HUNGRY GERALD

Oh, what pure unmitigated fun. HG and BSK had a reunion dinner in New York’s Chinatown with three delightful, food and frolic loving couples. Donald K., Bruce M. and Bobbi S. were colleagues during HG’s days as a public relations mogul (okay, mini mini mogul). All were trained by HG and all went on to very successful careers. (HG takes a modest bow for his contribution). The reunion venue was Peking Duck House. An attractive, festive and noisy place. The name says it all. This is the place for Peking duck. The restaurant has a nice BYOB policy so the group was well provisioned with HG’s vodka, Donald K.’s illustrious white wines from New York’s Finger Lakes district and Steve S.’s Beaujolais Nouveau. Pleasant appetizers (including an appetite honing salad of spicy white cabbage). Then three ducks. Crisp skin. Juicy meat. The carved slices were tucked into hot pancakes with scallions and hoisin sauce. Foodie heaven. But, the voracious sextet wanted more so there were some big platters of garlic eggplant and sauteed pork with noodles. Some of the greedy gentlemen could have continued to explore the very good menu, But, as the cliche would have it, cooler heads prevailed.

Last week New Yorkers were shocked (and rightfully so) by the demented act of a homeless man who shoved a subway commuter to his death beneath an ongoing train. One more event to add to the nervous fears felt by many. The New York Post exploited the event by running a cover photo of the victim before his death under the lurid headline: “This man is about to die.” A new low even for Murdoch gutter journalism. The New York Times ran a searching and brilliant analysis of New York Post journalistic ethics by media reporter and critic David Carr. It is a must read. All of this made HG recall his days as an editor at Hearst’s International News Photos with hundreds of photographers throughout the world at his disposal. HG was 23 years old at the time. One midnight, as HG manned the Night Desk, HG received a tip from a police source that a man was perched on the rail of the George Washington Bridge and threatening suicide. HG couldn’t contact his staff photographers so HG raced to the city desk of the Daily Mirror, the Hearst tabloid which shared the same floor with INP. The Mirror had received the same tip and had a young photographer, Bob Wendlinger, on the scene. They had reached him on his two way radio as he was driving to his home minutes from the Bridge. A priest had the suicide by the collar and a police officer had his arm outstretched for the man to grasp. On his knees, Bob focused his Speed Graphic flash camera on the man. The policeman warned Bob that if the flash of his camera caused the man to jump he would be charged with homicide. The suicide said: “My hands are cold,” wrenched free from the priest and fell to his death in the waters below. Bob took the photo at the instant the man let go. Bob wasn’t sure he got it so everyone at the Mirror paced in suspense as the film was developed. When we looked at the dripping negative on the light screen we knew Bob had captured a classic image: Clutching hands above. A falling man with his face contorted by the knowledge of imminent death. The photo was a sensation. Life Magazine ran it in a double page spread and it was reproduced in newspapers and magazines throughout the world. Nobody connected with that photograph ever questioned the moral questions aroused by its publication. The world has changed.

The annual New Yorker Food Issue is out and has some good reading for the food obsessed. Calvin Trillin has a piece on the cuisine of Oaxaca, Mexico. Makes you want to grab the next plane to that city even if you have no desire to eat caterpillars and worms, two local specialties. Mimi Sheraton does a riff on sausages including a description of a goose and goose liver sausage she ate in Hamburg some years ago. Very appetite provoking. HG has always felt Mimi Sheraton was the best of the New York Times restaurant reviewers. She reigned between 1975-1983. She was fair, balanced and funny. She concentrated on a restaurant’s food rather than going on and on about the hipness (or lack) of the restaurant’s clientele. Sheraton has written some good books. From My Mother’s Kitchen is a delightful memoir and very evocative of a vanished New York. As a plus, it has some good, down to earth recipes. HG liked Craig Claiborne, the original Times reviewer. However, like many a New York transplant from the South, Claiborne never met a Jewish delicatessen or Chinese restaurant he didn’t love. The man had great judgement in matters concerning French cuisine. But, when it came to pastrami or shrimp in black bean sauce — Fuhgeddabout it!!

Read with interest the New York Times interview with HG’s favorite writer of fiction, Philip Roth. It seems Roth has had his say. No more books, no more arduous attention to the brutal task of writing. Sad news for serious readers. (And, why hasn’t Roth been awarded the Nobel? This is an injustice). The last time HG saw Roth it was breakfast time at Barney Greengrass, the venerable smoked fish emporium on Manhattan’s upper west side. Roth looked gloomy. The lox-bagel-cream cheese and coffee combo he was eating didn’t seem to lift his spirits. HG mused that the author was probably thinking that one more day of word wrestling lay before him. These varied Rothian thoughts lead HG back to long ago memories of Sunday-Breakfast-In-The-Bronx-With-Mom-And-Pop. (HG uses caps because this traditional breakfast was always an epic feast). No matter where HG had spent Saturday night, or from what bed HG had arisen, young bachelor HG always called Mom early Sunday to discuss breakfast (yes, the meal began at about 10:30 or 11 so these days it would be called brunch). HG visited the “appetizing” store on Kingsbridge Road and procured Nova Scotia smoked salmon, sable, pickled herring, a robust smoked whitefish, Greek olives, sour kosher dill pickles, potato salad and cole slaw. On that same morning Pop was off to the bakery for bagels, bialys, onion rolls, Jewish rye bread and Stuhmer’s pumpernickel. The table was set with plenty of sweet butter, Daitch cream cheese and sliced tomatoes and onions. Lots of coffee plus a bottle of cognac (both HG and Pop liked to “correct,” as Italians put it, their coffee with shots of brandy. The smoked fish delights lead into a big platter of softly scrambled eggs with fried onions and mushrooms. Danish pastry for dessert. HG worked all of this off in Central Park. Rough touch football. Ah, youth, you magic time.

It all started with a little taco stand in Espanola, NM, started by two Atencio brothers in 1958. Sheltered by an umbrella provided by their father, Luis Atencio, the two peddled their mother’s home-cooked tacos and tamales to rapidly growing audience. Business flourished and, in time, that taco stand took over the family plumbing business and expanded into the full scale restaurant, El Paragua, and six casual dining EL Parasol eateries in New Mexico (franchised to various generations of the Atencio family. All provide great, down home Northern New Mexican food (as HG has often noted, HG is addicted to El Parasol’s green chile menudo and posole).

HG and BSK dined at El Paragua last night with visiting Mike Rock and Trish Layton. Chilly night and the restaurant with its dark wooden furniture, Hispanic artifacts, photos and newspaper clippings exuded warmth and the aromas of good cooking. The group was met by smiling Jose Atencio, the proprietor and host. First, some splendid frozen margaritas in big, salt rimmed glasses. Then, Jose presented bowls of hot broth filled with pork, garbanzos, bits of red chile and ripe avocado slices as a garnish. Chill was vanquished. Dinner was menudo, carne adovado, enchiladas, charro beans, guacamole, shrimp in garlic sauce. Plus warm sopapillas with honey and elderberry jelly. Flan for dessert. Generous Jose Atencio climaxed the meal with brandy snifters of a Mexican liqueur not imported to the United States (HG believes it is called “Membrillo”). Fabulous. Jose took us on a tour of the restaurant. Much history. A favorite restaurant of the actor Anthony Quinn. Dennis Hopper, when he lived in Taos, NM, would come to El Paragua to drink and play cards with Jose’s father, Luis Atencio. Robert Redford, Dustin Hoffman and many others have dined there. That’s El Paragua — a nice blend of food and history warmed by the gracious service and happy ambience created by Jose Atencio.

When HG was a very, very little boy lamb chops were his favorite dish. The little guy called them “ompalomps.” HG hated spinach. So, his cunning Mom buried the spinach in buttery mashed potatoes and HG consumed every drop. Okay, enough sickeningly cute kiddy memories. Lamb chops remain an HG favorite. Best lamp chops ever were the chops at Leon Lianides’ great Greenwich Village restaurant, the Coach House. The rack of lamb was also wonderful there, only matched by the rack at Le Stella, the Paris brasserie. But the marvel, the ultimate not-to-be-equalled rack is found at an unlikely place: The Grand Hotel Restaurant in Big Timber, Montana. HG discovered it because Big Timber is midway, between Denver and Vancouver, so it was a logical place to stop when motoring between the two cities. At the Grand Hotel you accompanied the lamb with a robust red wine from Walla Walla, Washington (HG thinks Wall Walla has the best red in the universe). Another favorite of lamb lovers is the mutton chop at New York’s venerable Keen’s Chop House. You can get it with Yorkshire Pudding and it is a treat. (The old Gage & Tollner’s in Brooklyn served their mutton chop with corn fitters, a nice idea). BSK likes to butterfly a leg of lamb, marinate it in red wine, garlic and herbs and then barbecue it to crusty perfection. Serves it with Greek Avoglemono sauce (eggs and lemon juice are the principal ingredients). Big time gourmandizing.

Years ago there was only one New York restaurant specializing in steamed Chinese dumplings and other staples of the delightful dim sum menu. The eatery was Nom Wah Tea Parlor, tucked away on Doyers Street in Chinatown. It was refurbished recently and is very good. Now, Nom Wah is but one of scores of restaurants in Chinatown, Flushing and Sunset Park specializing in dim sum. There are modest little joints and sumptuous, vast Hong Kong dim sum palaces. HG is delighted. There are few things better than sharing dim sum with a table of friends. Also heartening is the explosive growth of small Beijing-style dumpling restaurants (many also offering soups and basic noodle dishes) along Eldrige Street, East Broadway and Henry Street. Cheap and tasty. Two or three dollars buys a filling, delicious meal. HG also likes the fact that many Chinatown places are offering Fuzhou hand pulled and peeled noodles. Winter is fast approaching and these joints are poised to offer steaming bowls to the chilled and hungry folks on strict budgets. They deserve applause.

The Vietnamese Bahn Mi (BBQ pork, a variety of pickled and fresh vegetables, Vietnamese pate. etc. on a baguette) has become a big winner among fanciers of sandwiches and Asian food. There are are many restaurants in New York specializing in this sandwich. Causes HG to sigh. With the demise of Jewish delicatessens the Banh Mi seems slated to replace the pastrami sandwich as the New York symbolic nosh. Sad. Best sandwich ever was the pastrami, chopped liver, cole slaw, Russian dressing sandwich on seeded rye served at the demised Gitlitz Deli on Broadway and 78th. This was closely followed by the Reuben (corned beef, sauerkraut, swiss cheese, Russian dressing, rye bread — grilled to molten perfection) at Reuben’s Delicatessen (long closed) on East 58th. Runner up was the rare room temperature sliced roast beef with thinly sliced raw onion and coarse salt on rye bread liberally coated with chicken fat. HG liked this at a delicatessen on Beach 116th Street, Rockaway Park. HG also fancied the muenster cheese and lettuce sandwich on an onion roll served at long shuttered cafeterias like The Belmore and Dubrow’s. HG is not just a parochial adherent of old style Jewish sandwiches. He has always fancied Cubanos, those pork and cheese sandwiches pressed upon a hot grill served at Cuban restaurants. HG often had one (accompanied by black beans and rice) at many Washington Heights hole-in-the-wall eateries. Good stuff. Those joints also served the best steaming cups of espresso.

The Nets are in Brooklyn. Jeremy Lin is in Houston. Steve Nash is in L.A. Jason Kidd is with the Knicks (he belongs in New York). Exciting NBA times are looming. HG is not just a pro basketball fan, he is an addict (as is SJ). The addiction reaches a crescendo during playoff time. Speaking of addiction, HG has only known one person who had kind words to say about drug addicts. This was the proprietor of the fruit and vegetable store (long closed) on Broadway near 81st Street. When HG and BSK resided on New York’s upper west side many, many decades ago, HG would often stop there to chat and pick up some tangerines or ripe pears. The proprietor was a Knicks fan and an astute scholar of basketball. He had grown up on the lower east side and learned the game in settlement houses and the outdoor courts at Seward Park High School. He felt, sadly, that the Knicks had no answer for Jerry West, the remarkable scorer of the Los Angeles Lakers. “He’s a machine. The guy’s a machine. Wuddiya gonna do?” The store had an overlarge stock of candy bars and sweet pastries (including Entenmann’s Chocolate Covered Donuts, an HG favorite). “Why all the sweet stuff?”, inquired HG. The reply: “The junkies, God bless them. They sent my son through college. They come in here late at night and eat an orange, maybe ten candy bars, a box of Twinkies. Those junkies like their sweets. It’s their meal of the day.” Well, mugging and burgling for the next fix is arduous. So a quick jolt of sugar and calories makes sense.

Fresh fish has always been expensive but now that our ocean fisheries have been nearly decimated, prices are getting a bit nutty. Good, wild caught, fresh and unfrozen salmon, tuna, swordfish and halibut hover around $29 a pound. HG feels that paying that much for a simple piece of fish is a bit self indulgent. Therefore, HG is opting for moderately priced, farm raised fish like tilapia and catfish. Older fish farms were ecological disasters — pumping filth into the environment and shipping out muddy tasting, chemically processed product. Some modern farms have really cleaned up their act and become more environmentally sound with the result that the fish are healthier and quite palatable. Make sure to seek out fish from these type of farms (Whole Foods has very strict guidelines for their farmed fish purveyors — so buying through them is a good bet).

Here’s a very good way of cooking them. Coat the fish in a mixture of Hellman’s mayonnaise and Dijon mustard. Roll the fish in Louisiana Fish Fry or Zatarain’s Fish Fry or panko (crushed fine). Fry in a mixture of grapeseed oil and brown butter. After taking the fish out of the pan, melt a bit more butter with lemon juice, capers and a few drops of Tabasco. Pour this flavorful sauce over the crispy fish.

During HG’s college days at the City College West Harlem campus, HG enjoyed very cheap and very good fried catfish sandwiches. The breaded catfish was fried in lard (like cast iron pans, a staple of Harlem fry cooks), doused in a blazing hot pepper sauce and served between two slices of Wonder or Silvercup bread. It was accompanied by cole slaw or potato salad. HG’s version of fried fish is just a little bit fancier.