HUNGRY GERALD

Among the splendors of Prince Edward Island are mustard pickles, hand crafted by local women. Tangy, slightly sweet, slightly hot. Utterly delicious. They are the perfect companion to a dish of fish cakes. BSK fried up a batch of cakes last night. Ingredients: Cooked fresh cod and cooked PEI potatoes (spuds only hours out of the red soil); grated Vidalia onion, beaten eggs, bread crumbs and loads of chopped herbs. Lush and moist on the inside. Crisp and golden on the outside. BSK made the meal perfect by stir frying a bunch of sugar snap peas with chopped garlic scapes. While PEI mustard pickles are BSK’s favorite condiment, BSK is also addicted to Bubbie’s Pickles, both sour, garlicky dills and bread and butter slices. (With economy in mind, the lady also knocks off scores of dills from Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s in New Mexico and Sobey’s in PEI.) In HG’s youth, the young man favored sour dills plucked from a barrel in Bronx neighborhood “appetizing” stores. Walking home from school, HG would pick up some (five cents each) for family dinner and as a side for HG’s after school snack: Pumpernickel bread with chicken fat and kosher salt. Properly energized, HG would then be off for an afternoon of sandlot football or baseball. The world’s best kosher dill pickles were sold from outdoor barrels at Guss’ Pickles on Orchard just south of Delancey in the Lower East Side. Alas, gone in the wave of gentrification.

On the eve of July 2, HG/BSK watched a dramatic sunset in the skies above HG/BSK’s Prince Edward Island home, lifted glasses of good Argentine Malbec and toasted the 53rd anniversary of HG/BSK’s marriage. Lucky duo. Still enjoying life with each other; their rewarding family (the grandkids add new luster), and of course, art, music, food, wine and the other pleasures of life. All savored by the sea on Prince Edward Island and on the high desert near Santa Fe, N.M.. Anniversary dinner was crisp skinned, roast spatchcocked chicken with lush juices enriched by tarragon, garlic, cumin and Goya Adobo. Smashed PEI potatoes (BSK roughly mashes the spuds with chicken broth and chopped green onions.) Green salad. Lebanese Halvah for dessert. Among other things, HG/BSK recalled how inexpensive wine was in 1963 when HG/BSK began their marital journey in a one bedroom (small), high ceilinged, big windowed art studio (very big), kitchen (adequate), bathroom (giant tub) apartment at 27 W. 67th Street (Rent: $140 per month). The building was inhabited by many famous artists, photographers, writers and musicians. There was an ornate, creaky elevator and a dour doorman. With their summer meals, HG/BSK drank good splits of champagne ($1.50) from the convenient 67th Street Liquor store. Drank half bottles of Chateau Margaux or Chateau Mouton Rothschild with the dinner finale of camembert, Liederkranz and Zito’s bread. These world class wines cost about two dollars. Yes, this was in 1963 dollars. But, still… HG/BSK can no longer afford these wines (these days they can only be sipped by oligarchs). No complaints from HG/BSK. The long marrieds make do with lots of love and the tasty wines of Chile, Argentina and Australia.

Yes, HG is a great fan of the cocktail hour. In HG’s younger days, 5PM began the imbibing of extra dry gin martinis (known as “icy steelies” or “silver bullets”). HG recalls knocking off three super sized cocktail hour martinis at Michael’s Pub, the Hotel Drake Bar and the Russian Tea Room (in that vodka proud room, 100 proof vodka instead of gin), and remaining upright and in command (relatively) of talking and good manners. The martini diet made HG amorous and led to adventures (good and bad). Dorothy Parker summed up this aspect of martini drinking: “One martini. Two at most. Three, I’m under the table. Four, I’m under the host”. Now in his late 80’s, HG has pushed the cocktail hour to 6PM. Being still in love with BSK, wife of almost 53 years, HG is not adventurous but relishes 6PM cocktail hour with the delightful woman. BSK is a devotee of white wine with a splash of Aperol, ice and a lemon squeeze. HG sticks to stronger drink. PEI distilled Myriad View gin (wonderful botanicals) with Pernod or Campari. Negroni composed of one-third Jack Daniel’s, one third dry vermouth, one third sweet vermouth, lemon juice. Vodka with Campari. Tequila, half and half with dry vermouth, lots of lime juice. 6PM begins sunset over the sea. Since PEI is far north, the sunset drama continues until 10PM. Miles Davis music adds another dimension to alcohol-fueled pleasure. Don’t miss those traditional, abundant martinis.

The urbane writer/artist/gourmet Ludwig Bemelmans (author of the delightful “Madeline” children’s books), once wrote that a good meal helped heal the pain when one was thwarted in love. HG agrees (Based upon personal experience). One of HG’s first romances was in Rockaway Beach when HG was 13. The object of HG’s love was a prematurely shapely young woman (also 13) named Sydelle. HG was a money earner from HG’s earliest days. During the summer, HG earned six dollars a week carrying women’s beach chairs and umbrellas to the beach and returning them at night (Six bucks was a tidy sum 73 years ago). When back in The Bronx (when not playing football or street games) HG would earn tips by carrying the heavy shopping bundles of women to their apartments (Few buildings had elevators in those days so HG developed a sturdy pair of legs). Thus, HG had enough money for a movie and lunch date with Sydelle after the romantic duo had left Rockaway for the regular school year. Sydelle lived in Union City, N.J., a quick bus ride to mid-Manhattan. The date was for a Saturday. The meeting place was the Paramount Theater on Broadway. The time was 10:30 AM. The plan was to see the early show (25 cents admission) replete with a film, live orchestra, singers, comedians. HG mused that the couple would watch the live show and then do serious canoodling during the film. This was to be followed by a spaghetti lunch at Romeo’s on 42nd Street (50 cents for the spaghetti and 20 cents for soft drinks plus a 10 cent tip) and a frozen custard (10 cents) dessert at Grant’s across the street. Sadly, Sydelle never showed up for the date (Later phone call revealed that the vixen had a New Jersey boyfriend). Gloomy HG waited in front of the Paramount for an hour. Gave up and bought the morning papers (Times, Herald-Tribune, News, Mirror). Even at that young age, HG was a devoted fan of newsprint. Walked to a nearby Automat. Sat down to a lavish lunch of beef pot pie, macaroni casserole, baked bean casserole. Coconut custard pie for dessert. No smoking in the Automat so HG left for nearby Hector’s Cafeteria (with newspapers under HG’s arm). Many cups of coffee and numerous cigarettes (Yes, the 13-year-old was in the grip of the nicotine habit. Smoked incessantly for 50 years until rudely interrupted by throat cancer). Read the news, sports sections, theater sections and the many columnists (including the legendary Walter Winchell). Blues were banished and the wound of rejection was healed.

HG is not a burger fan. Finds all chain burgers vile (Mickey Dee serves the worst). Thinks those monstrous burgers that combine, avocado, cheese, bacon, short rib meat, ham, sausage etc, into overkill jawbreakers are impossible to eat and digest. Invitation to shirt stains and heartburn. However, during HG’s New York days, the greedy fellow always enjoyed the hamburgers at Joe Allen, the theater district restaurant on W.46th with a devoted show biz following. Allen’s hamburger is just the right size. Served properly pink. Nice garnishes. A thin roll that doesn’t overwhelm the meat. HG would have sides of French fries and Caesar salad. Preceded it with black bean soup. Drank Black and Tan: Half Guiness Stout and half IPA beer.Sometimes HG varied this routine with pan broiled calf’s liver. Allen’s was one of the very few New York eateries that had it on their menu. HG was reminded of all this by an interview with Joe Allen, the restaurant’s founder and owner (also founded and owns Orso, a good Italian restaurant next door). The interview was not really an interview. Most comments were from his wife and children. Allen is not forthcoming. He says about himself: “I bore myself. I can only imagine my effect on other people.” Anyway, reading about Joe Allen (the restaurant and the man), made HG hungry for a burger. New Mexico style. Thus, for dinner this night there were pan broiled burgers (grass fed local beef) smothered in 505 Green Chile Sauce (Available at Santa Fe Whole Foods). Corn niblets and okra enlivened with a bit of hot chile oil. Goya black beans topped with chopped sweet onions and sour cream. HG sipped (with restraint) tequila and beer chasers. Some slices of just ripe avocado. Hey, amigos, that’s the way we make burgers in New Mexico. Adios. And, stay hungry.

HG is referring to the interior of animals (aka offal). Brains, kidneys, livers, sweetbreads, tongue, hearts, intestines, tripe (stomach lining). These wonderful tastes seem to have disappeared from mainstream restaurant menus (as a corollary the interest in “head-to-tail” eating has been growing within the ranks of sophisticated and adventurous eaters). Is it the work of the health police on the alert for elevated cholesterol levels? Or have Americans become so spoiled that offal is seen as a remnant of poverty cuisine? The Europeans (especially the French) continue to devour these good things. When in Paris, HG eats lots of rognons (kidneys) in mustard sauce or grilled until the interiors are pink. A very good Left Bank bistro, La Ribouldinge, makes a specialty of offal. Pharamond serves classic tripes a la mode de Caen (Very good. However, HG prefers the Mexican tripe stew known as Menudo. As noted in many posts, HG is a fan of two versions of Menudo served at restaurants in HG’s New Mexican neighborhood: Green Chile Menudo at El Parasol and Red Chile Menudo at Sopaipilla Factory). HG’s daughter Victoria and husband chef Marc Meyer tried to introduce Menudo to New York diners at their sparkling Mexican restaurant, Rosie’s, in the East Village. Few takers, Removed from menu, alas. Sweetbreads (thymus glands) are on menus everywhere and are one of HG’s favorite treats. Best version ever was at the Oak Room of New York’s venerable Algonquin Hotel. Sauteed sweet breads with a slice of Virginian ham and an exuberant amount of Sauce Bearnaise. Pan broiled medium rare calf’s liver (enlivened with a dash of sherry vinegar) is served in scores of Paris bistros. Delicious. When HG lived in Colorado (first on a mountain horse ranch and then in Denver), HG often had splendid liver with onions and bacon at 240 Union Restaurant in nearby Lakewood. Very Parisian. 240 Union is a great, creative restaurant (A must if you ever travel to Denver or on your way to ski country). HG checked 240’s current menu. No liver. Must have met the same fate as Rosie’s Menudo. In bygone days, liver was a staple item on New York menus. Well done liver, onions and bacon (liver too well done for HG’s taste) on diner menus. Thick slabs of calf’s liver at steak houses. Chopped liver, of course, at Jewish eateries. Broiled chicken livers over saffron rice at Greek restaurants. The Schrafft’s chain, a bastion of WASP cookery, served an appetizing dish of gently sautéed chicken livers over softly scrambled eggs. Sammy’s Romanian, the flourishing homage to garlic and chicken fat Jewish cuisine, once served broiled chicken livers with unborn eggs. The livers are still on the menu but the eggs have disappeared. Only time HG ever had gizzards in New York was when SJ took HG to a little Japanese place on the West Side. Good, But, not as good as the duck gizzards in Paris. Rarely see brains in black butter in New York. Loved it at Le Veau D’or in New York (no longer on the menu but you can get a good version at Chez Napoleon in the theater district). HG ordered the dish at a nice restaurant in Paris 16e. Thoughtful owner was surprised an American ordered brains. Wanted to make sure HG knew what to expect. HG tapped HG’s skull. Owner laughed. Big, savory platter arrived. Tongue is still available at the less than a dozen (used to be a hundred) Jewish delicatessens in New York. Best tongue dish ever was served at long closed Al Cooper’s near New York’s garment center. Thick poached slice with creamed spinach and hot mustard. Sublime. Hearts have disappeared everywhere. Not for the delicate eater. In HG’s impecunious youth, HG ate big bowls of calf hearts stewed with onions, garlic and red wine. Hearty dish (to say the least). A staple at the funky far West Side French bistros that catered to the French seamen off the Ile de France and other liners. A.J. Liebling recounted in his book “Between Meals” that he would eat this dish when he was young and cash poor in Paris. Tete de Veau (calf’s head) is a feature of many French eateries.The dish is shunned by Americans. HG loves it. It consists of poached brains, tongue, mouth lining, etc.and other delectables from the calf’s head. Served with a Sauce Gribiche enlivened with chopped cornichons and capers. (Sauce Gribiche is a version of mayonnaise where mustard, cooked egg yolks and vinegar are emulsified until creamy). HG draws the line when it comes to intestines. Tried chitterlings in Harlem. Vile. The fecal stench of French Andouillette is off putting. (SJ once made the error of ordering them at Le Stella, a favorite Paris brasserie. Was unpleasantly shocked The funny food blogger Grubworm,calls the sausage:’the dish of death”). Innards do not appear on HG/BSK’s dinner table. Though a very adventurous cook and eater, BSK does not like innards. You can take the girl out of the midwest, but you can’t., etc. etc.

April 24 will be the centennial of the Easter Rising Rebellion in Dublin which eventually led to the establishment of the independent state of Ireland. Among other events, there will be a gathering of Irish bagpipers at St.Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City. HG will be sorry to miss that because there are few things more rousing than these bagpipers (specially when they are leading the New York St. Patrick’s Day parade) or saddening (when they play at the funerals of fallen police officers or firefighters). Alas, New York (principally Manhattan) seems to have lost the Irish flavor it had during HG’s younger days. HG misses the Irish politicians (Boss Flynn, Bronx Borough President James J.Lyons, Mayor Bill O’Dwyer, etc.) who had a human touch and a flair for creating consensus. HG misses the rich Irish brogue of the Transit Workers Union (TWU) chief, “Red Mike” Quills; the Irish tones of Fifth Avenue bus drivers; the Irish-tinged voice of the fighting liberal, Paul O’Dwyer. HG misses HG’s sandlot football teammates in The Bronx, tough guys with nicknames like Mick, Binny and Paddy. HG misses collaboration with his brilliant Irish public relations protege, Bruce Maguire, the president of the 61-year-old firm, Freeman Public Relations. HG misses the humor and insights of Irish journalists like Joe Flaherty (died at 47 of cancer). Like Jimmy Breslin (thankfully still alive and writing a Sunday column for the New York Daily News) he had an affinity for New York’s working class. Brooklyn-bred Flaherty left high school at 16 to work as a longshoreman and for years combined dock work with writing (he was a reporter for the Village Voice, author of four books and was the campaign manager for the Norman Mailer-Jimmy Breslin mayoralty ticket). Though the Irish are not noted for creative cuisine or fine dining, HG loved the food at Irish-owned Dinty Moore’s in Midtown (the only Irish joint with gefilte fish on the menu). HG misses the down to earth Irish saloons on Third Avenue (they vanished when the El came down and Third Avenue became the site of lofty office buildings and fashionable apartment houses). The saloons always had jars of hard boiled eggs and pickled pig’s feet on the bar (nice accompaniment to HG’s journalist dinner of rye whiskey with beer chasers). HG exhales a nostalgic sigh at the thought of saloon platters of corned beef and cabbage and open faced pot roast sandwiches smothered in brown gravy. The Irish seem to have vanished from Manhattan to enclaves in Queens, Brooklyn, The Bronx, Staten Island, Long Island, Westchester and Orange Counties, New Jersey, etc. Manhattan Isle isn’t the same without them.

As HG savored the last of the delicious gefilte fish (brought by visiting Peter Hellman from Zabar’s,the famous New York gourmet emporium), HG contemplated the wonders of chopped and poached fish. Memory was sharpened by a few snifters of icy Aakavit (the wonderful 84 proof Danish response to vodka) and chasers of dark ale. Zabar’s product matched in flavor and succulence the gefilte fish produced by HG’s late Mom in her Bronx kitchen. Mom chopped fresh water fish: whitefish, pike, carp and “buffel” (curious HG learned that “buffel” was Ictiobus, often called Buffalo fish). Mom mixed the fish with matzo meal, eggs and grated onion. Formed the mix into ovals and poached them in a broth flavored by fish heads, bones and skin. The fish heads, etc. were removed before poaching and the broth was strained and served with cooked carrots and onions. Her gefilte fish were served warm or cold. They were always decorated with slices of carrot. Very strong, freshly grated horseradish was obligatory. Chunks of Challah were dunked in the warm fish broth. If cold, the broth turned gelatinous (still delicious with Challah). “Gefilte” means stuffed. Eastern European Jews stuffed the chopped fish into the skin of a fish. Made one fish go a long way. “Galitzianers” (Jews from Galicia, the borderland between Poland and the Ukraine) added sugar to the chopped fish mix. Mom considered this a culinary obscenity. Excellent gefilte fish was served in New York’s many “dairy” restaurants (Alas, only a few still exist.) If your gefilte fish experience has been confined to the bottled supermarket product, you don’t know what pleasure you have been missing. Order the real stuff from Zabar’s online. Similar to gefilte, Chinese fish balls are an omnipresent street food in Hong Kong and in Chinese restaurants throughout New York. HG ate them often at Congee Noodle House when HG/BSK had a loft (and later a townhouse) in the Mt. Pleasant neighborhood of Vancouver. The fish balls are usually made of mackerel, corn starch, salt and pepper. After being chopped in a food processor, the mix has to be slammed on a plastic cutting board about 50 times before poaching (Good way to relieve stress). The slamming creates a unique springy texture. No surprise, the ultimate chopped fish treat can be found in France: Quenelles in Sauce Nantua, chopped pike ovals in a sauce of fresh crayfish and cream. These are a specialty of Lyon. The chopped fish is mixed with flour, eggs and loads of butter (of course). Best place in Paris for this lush dish Moissonnier, a Lyonnaise restaurant in the Fifth Arondissement. The portions in this bistro are enormous. Come hungry.

During HG’s young years, HG’s late, beloved father, Hershele Zvi Freimann (anglicized at Ellis Island to “Harry Freeman”), would arrive home after work in a breathless state. It was a long, uphill trudge from the Bronx’s 170th Street subway station (later the Kingsbridge station). Hershele hung up fedora and coat. Opened the refrigerator to get a piece of schmaltz (or home pickled) herring. Tore off a hunk of pumpernickel bread (Pechter’s or Stuhmer’s). Poured a substantial glass of Park & Tilford rye whiskey (tiny glass for little HG). Hershele and HG clinked glasses and said: “L’chaim !! (To Life). Hershele knocked off the big glass in one mighty gulp and followed it with the herring/pumpernickel chaser (HG opted for a small piece of bread). Yes, immigrant Jews like Hershele enjoyed alcohol. The pre-dinner drink was known as a “brumfen.” At the end of dinner, a dessert of fruit compote was served with a glass of home brewed “vishniak” (cherry brandy). Thus, HG grew up believing alcohol was part of dining. Hershele (and HG in later life) always accompanied spirits with food. HG sips bitters and soda before a meal with one or two shrimp, ceviche from the Pojoaque (New Mexico) Super Market, or a simple, salted cracker. Wine accompanies dinner and HG sips an after dinner TV-watching-snifter of brandy (or Scotch) with a sweet: peanut brittle or Belgian Butter Cookies. Tonight, HG’s meal will be an homage to much missed Hershele. There will be a bottle of icy Aakavit on the table plus dark ale brewed by New Mexico monks. Two kinds of herring: Pickled and Matjes. Gefilte fish and Jewish Rye Bread (both from New York’s Zabar’s via visiting Peter Hellman). Sliced sweet onions (from Texas). Boiled potatoes. Sour cream. For dessert: a thin slice of New York cheese cake with a snifter of brandy. HG will raise his glass of Aakavit and say “L’chaim !!. With a second glass, HG will raise it and say: “To your blessed memory, beloved Hershele.”

Dave Frishberg, the witty singer/song writer/musician, now an LA resident and formerly a New Yorker, is often asked that question. So he wrote a song: “Do You Miss New York?”. And, the answer, of course is: Yes!! HG/BSK have lived in the Western United States (Colorado and New Mexico) and Canada (Vancouver and Prince Edward Island) for the last 31 years. BSK does not miss New York (or New Jersey). HG has complex feelings. There’s nostalgia, of course. HG is nostalgic about the Upper West Side in the sixties. Movie houses. Street scenes (old Holocaust survivors; junkies; professors; musicians; writers; sex workers; crazies; burglars). Apartments (huge and cheap). Food (Zabar’s, Barney Greengrass, Citarella’s, Nevada Meat Market, Broadway Nut Shop, etc.). Dining (Fleur de Lis; Paramount Famous Dairy; Gitlitz Delicatessen; Tip Toe Inn; many good, cheap Chinese and Cuban joints.) HG got a jolt recently while watching Mad Men. Roger and Joan get away from Madison Avenue and dine at Tip Toe Inn (set designers did a great job). They are mugged after their meal. Yes, that was a possibility on the old West Side before the real estate monsters and condo-maniacs chewed up the neighborhood. Zabar’s, Barney G. and Citarella’s remain. All else is gone. Today’s New York? It’s a place where foreign bad guys hide their money and a family has to earn a million bucks a year to enjoy an upper-middle class life (Condo or coop; housekeeper/nanny; summer home; private school for the kids.) HG/BSK had all of those things on $40,000 (or less) a year. Didn’t have a coop but paid $292 a month for a huge apartment (big living room with view of the Hudson River and The Palisades; separate formal dining room; modest windowed kitchen; four bedrooms; three bathrooms.) Read it and weep. There are things about the New York of 2016 that HG loves. The museums are still great (the new Whitney on the West Side and the Met Breuer on Madison are grand additions). Strolling on the High Line. HG daughter Victoria and husband /chef Marc Meyer’s four superior downtown restaurants: Rosie’s (Mexican); Vic’s (Italian); Cookshop and Hundred Acres (farm to table ingredients, American with Mediterranean flavors). Good value, wonderful food, deft service, joyous atmosphere. Dining with SJ in Flushing (Chinese and Korean) and the Forest Hills neighborhood of Queens (robust Uzbekistan cuisine). HG’s annual lunch with Victoria at Balthazar, better than any Paris brasserie. Shopping with BSK at Uniqlo. Gallery and museum hopping with BSK. Wandering (and eating) in Brooklyn, much hipper than Manhattan. HG/BSK mourn that they can’t eat at Oni Sauce, the fabulous Japanese home cooking and Asian sauce stand daughter-in-law Exquisite Maiko Sakamoto (and partner) are running at Smorgasburg, Brooklyn’s famous al fresco food court. So, does HG miss New York? Not often, but sometimes.