HUNGRY GERALD

HG rarely waves the flag, believing, to paraphrase Dr. Johnson, that patriotism is the last refuge of fools and knaves. However, when it comes to steak, HG is a red-blooded, Yankee Doodle boy. Nothing compares to American steak (prime,of course). HG never had a good steak in Paris. Much lauded steak frites in a Paris bistro would get thumbs down from discerning New Yorkers (men and women who learned to eat steak on Steak Row and at Peter Luger’s). Alec Lobrano, the most informed and fair minded of Paris food writers, likes the steak at Le Severo in that city. HG and BSK sampled the steak there and found it only passable. However, steak tartare at Severo and at Le Stella and many other Paris eateries is exemplary. German restaurants in New York prepared great steak tartare in years gone by (Luchow’s covered its steak tartare with a generous layer of black beluga caviar). The great raw beef dish disappeared along with New York’s most fabled German restaurants.

If you rent an apartment in Paris, visit the Hugo Desnoyer butcher shop in the 14th and buy a rump steak (Lobrano’s suggestion) and grill it at home. And, if you’re renting a New York apartment, pick up a New York strip at Lobel’s on Madison Avenue. One pound strip: $47.98. (Hey, you only live once).

According to my favorite Paris food blogger, John Talbott. the City of Light has become crazy for hamburgers. HG is sure Pareeburgers are terrible but then so are American burgers as dispensed by Mickey Dee, Wendy’s, etc. Fast food vileness.

HG has written about the one and only proper way to make a burger. HG is no snob. There are few better things than a good burger topped with a slice of sweet onion and a slice of summer ripe tomato (preferably a Jersey tomato). Accompany it with buttered corn on the cob and ice cold beer. Delicious!

Sadly, Americans — and now Parisians apparently — have degraded the hamburger with their love of ketchup. Yes, the noble burger is often drowned in great gobs of ketchup, as if grilled-to-perfection ground beef were but a transport for the red paste. Ketchup does not enhance the juicy, slightly fatty taste of a proper burger. It disguises that taste. HG is not in favor of disguises. Only one HG ever liked was The Lone Ranger’s cunning little mask.

They are not good for you since they are virtual cholesterol bombs. However, HG, like virtually the rest of the world excluding the U.S.A., loves innards. Kidneys. Splendid in a steak and kidney pie. Lush in a creamy mustard sauce. HG liked them at Sardi’s, the New York theatrical hangout, where they were grilled and served with lamb chops. Of course, rognons (kidneys) rule in France where they are often cooked blood rare.

Don’t see tongue on menus very often (Except when eating Korean food!). Al Cooper’s, a steak house in the New York garment district, served a thick cut of tongue with creamed spinach and super hot mustard and horse radish. Sweetbreads are a treat. Hotel Algonquin on W. 44th used to serve grilled sweetbreads on a slice of Virginia ham accompanied by thin cut French fries and Sauce Bearnaise. Yum.

Calf’s liver. Should be served pink. The accompaniment of fried onions and crisp bacon is obligatory. The dish reached Olympian heights at Dinty Moore’s (not to be confused with the dreadful line of canned beef stews) a long shuttered restaurant in the theater district (Dinty also did the classic corned beef and cabbage). HG likes chicken livers sauteed crisp and pink. Good with scrambled eggs or in a frisee salad or served over pasta (with plenty of olive oil, garlic and parsley). The chicken fat, fried onion and black radish drenched chopped chicken livers at Sammy’s Romanian are a naughty treat.

HG likes head cheese, tete de veau and all the other elaborate things done with the interior of a cow’s head. One of the best edibles in the world is a cow’s (or lamb’s) brains. The French do brains best, sauteed gently in butter, topped with warm capers and accompanied by a potato puree.

HG has dined on lungs and heart. Got them down, but not a treat. HG does not know if bull’s testicles should be classified as an innard. In any case, prairie oysters are un-yummy.

HG’s favorite innard is tripe. In the form of green chili menudo, HG enjoys it every ten days at the delightful El Parasol restaurant in HG’s New Mexico neighborhood. The ten day limit is self imposed, HG’s response to BSK’s gentle health warnings.

'Offal Taste' Photo Series by Stephanie Diani

Paris. Autumn of 1966. HG and BSK’s first trip to Paris. Trip was paid for by an American surveillance equipment firm (an HG pubic relations client). HG was in Paris to meet with important French electronics company which was the European and African distributor of the equipment. So, while BSK strolled the boulevards with two-year-old daughter Lesley, BSK met with the partners in the French firm — a tall, suave Frenchman (sales and marketing) and a short, tough Jew (technical and manufacturing). The French guy took HG to a nearby bistro in the Bastille arrondissement.

“I know you Americans like a cocktail to start and Jackie, the barman here, is famous for dry martinis,” he said. Thus, HG had a huge (served in a chilled ballon) excellent martini. Sensible French guy had a small Kir. Then followed: Parma ham with ripe melon accompanied by Macon-Villages Chardonnay. Quenelles in a sauce Nantua (small helpings) and some glasses of Chablis. A braised daube of beef and carrots in a powerful wine sauce. Accompanying wine was Morgon. A wedge of ripe camembert and a glass of Pommard. Creme brulee. A few shots of fiery marc. Cafe. A tidy lunch. Back to the office.

While the Frenchman responded to a phone call, HG — overpowered by lunch — fell fast asleep. To the amusement of the staff, HG was revived with an ice pack. The business meeting was interrupted later by the arrival of the most dangerous man HG had ever seen. French. Six feet. Some 190 pounds of muscle, Shaven head. Face carved out of rock. Deep scar down cheek from eye to lips. Black suit. Black turtle neck sweater. He and the small Jew greeted each other with wild laughter and hugs. Hadn’t seen each other in 20 years. Turned out small Jew was a Resistance leader and Very Tough Guy was directed to his group.

Very Tough Guy explained, pointing to small Jew: “He was suspicious. Thought I could be a rat. Shoved a gun in my mouth. I had to open wide or I would have lost teeth. Asked questions. I nodded yes or no. He was satisfied. We had good group. Killed a lot of Nazis. And, Vichy scum.”

Very Tough Guy was in Paris to buy surveillance equipment. He was the security consultant to a number of small, independent African republics. Small Jew confided in me: “Probably has a few sidelines that aren’t strictly kosher. He had been a very bad boy in Paris before the war. But, was my very good, brave comrade during serious times,”

HG refers to the squab, HG’s favorite little bird. Better than a baby chicken, a duckling, a quail or (usually tasteless) Cornish Game Hen. The squab is a domestic, farm raised pigeon. Succulent. It was a staple on New York restaurant menus often served with wild rice or stuffed with shallots, mushrooms and other attractive things. Alas, it disappeared as diners became oddly squeamish regarding small birds.

It remained, however, alive in barbecue form in some Chinatown restaurants. The best version of Chinese-style squab can be found at the Sun Sui Wah restaurant in the Mt. Pleasant neighborhood of Vancouver, Canada. This is a dark brown bird — served whole of course — with lacquered, crackling skin. HG liked to bite the bird’s head off much to the consternation of HG’s sensitive dining companions.

HG’s most memorable squab was consumed at the Au Bon Acceuil bistro
(near the Eiffel Tower) in Paris. Slices of rare roasted squab were fanned out over a pungent, dark red wine sauce. A bit of watercress added a touch of green. It was accompanied by a creamy, buttery potato puree. HG ate this in November a few years ago with a bottle of very fruity just arrived Beaujolais Nouveau. A nice Paris interlude.

Join HG in wishing for a return of squab to the better dining tables.

Lux Cafe in Paris’ Montmartre neighborhood is located half way up steep Rue Lepic from naughty Pigalle. It should be the ideal bar/cafe in which to sip a drink, nibble some treats and people watch. It looks pleasantly antique and slightly disheveled. The juke box delights with old rock and roll and soul.

Parisian restaurants, bistros, cafes and bars are strictly no smoking. The outdoor cafe areas are another story. They are nicotine heaven. HG sipped a chilled pear eau de vie in Lux’s outdoor cafe seating area as he read his International Herald Tribune. HG was surrounded by voluble young women. The lovely things all wore the current fashion uniform. Short skirt with black leggings, tall boots and a snug, short down jacket. This was varied by some fashionistas who wore very skinny jeans. A pretty sight. However, each stylish woman seemed to be puffing away on what seemed to be at least three cigarettes at once. The Lux outdoor cafe floated in a blue haze and HG smelled like a Gauloise. This tobacco onslaught keeps Lux from being perfect. One can, of course, sip a drink at the indoor bar. But, then you are surrounded by grizzled, grumbling old guys not winsome young things.

Win some. Lose some.

Says HG: If you want great at-home dining lease an apartment in a less than posh neighborhood. Expensive clothing stores (Prada, Gucci, etc., etc. ) have pushed out the mom-and-pop bakers, butchers, cheese, etc. shops. In Paris’ 9th and 18th the little guys reign supreme and a baguette, fromage, a roast chicken with roast potatoes are always footsteps away.

London’s takeaway soup and sandwich shops are super good, super cheap. HG likes EAT in particular. Very good pho and hoisin duck soups. When counterman adds some extra chili, London damp disappears from the bones. Tea with scones, clotted cream and marmalade is a London blessing. In American terms, good French wine is very cheap. Britain’s Oddbins wine chain is what US needs.

Parisians have become obsessed with the American hamburger but, alas, they never seem to get it right. Besides scarf tying, Parisians (male and female) are expert in walking very fast while eating a baguette sandwich and talking on cell phone between bites. An American would choke.

Yes, HG is shrinking (vertically) but the French and English are surely getting taller. Very fat people are exported to the USA. One can still eat well in a modest Parisian bistro for a small price. A comparable London meal will cause the credit card to sizzle.

Canned baked beans (and tinned mushrooms!) are part of a proper English breakfast. Everyone must have a minor perversion.

Tourist or native, one is always met with courtesy in London and Paris.

An HG opinion: Paris movie audiences are hip, quiet and polite. Makes movie going a delight.

Posted too rapidly. No plain chicken broth for ailing HG. Resourceful BSK garnered some marmite (very strong consomme).  Beat two eggs into the boiling marmite.  Added some mini elbow macaroni.  Comfort food that was truly comforting.  HG is fortunate to have BSK.

A nasty bug has attacked HG and BSK.  Sneezes, coughs, discomfort, etc. On the menu today is chicken broth, mint tea, Sudafed and cough syrup. Not gourmand dining.  Oh, woe. Taxi to Gare du Nord tomorrow morning for Eurostar to London.  Hope we feel better.

HG and BSK are spending their last days in Paris in a blizzard of Kleenex and a cacaphony of coughs. This didn’t prevent HG from visiting Welper the venerable, independently owned brasserie on busy Place de Clichy. There was a rumor that Wepler had gone downhill.  Couldn’t prove it by HG’s lunch of oysters and bulots.  Splendid.  Very dignified waiter,  HG pointed out that some of the bulot shells were empty.  Obviously, the sea snails had left their shells and were out looking for romance.  The ambassadorial waiter took care of the situation by bringing HG a virtual deluge of bulots and a big pot of fresh mayonnaise.  Typical of Paris–a classy and generous gesture.  BSK felt well enough to see True Grit.  Fun.  But the film didn’t have the usual Coen Brothers edge of irony.  Walking back to the loft HG was struck by the cold bug.  HG and BSK hope they shake off the nastiness before chunneling to London Saturday.