HUNGRY GERALD

BSK has an astounding memory, recalling with accuracy her world at age five. Little BSK lived in Windsor, Ontario while BSK’s mother worked across the border in Detroit. The year was 1946 and BSK’s war hero father, Roy Kent, had not yet returned to Canada. There were very few fathers in BSK’s Windsor neighborhood, only mothers and children. The fathers had been killed in World War Two. BSK visited farms where working mothers “boarded” their children. BSK envied those kids as they sat at long tables filled with food and had jolly meals. BSK enjoyed the days at a nearby lake. Women and BSK arrived in an auto. Windows were covered with newspapers as all changed into swimsuits. Modesty was preserved. When BSK’s father returned to Canada the family moved to Mansfield, Ohio. Children from an orphanage on the outskirts of the city were bussed to BSK’s elementary school. The orphanage was enclosed by a field with many horses and donkeys. BSK concluded that an orphan’s life had advantages since orphans could ride these animals. This made HG recall the Roman Catholic orphanage for boys in Rockaway. Six-year-old HG would watch with wonder as nuns and boys swam in the Atlantic Ocean (the orphanage was only a few hundred yards from the sea). The nuns were garbed head to toe in vast, billowing wool swim garments, the Catholic version of burkhas. But, the sisters seemed to frolic happily among the waves.

BSK cooks splendid penne with broccoli sauce. Healthy, delicious eating and a perfect companion for red wine. BSK does a sauce of pureed, blanched broccoli florets and stems. The florets and stems are carefully poached until tender (but not mushy). The water is drained and BSK purees them with an immersion blender. In a saucepan, olive oil, anchovies, garlic, shallots, red pepper flakes and herbs are sauteed. Cooked penne is added to this sauce along with some starchy pasta water. Gives the pan vigorous stirs. Florets and stems go on top. Another stir. Finally, the dish is topped with slices of mozzarella and chopped tomatoes. HG likes to splash extra virgin olive oil on HG’s portion. BSK opts for grated parmesan. This delightful taste of Italy made HG think about a New York dinner at Delsomma Restaurant (long closed) some 36 years ago. This was HG/BSK’s introduction to the love of daughter Lesley’s life, Massimo R. (They wed two years later and are the parents of two brilliant and beautiful women, Arianna and Sofia R. The marriage has flourished). When HG looked at Massimo, HG saw a tall, athletic, ruggedly handsome man. (HG/BSK agreed that he looked like an Italian movie star.) Massimo’s initial nervousness wore off and he proved to be sensitive, erudite, politically progressive, a star tennis player and on his way to a distinguished academic career. And, he loved food and wine. The perfect son-in-law. The meal started with penne in broccoli sauce (That’s what provoked this remembrance). The meal progressed to lightly battered shrimp in a lemon/butter sauce. Don’t remember what else was eaten but am sure it was splendid. Indeed, Massimo has gone on to academic luster. Tenured Professor at Brown University and former head of the Italian studies department. Director of Brown’s foreign studies program at the University of Bologna. Author of a number of books and many scholarly papers. He has embraced modern technology and his pioneering work has made much of Italian culture available on the internet. His extraordinary visual exhibit on Garibaldi received acclaim. His achievements have been honored by the Italian government. The Italian film festival he organizes at Brown is a highlight of the academic year. He has lectured throughout the world. (Most recently in Tokyo where he and Lesley visited with Lesley’s brother, SJ, and his family). Massimo is an ardent feminist and has been supportive of Lesley’s excellent career as journalist, editor and communications director. No slouch at domestic responsibilities, he is the undisputed world champion of dishwasher stacking and a maestro at the ironing board. No, Massimo (familiarly known as “Max”) is not perfect. He likes his pasta super al dente and has passed this dubious taste to Lesley and (sadly) to BSK. HG does not approve but has been tactful (relatively).

Karen K. and David F. came to dinner last night and BSK created a lavish feast. It started with plump in-season asparagus. BSK steamed them to firm perfection and gilded them with butter and lemon juice. They were the best asparagus HG ever tasted since a Paris dining event some 52 years ago. Two-year-old daughter, Lesley, was watched over by a baby sitter and HG/BSK lunched in a chic restaurant on Boulevard St. Germain. The meal started with fat white asparagus in a mousseline sauce (the ultimate until last night). After the asperges, HG/BSK enjoyed slices of leg of lamb (rare) accompanied by French fries. Finale was strawberries with creme fraiche. Last night BSK replicated the spirit of that meal by serving a rack of lamb with grilled tomatoes. Instead of fried potatoes, BSK made an Indian fusion dish of turmeric potatoes. The dish is made with chopped onions browned in vegetable oil. Sliced new potatoes are added to the pan with turmeric, cayenne, stock and baby spinach leaves. Cooked until the potatoes soften. Meal ended with sweet black grapes, Belgian butter waffle cookies and glasses of Gruet Blanc et Noir sparkling wine (a New Mexico treasure). This was a meal created by BSK that had international influences. All delicious.

HG is not fond of Starbucks or its egocentric founder. HG misses the old fashioned coffee shops of HG’s New York years. No, not the arty Greenwich Village espresso joints where the espresso was bitter, the girls were lovely and the poetry execrable. HG refers to the coffee shops (often Greek owned) that dispensed tunafish sandwiches, pancakes, scrambled eggs, soup (and endless cups of coffee). When HG/BSK lived in a spacious rent controlled ($275 a month for a four bedroom, three bath, separate formal dining room, 30-foot living room with Hudson River and Palisades views) on W. 79th Street, HG would often skip breakfast at home. Instead, HG would pick up the New York Times on the Broadway corner and settle into the smoke-filled adjacent coffee shop for HG’s usual healthy morning repast of black coffee and numerous Marlboro cigarettes. Other favorites were the coffee shop at 57th (near Broadway) for the ultimate BLT; Fourth Avenue and 25th Street for a great tuna fish sandwich on pumpernickel) 55th Street east of Madison for perfect softly scrambled eggs with a warmed buttered bialy. HG misses these joints and the New York of yesteryear.

Ice cream is the best dessert. Nothing is close (except in Paris where Ile Flottante and Creme Brulee are contenders). Trader Joe’s Salted Caramel Gelato is HG’s current favorite. But, HG can be fickle. HG often switches to Haagen Dazs Dulche Con Leche, Rum Raisin or Vanilla Bean. Also gelatos from Talenti (Salted Caramel Truffle is a standout).Years ago there was a New York ice cream brand called Louis Sherry. Smooth and super rich. Parisians are mad about Berthillon ice cream. There’s always a long line in front of their shop on the Ile St. Louis. Yes, Berthillon is good. Very good. However, the best ice cream in the world was produced by Barney’s, an ice cream store on Rockaway Beach Boulevard between 113th and 114th Streets. The ice cream was hand packed and not frozen. It was 10-year-old HG’s job to obtain ice cream there to climax festive weekend meals in the kitchen of the family’s cramped Great Depression summer rental in a rooming house (Summer rent, July 1 to Labor Day, was $25). Little HG could run fast but HG amped it up when, with containers of ice cream in hand, zoomed home before the magical stuff could melt. The best ice cream dessert ever? The hot fudge sundae at Rumpelmayer’s (closed) on New York’s Central Park South. HG’s children, Lesley and SJ, remember it with much joy since it was the highlight of their “Treat Days” in Manhattan with their Dad.

Meatloaf. Used to be a recurrent dish in the BSK repertoire. Haven’t had any in years. When living and working in Denver, HG would often order it at a downtown restaurant that catered to lunching business persons. The meatloaf was smothered in a good mushroom sauce (HG would order an extra helping of sauce for the accompanying mashed potatoes). HG/BSK’s visiting granddaughter, the beautiful, brilliant (and helpful) Sofia, requested meatloaf for dinner. She had a happy memory of BSK’s version. So, a lush dinner ensued. BSK’s meatloaf consisted of ground lamb and beef with Jalapenos added for a New Mexico touch. BSK wrapped the loaf with thick slabs of bacon and baked it until juicy and flavorful. It was served with orzo mixed with BSK’s buttery and herbaceous mushroom saute. Plus steamed asparagus. BSK and Sofia drank Erath Pinot Noir. HG drank Georges DuBoeuf Beaujolais. Dipped chocolate covered almond biscotti (from Trader Joe’s) in the last of the red wines. Eating good in the New Mexico ‘hood.

St. Patrick’s Day is here with all of its blarney, vigorous boozing and ingestion of inferior corned beef and cabbage. HG has been thinking about a remarkable Jewish Irishman, Robert “Bobby” Briscoe (1895-1969). He was a member of Sinn Fein and the IRA. He played a major role in the Irish War for Independence (Michael Collins appointed him head of the operation which ran guns from Germany to Ireland in 1919). Later, he was active in the Irish Civil War on the side of those opposed to the Anglo-Irish treaty which dissolved the Irish republic established in 1918; made Ireland independent but part of the British empire; partitioned Ireland between North and South. The Civil War (June 1922-April 1923) was vicious and claimed some 2,500 lives. When the Civil War ended, Briscoe played a role in turning the anti-treaty nationalists into a political party, the Fianna Fail. As a member of the party, Briscoe served in Ireland’s parliament for 37 years. He was also an ardent Zionist and friend of Vladimir Jabotinsky, the founder of Irgun and and a fiery advocate of using violent means to drive the British out of Palestine. Jabotinsky visited Dublin and received training from Briscoe and other IRA figures in using guerilla tactics against the British. Briscoe was an adviser to the late Menachem Beigin, leader of the Irgun and later Premier of Israel. After an armed skirmish between Israeli government forces and the Irgun which left 19 dead, Briscoe urged Beigin to convert Irgun into a political party in order to avoid a civil war like the bloody Irish affair. Beigin did so and formed the Herut (later Likud) party which rules Israel today. For Americans, Briscoe’s claim to fame was he was elected Dublin’s first Jewish Mayor (Yogi Berra remarked: “Only in America”) and led New York’s St. Patrick’s Day parade in 1957. Briscoe’s son, Benjamin, also was a figure in Fianna Fail, served many years in the Irish parliament and was Mayor of Dublin from 1988-89. Briscoe’s daughter converted to Catholicism and became a Carmelite nun. New Yorkers had great affection for Bobby Briscoe since he had a lilting brogue, was gregarious, had a robust sense of humor and enjoyed a friendly drink. A passionate Irish nationalist and an IRA battler, Briscoe was an Orthodox Jew. Laughingly, he said he would be the perfect Mayoral candidate for New York.

Yes, HG loves cashew nuts. When HG was very young, HG and HG’s beloved, late sister, Beulah Naomi, would often (on a Sunday morning) stroll the Bronx’s Grand Concourse, a noble and fashionable avenue. They always stopped at Krum’s (soda fountain, candy and nut shop) for a bag of cashews (15 cents) and munched as they walked. BSK’s favorite nut is the commonplace peanut (in the form of both the nut and peanut butter). BSK often eats a handful of peanuts with fruit for lunch or smears peanut butter on splices of apple. In BSK’s youth a favorite sandwich was white bread with peanut butter, mayonnaise and lettuce. (sounds like something Elvis would relish). A few days ago, BSK bought a big bag of very good cashews at Trader Joe’s. The intent was to use the cashews for Indian dishes from the Vij’s cookbooks. However, the nuts came in handy last night when BSK cut up chicken thighs and cooked a Chinese stir fry: Sesame chicken with cashews and dates. Super tasty. Give it a try. It’s a New York Times (Melissa Clark) recipe.

There was an omission in HG’s recent post about HG’s late Mom’s virtuoso cooking of every bit of a chicken. HG forgot to mention chicken feet (Mom called them “fissel”, Yiddish word for feet). These were an essential ingredient of “tzimmes”, a sweet, tangy stew of shaved carrot strips, honey, brown sugar, ginger and chicken fat. Mom added the chicken feet to give it a gelatinous quality. Dish was often served at Rosh Hashonah, the Jewish new year, to ensure a sweet year ahead. Curiously, “tzimmes” is a Yiddish idiom for “fuss”. HG abhors chicken feet. Always refused to eat them. They are served with most Chinese dim sum. But, not to HG. Chicken feet are a staple in most Asian cuisines and spicy chicken feet are popular street food. (They are an Asian version of Buffalo chicken wings — served at movie theaters in Taiwan). Thai cooks use a lot of chicken feet. Salads. With noodles. Fried, Grilled, Barbecued. Very popular with Filipinos. They like them stewed with oyster sauce, black beans, soy sauce, garlic, ginger. Sounds good, but HG will pass.

Years of the 1930’s Depression in The Bronx. HG’s late Mom met the economic challenge with ingenuity and thrift. Witness what she would do with a kosher chicken bought from a local butcher: Mom would go to a live market on bustling Bathgate Avenue, a site of bargains, and (after expert analysis), select a chicken and have it butchered according to the ancient laws of kashruth. A professional chicken plucker (“flicker”) denuded the bird. Once the chicken was in Mom’s kitchen a process began. The skin and fat were removed in order to render schmaltz/chicken fat (an essential in Mom’s Jewish/Russian cooking). Bits of skin were crisped. They were “gribenehs” or “grieven”, a topping for chopped liver (Mom removed the chicken liver, cooked it in schmaltz with calf liver, onions and garlic. This was the basis for the best chopped liver ever). The chicken was then boiled for chicken soup with noodles. The cooked chicken was served with fiery horseradish and kasha (buckwheat groats). The neck of the chicken was stuffed with matzo meal, chicken fat, garlic, and hot pepper. Baked. The perfect complement for beer or the shot of rye whiskey HG’s late father fancied. Mom saved the wishbone and covered it in crochet. She found it useful as a perch for thimbles and needles. If there was any cooked chicken left over (rarely), it went into a sandwich of rye bread, chicken fat (of course), sliced onion, tomato (when in season), coarse kosher salt and a dusting of back pepper. Delicious.