HUNGRY GERALD

HG must make an admission: Despite the best wife in the world, glorious weather, stirring natural vistas, a beautiful home, interesting neighbors, history, art, culture and an abundance of smoky, lush green chiles HG’s life is incomplete. Why? The great New York/New Jersey Italian fennel sausage is unobtainable in the Land of Enchantment. Yes, Whole Foods, Trader Joe’s, Kaune’s and every supermarket display and purvey “Italian” sausages. “Italian” ? They are as Italian as Mitt Romney. They should be labeled “Mormon” sausages. They lack the fennel seeds and other time honored ingredients that make the New York Italian sausage so juicy, flavorful and memorable. During the opening scenes of the film, “Godfather II”, that wonderful actor/director/playwright/teacher Mike Gazzo (playing Frankie Pietangeli) laments the absence of sausage and peppers in Nevada. Frankie’s woe echoes HG’s. What HG has is memories. Sausage, peppers and onions served on good bread, dispensed from the back of a truck in Greenwich Village. The same dish bought from a cart on Lexington Avenue, eaten while racing to a business appointment. Sausage and peppers at the San Gennaro Festival in Manhattan (years ago when the the Festival was smaller and food was better) and at traditional festivals in the Mott Haven section of The Bronx. Sausage and peppers at old time, cheap restaurants in the Belmont section of The Bronx and in Little Italy (before it became a tourist travesty). There were Italian restaurants in northern New Jersey that made an epic of the dish. Jerry’s in East Rutherford (tragically, closed after many decades of operation) did it best. This is how The New York Times described it in 1998: “Jerry’s combines garlicky, crisp and juicy Chicken Scarpariello (chunks of chicken on the bone) with great fruity rounds of pepper (both hot and sweet), fried onions, crunchy Red Bliss potatoes, and plenty of Jerry’s fennel-scented sausage.” Yes, this expanded plain spoken “sausage and peppers” into a regal feast. This was an enormous platter of food. HG/BSK would dig in, drink a lot of modest Chianti and manage to finish about 60%. Appetizer? Dessert? Fuhgeddabout it !!!

For more than a year, HG has been suffering (not quietly) from mussels deprivation. This past June, upon arriving at HG/BSK’s oceanfront summer home on Prince Edward Island, HG received some dread news: The Mussels Interpretive Center in the town of St. Peter’s had closed. Besides housing a mussels mini-museum, the center offered dining under the creative command of masterly Andrew MacDonald. On offer was the world’s best mussel stew, steamed mussels with melted butter and South Lake oysters on the half shell. A saddened HG repaired to the By the Bay Fish Mart for a bag of mussels to prepare at home. Unfortunately, the knowledgeable proprietor told HG the mussels were below par this past season. She was right. Upon returning to New Mexico, HG gave the PEI mussels at Whole Foods a try. Maybe autumn weather had improved the mollusks. No luck. HG was left with memories. Best mussels ever were served in a Sicilian restaurant (Vincent’s ?) in gritty Harrison, N.J., more than three decades ago. HG/BSK and hungry pals would eat a tub of steamed mussels accompanied by crisp fried zucchini and good bread to sop up briny juices. These were big, plump mussels filled with juice and flavor. HG once asked where these mussels were found. Got a one word answer: “Joisey.” In Denver, HG enjoyed the “finger burning” mussels at Mel’s Restaurant (long closed). These were inspired by the mussels served at La Cagouille Restaurant in Paris. A very simple dish. Mussels were grilled on a cast iron plancha until they opened. Risking burnt fingers, these juicy morsels were dipped in melted lemon butter. HG had a happy Paris memory of the stuffed mussels at Pied de Cochon in Les Halles. HG’s mussels deprivation ended last night. HG had been suffering from a stomach ailment for three days. Deprived him of appetite. Appetite returned. Resourceful BSK found some great PEI mussels at Whole Foods (asked the sales clerk to find a freshly arrived bag in the rear). Steamed with onions, garlic, Italian parsley, clam broth and white wine, some five pounds were served over linguine. Joy.

Yes, schmaltz, delectable chicken fat, is making a comeback. It’s in the news. The New York Times recently reported that restaurant chefs and knowing home cooks are using the magical ingredient to enhance a variety of dishes. While some cardiologists and health police deride the golden goodness of chicken fat others are proving that, yes indeed, Moms may have been right all along citing schmaltz’s high level of heart healthy mono-saturated fats. Well, chicken fat may not be as good for the body as kale, but it provides real solace for the soul. HG’s favorite after school snack was a slice of Stuhmer’s pumpernickel bread covered with a good quarter-inch of chicken fat, kosher salt and black pepper. (Sometimes, HG’s thoughtful Mom added a slice of raw onion). Thus fortified, little HG was ready for competitive street games of punchball and “association” football. (The street was a playground in the 30’s and wartime 40’s since automobiles were scarce). HG’s Dad’s favorite use of chicken fat was in the form of “grieven” (or “gribenehs”). These were crisp, salty, lush bits of rendered chicken skin. The late, beloved Hershele Zvi Freimann would accompany this treat with a slice of rye bread and a modest tumbler of Park & Tilford rye whiskey. HG has a fond memory of HG’s Mom’s chopped hard boiled eggs and onions mixed with plenty of schmaltz. Her “latkes” (potato pancakes) fried in chicken fat were superior. There was plenty of chicken fat in her chopped liver. This was accompanied by slices of pungent black radish, also liberally gilded with schmaltz. The Temple of Schmaltz is Sammy’s Romanian Restaurant on New York’s Lower East Side. There’s a pitcher of schmaltz on every table. There’s also a bottle of vodka encased in ice. So, be assured, a raucous, inebriated, nostalgic good time is to be had. A schmaltzy joint, indeed.

Okay. Now that we strive for political correctness, there are only “waitpersons.” Farewell to “waiters” and “waitresses.” On the not-so-politically-correct side, HG has noticed that “waitpersons” in all cheap but delicious Chinese restaurants are unsmiling and peremptory. On the other hand, Latino “waitpersons” in New Mexico, whether serving in a white tablecloth restaurant or a rough hewn roadside truck, are gracious, smiling and efficient. Joyous welcoming shouts and farewells are traditional in Japanese businesses, restaurants included. Paris “waitpersons” are models of professionalism. They are not your pals. They do not announce: “Hello, I am Pierre, your waitperson for tonight.” They simply do their job and do it wonderfully — Of course they usually warm up to HG because HG expresses intense interest in every aspect of the carte and carte des vins. Waitpersons in Italy are the best. They enfold the diner, whether tourist or native, in family warmth. (Venice is an exception. Following a centuries old tradition, tourists are there for the fleecing. Tourists pay expanded prices. Venetians get a discount). Restaurateur Daughter Victoria F. makes sure service is a model of friendly efficiency at her three New York restaurants — Cookshop, Vic’s and Hundred Acres. (No, HG/BSK are not treated differently than any other diners). The old New York Jewish (must call them “waiters”) were the stuff of comedy legend. They staffed delicatessens, “dairy” restaurants and traditional kosher and non-kosher Eastern European eateries. They never smiled. Their feet hurt. They hated their customers. Even when in a nostalgic mood, HG doesn’t miss them.

Grey skies. A light dusting of snow. Time for comfort food. And, what could be more comforting than meatloaf? Splendid for dinner. Wonderful for a luncheon sandwich. (HG likes it on ciabatta or rye with a slice of raw onion and Russian dressing). With all of this in mind, BSK snared the battered, stained, much-used “New York Times Cookbook” by Craig Claiborne. Published in 1961, this has been an HG/BSK perennial favorite. So, last night BSK consulted Claiborne’s recipe and gave it a few herbaceous, spicy tweaks of her own. Into the oven with the meatloaf for one hour and thirty minutes. Voila!! Accompanied by little potatoes and a saute of shitake and cremini mushrooms, this was American cooking at its best. Claiborne, who died in 2000, had a major positive influence on American cooking and dining. Appointed Food Editor of The New York Times in 1957, Claiborne made the food section a source of good, easy to follow recipes (often with the collaboration of French chef Pierre Franey). Claiborne expanded the repertoire of home cooks to include, Mexican, Asian, Russian and other international cuisines. He was also the Times restaurant critic and introduced the star rating system still in use today. In HG’s opinion, Claiborne had excellent restaurant judgment except when he dined at Jewish delicatessens or Chinese restaurants. Mississippi-bred Claiborne was blind in regards to these two cuisines — he loved them all indiscriminately. An overstuffed pastrami sandwich — no matter the quality (or lack thereof) — led him down the path of prose poetry.

The Japanese chef Masyoshi Takayama charges $450 a meal (before taxes, drinks and tip) at his restaurant Masa in New York’s Time-Life Center. This probably amounts to a total of $700-$800 (more or less) for luncheon for one. In HG’s view, this is self indulgence carried to an obscene length. The possible saving grace is that Masa serves meals of the rarest ingredients at their peak of freshness, prepared by artists of the Japanese kitchen who have undergone years of disciplined training. Still, no lunch for one can be worth 800 bucks. Sure, New York’s oligarchs can afford it but that doesn’t justify it. Now, Kappo Masa, another New York restaurant recently opened by Takayama (in association with art dealer/mogul Larry Gagosian), has moved pricing to a new height of vulgarity. It was the subject of an attack by New York Times restaurant critic Pete Wells (he gave it a no-star review.) Wells cited some prices: $240 for tuna maki sprinkled with caviar. $120 for fried rice with mushrooms and truffles. $150 for beef tataki. Service is offhand. Many of the dishes are poorly prepared, according to Wells. Jay Rayner, the restaurant critic of Britain’s Guardian newspaper, launched a similar attack at the loftily priced Dorchester Restaurant in London’s posh Dorchester Hotel. Says HG: It’s about time. Rayner is HG’s favorite food writer. His prose can be ferocious. Here’s what he has to say about super pricey, below par meals: “I have no problem spending big money on a meal out. It just needs to be utterly memorable, the stuff of recollections whispered breathily at night. It can’t be a pallid fart of mediocrity, priced for some dodgy clientele who have ripped off the gross national product of a small impoverished nation and is now domiciled in London for tax reasons,”

High in the hills above Santa Fe is a bit of Japanese heaven, Ten Thousand Waves. Offering lodging and a variety of spa services, this meticulously maintained, aesthetically superior resort is inspired by the Ryokans, the country inns in Japan where the knowing go for total relaxation, superior (and locally inspired) dining, cleansing and meditation. Some months ago, Ten Thousand Waves opened a restaurant–Izanami. It is a winner, a can’t miss New Mexico experience. On a snowy day, HG/BSK lunched there with Colorado pals—Margot and Dick Z. Distinguished folks. Margot has been a very important force in the preservation of wildlife and the scenic Colorado landscape. Dick has recently retired from a long and active career as a maxillofacial (relating to the jaws and face) surgeon. They are eminent collectors of Native American art (HG also recalls some extraordinary cacti in their mountain home). Margot not only collects art, she wears it. For lunch at Izanami, Margot arrived in an ankle-length coat fashioned from a beautiful Native American blanket. Lunch was a delight. Izanami, in terms of decor, adheres to the Japanese (and Mies van der Rohe’s) philosophy of “Less is more.” Exquisite lighting. The room is balanced to take advantage of mountain views and the surrounding evergreens. The restaurant is based on japanese Izakaya cuisine — small plates meant to complement beer, Shochu and sake — and the menu is divided into three categories–cold, hot and fried. Since the tapas are easy to share, HG/BSK and the Z’s tried lots of good things–a beet and persimmon salad; potato croquettes, aagedashi tofu, pork belly kakuni, grilled Japanese eggplant, pork tonkatsu. Pleasant, efficient service. BSK and the Z’s opted for a smoky and flavorful green tea. HG indulged the typical HG affection for alcohol with a carafe of chilled Ban Ryu sake. Superb.

HG’s final day of East Coast holiday feasting turned out to also be one of travel. Bus from Providence to Boston Logan Airport (via the very efficient Peter Pan line). Some six 1/2 hours of flight (with a 45 minute layover in Denver) on Southwest, the consumer friendly airline that does try to make flying a pleasant experience. HG/BSK continued to have nice airport dining experiences. Breakfast at Vineyard Grille in Boston consisted of gently soft scrambled eggs (as requested) with bacon in a garlic scented tortilla wrap. An abundant side of a crisp potatoes akin to a Tater Tot. Plentiful coffee and attentive service. Gave HG/BSK sufficient sustenance for the lengthy voyage ahead. However, HG/BSK did regret the timing. For some years HG/BSK would always have an oyster, clam chowder, fried squid feast at the Legal Seafoods airport location. Had to pass on it this time. Arrived at the HG/BSK New Mexico home in chilly 15 degree weather. Toby, The Wonder Dog, greeted the duo with ecstatic affection. The two lovely and talented women, Vicki B. and Sarah N., who occupy the home when HG/BSK travel or vacation, left some treats to welcome the home comers. Posole (vegetarian version by vegetarian Vicki and meaty, pork version by carnivore Sarah) had mucho heat and lots of New Mexican flavors. There were also nut bars baked by Vicki (spectacular). HG/BSK drank a fine Chilean red wine, wished each other a happy and healthy 2015. Nestled in their comfy bed. Home sweet home, indeed.

Los Andes is a Peruvian restaurant in Providence. One of HG’s all time favorites. It’s a big restaurant, jam-packed with an astonishingly diverse crowd of diners, all having an uproarious good time. This was the restaurant chosen for Profesore Massimo R.’s birthday dinner and HG/BSK and the Riva family were in high spirits. A big pitcher of very good sangria appeared. But, before sampling, HG and Massimo R. downed some beautifully made (and lethal) Pisco Sours. So good that HG had two. The Pisco Sour (Pisco Brandy, sugar, lime and whipped egg white) is HG’s favorite cocktail. The only other place in North America where you can get an authentic Pisco Sour is San Francisco. Peruvian sailors introduced it to San Francisco during the Gold Rush days. (San Francisco is also the city where you can taste another South American treat, the Ramos Gin Fizz. The venerable Tadich Grill makes it a specialty). The HG/BSK/R group started their meal with two ceviches: Ceviche Clasico (lime juice marinated clams, Prince Edward Island mussels, squid, shrimp and tilapia. Flavored with pureed garlic, and fiery leche de tigre). Ceviche de Pescano: (tilapia marinated in lime juice and cilantro and served with sliced red onion and strips of arugula in a leche de tigre sauce). There were three salads: Causa Limena (whipped potatoes and avocado topped with shredded chicken); a traditional Peruvian salad of sliced hard-boiled eggs adorning slices of purple potatoes; salad a la russe (the Russian salad of cooked vegetables in mayonnaise). Main dishes were powerfully robust and flavorful: Parillada Antica (a huge platter of grilled rib steak; homemade chorizo, marinated chicken thighs and fried yucca); Fricase (pork rib stew in a winy, dark sauce served with rice mixed with melted cheese). Wonderful tastes. A meal fit for a holiday and a birthday celebration.

Sedentary day for HG. Nestled in a comfy upholstered rocking chair, HG watched lots of NFL football on the Riva family’s newly acquired large screen / Hi-Definition TV. Patriots played desultory football in a meaningless game. Chiefs stifled Philip Rivers, the Chargers’ dramatic come-from-behind quarterback (not this time). And, in that northern Wisconsin refrigerator known as Lambeau Field, Aaron Rodgers and the Pack silenced the roar of the Lions. All of this grid drama honed HG’s appetite so it was off to Eli’s Kitchen in Warren, RI, for a major league feast. This is a little gem of a restaurant (seats about 30 people when filled which it usually is). No reservations. A modest wait is obligatory. Just about everything in the restaurant comes from local suppliers. This fresh food hops all over the globe. There are Thai, Indian, Mexican, Salvadoran and New Orleans style dishes on the menu. Vigorous spices. Generous portions. Creative cooking. And, prices are very moderate. HG devoured the ultimate bargain dish: Shrimp and Grits. The vibrant sauce was enriched with house smoked Tasso ham. The shrimp were big and juicy. The grits were creamy. The portion was huge but HG met the challenge with alacrity. The best shrimp and grits HG ever tasted since the wonders of Soul Kitchen in Chicago’s Wicker Park neighborhood. The price of Eli’s Shrimp and Grits: 14 bucks. The restaurant has nice starters including crisp crab beignets and cauliflower in a tingling sweet chile sauce. Check out the Eli’s Kitchen website for the other wonders of the menu. Brunch specials include huevos rancheros (made with carnitas) and a stupendous version of biscuits and gravy. The family meal was made festive by glasses of chilled French sparkling wine and two bottle of good red–a California Syrah and a French Cabernet. Apres feast, the group settled down before the TV to watch Wes Anderson’s wonderful movie, “Grand Hotel Budapest,” An extravaganza of wit and imagination. Perfect way to end the day.