will still manage to pass on the jellied eels.

HG and BSK will be in Paree soon. Both are pleased that the usual cloud of bistro Gauloises/Gitanes smoke will be missing. Those individualistic, defiant, contrarian Parisians have capitulated. Paris restaurants are now compelled (by law) to offer wine by the glass. HG doesn’t know whether it will help curb alcoholism but it’s a good idea. If there is a tiny ray of February sun the outdoor cafes will be crowded. The best art exhibits will open three days after HG and BSK leave. Paris dining is less expensive than New York. (Unless you indulge in haute cuisine at Michelin starred landmarks. Then the bill is astronomical. Fortunately, HG and BSK despise haute cuisine). Paris (and New York) tasting menus are a bad idea. Too many courses. Taste buds get blunted. A slight feeling of nausea is created. Paris restaurant portions (for the most part) are modest. HG and BSK walk everywhere in Paris. Despite fondness for cheese platters, ile flottantes, creme brulees and breakfast baguettes HG does not gain weight in Paris. BSK, disciplined advocate of moderation, never gains weight anywhere. Foodie heaven is wandering around the food hall at the Bon Marche department store on the Left Bank. If it’s good to eat Bon Marche has it. And that includes Cheerios, Cheetos and Skippy Peanut Butter.

Super Bowl was fun. Close. Exciting. But what made the day was the post-game roast pork and green chile stew. BSK slashed a pork shoulder in many places and filled the slashes with fresh garlic. Dusted the pork with cumin and Goya Adobo. Cooked it in a 250 degree oven for six hours. Piggy, porky, juicy, falling apart meat. A delight. We gave thanks to Son Jeremy. After all, it was SJ, the Brooklyn gourmand, who gave us the recipe.

What should accompany pig a la SJ ? We’re in New Mexico so BSK took some roasted local green chiles from the freezer. Cleaned them and stewed them in chicken stock with onions, garlic, lemon juice and a few squeezes of tomato paste. Tangy stuff. We also had some chicken mole tamales, black beans with chopped onion and sour cream; avocado, onion and orange salad; tostadas, guacamole, salsas. Guinness Stout. Bass Ale. Sierra Nevada Pale Ale.. Good company was provided by The Old Gringo from Abiquiu.. Raised our glasses to the guys from the chilly north. Cold, snow and Packers just go together. Good reason to feast on savory piggy.

BSK describes her culinary history while growing up in the Midwest as: The Good, the Bad, the Very Bad and the Ugly.

THE GOOD: A foot long chili dog at Porky’s, Galion. Ohio. Lemon meringue pie (in fact, all Midwestern pies especially those cooked by church ladies for socials).  Scalloped potatoes (but, only if made by BSK’s Mom). Milk punch and ham and biscuits at a neighbor’s New Year’s Day party. Roast pork and sauerkraut served at the end of the Christmas/New Year’s holiday season (supposed to have a salutary effect on the digestive system of overindulgers). Seckel pears from a neighbor’s garden. Canned baked beans enhanced by molasses, brown sugar and bacon. Church social ice cream. Root beer floats served at the A & W stand in frosty mugs. Hot and spicy deviled eggs. Concord grapes in Mansfield, Ohio (an intense flavored grape which made the best jam). Tin Roof dessert (vanilla ice cream, Hershey’s syrup. Planter’s salty canned cocktail peanuts). Super yummy lunch: Peanut butter, lettuce and mayonnaise sandwich served with a bowl of hot tomato soup.

THE BAD: A wedge of iceberg lettuce,with orange supermarket dressing glop. 

THE VERY BAD:  Chinese food in Mansfield, Ohio. (Brown glop with brown glop on top served on a bed of glop). 

THE UGLY:  Big frog’s legs from frog “gigging” expeditions. Schoolmates devoured the legs. BSK found it too horrible to even contemplate.  Many years later, BSK wouldn’t even eat tasty, buttery frog legs meuniere at Le Dome in Paris (despite urging from HG).  

HAPPY MEMORY:  BSK’s first bagel with cream cheese at Charbart’s, the coffee house hangout of the cool set at Ohio State University. Fledgling actress BSK drank black coffee, smoked many cigarettes and inhaled the second hand marijuana fumes from the “hip” apartments above Charbart’s. Even then BSK knew her destiny was New York. The bagels sealed her fate.

New York newspaper days in the 1950’s. A different world. First of all there were seven dailies — News and Mirror (tabloids); Post, World-Telegram and Journal-American (afternoons); Times and Herald-Tribune (quality mornings). There were three wire services: AP, UP and INS (International News Service).  Lots of foreign papers with big readerships  (The Jewish Daily Forward, the Italian Il Popolo, the Spanish language El Diario, etc.)  Plus the African-American New Amsterdam News. There was also the Communist Daily Worker (With the Super Bowl upon us, let’s give those subversives some credit. The Worker was the only newspaper that called consistently for desegregation in sports). 

In those pre-computer days newsrooms were noisy (HG’s beloved Remington sounded like a prop plane) and smoky and politically incorrect. Newsmen drank a lot. They did not go home after work. They went to bars. Unsentimental HG finds today’s journalists smarter, better educated, much less venal and sharper, better writers than HG’s journalistic contemporaries. But, HG doubts if they had as much fun as HG and his now deceased (or ancient) pals. There were many joyous newsman hangouts, and, surprisingly, the food was good.

HG’s favorite was Artists & Writers on W. 40th Street, adjacent to the Herald-Trib and three blocks from the Times. Nobody ever called it Artists & Writers. Too pretentious. It was “Bleeck’s” (pronounced Blakes) to everyone. A great mahogany bar which was alive with feverish gamblers. The big game was the “match game” played with six matches  (HG is a bit hazy on the details.  Forgive.  It was a long time ago). Lucius Beebe, the Trib’s foppish, super elegant columnist, loved the game so much that he had gold matches fashioned which he kept in an alligator case. The Times and Trib guys were competitive. The Times was a better paper, of course, but the Trib had better writers (Red Smith, Joe Palmer, Homer Bigart were just a few). And what did the journos and litterateurs eat at Bleeck’s? Good grilled sausages with the usual German accompaniments. A generous wiener schnitzel. And, HG’s favorite dish: Konigsberger klops. These were meatballs served on top of a bed of rice. The dish was doused in a creamy dill and caper sauce. HG hasn’t had it in scores of years. Never appears on a menu. Never mind: I’ve got a story that will bust this town wide open !! Hold the presses!!

Perfect name: Little Chunky. This was a chunk  (thus the name)  of silver foil-covered milk chocolate (some nuts in the sweet treat). HG thought it better than Hershey or Nestle bars .  Right up there with Goldenberg’s Peanut Chews.  It was on the counter of every New York candy store.  Then it disappeared. Has anyone seen the little guy?  Little Chunky is missed.

Catfish has been much maligned. HG will admit that some of the bottom feeders used to have a taste of Mississippi mud. But, today’s farm raised catfish are just firm fleshed and tasty. Here’s how HG does it:  Soak catfish in buttermilk.  Dust with flour.  Dip in beaten egg.  Roll in Zatarain’s Fish Fry.   Sizzle in hot oil.  Serve with a dollop of mayonnaise mixed with sriracha (plus a lemon squeeze). Down home Southern goodness. Goes good with beer and the  Super Bowl.

Snow in Santa Fe.  An occasion for BSK to do some comfort food.  And, what is more comforting than a burger?  HG’s idea of a comforting burger is a lamb meatball prepared a la BSK.  Here’s how BSK does it.  Ingredients:  Ground lamb, finely chopped onion and garlic; chopped parsley (or mint); cumin, Goya Adobo seasoning (no proper household should be without this magic stuff); salt, pepper.  BSK has a secret: BSK saves water from canned Italian tomatoes and adds a bit to lamb mixture to enhance juiciness.  BSK pan broils the meatballs leaving them pink in the middle.  Last night BSK accompanied the meatballs with Israeli couscous and a lush eggplant curry (adapted from Vij’s, the spectacular Indian-fusion restaurant in Vancouver). There was a bowl of Greek yogurt on the table and some harissa, the spicy Moroccan condiment. It all made for a toasty evening.

HG’s Mom made a version of comfort burgers called karnezelach.  Ground chuck was the base. Mom added chopped onion, chopped garlic (enough to defuse Dracula and a platoon of vampires), salt, pepper. Shaped the mixture into a series of fat cigars. Dusted them with hot Hungarian paprika. Broiled them in the oven.  Served them with fried onions, boiled potatoes and sour cream.  Beat the hell out of a Big Mac.  You can devour karnezelach at Sammy’s Roumanian Restauarant on New York’s Lower East Side. Sammy’s is a good place to visit it you wish to raise your cholesterol level and create heartburn of searing intensity.

More than a half century ago, HG’s very late night (and after hours) hangout was Dubiner’s, a saloon in New York’s Lower East Side (located on Stanton Street east of Allen).  It was a hangout of night crawling journalists (like HG) and Jewish tough guys.  The tough guys included “shys”  (loan sharks);  the simian looking fellows who interviewed, so to speak, recalcitrant clients of the “shys’; bail bondsmen; bookies.  Beer, whiskey and vodka were served.  The only food HG recalls was excellent gefilte fish (with powerful horse radish) and chopped liver with raw onion and chicken fat. No juke box.  No TV.  The clientele provided the entertainment.  A gentle fellow, Natie O., was a mob driver among other trades.  Surprisingly, he had an Irish tenor voice and a vast stockpile of  Irish songs.  For some reason this went over big with the 100% Jewish customers  (he also did splendid versions of  “Roumania, Roumania!!” and “Beltz, Mein Shtetele Beltz” for the nostalgia addicts in the room).

The unquestioned star of  Dubiner’s was my companion,  Alice C., a pretty  (but bedraggled)  Broadway press agent with a beautiful voice (she had been a Las Vegas entertainer when she was in her teens). Miss C .had a very serious alcohol abuse problem.  At some point in the early ayem  (after numerous vodkas), Alice would do a super schmaltzy (choking back the tears and other bits of shtick) version of  “My Yiddishe Mama”, that thoroughly phony exaltation of Jewish mothers.  In the patois of stand-up comedians: She Killed.  Tears rolled down the faces of the tough guys.  Encores were demanded. Best of all, we were showered with free drinks and had to, almost literally, crawl to a taxi at closing. There are scores of recorded versions of “My Yiddishe Mama”  (good ones are by Sophie Tucker, Al Jolson, Billie Holliday, Billy Daniels, Tom Jones…the best is by Charles Aznavour).  But, none can touch the Alice C. version.

So, what happened to Alice C.?   Here’s the kicker.   She gave up booze.  Cleaned up. Somehow got a college degree. Went to medical school. Became a doctor specializing in pediatrics. Married (happily) with two children. That’s HG’s Yiddishe Mama tale. Happy ending.