HUNGRY GERALD

HG and BSK have been very fortunate in life to have dined looking out at a variety of spectacular views. Of course, nothing will ever match the sweeping New York vistas from tragic, doomed Windows on the World Restaurant on the 105th and 106th floors of the World Trade Center. HG dined there often, managed news conferences and business meetings in its convivial setting. (One of HG’s business colleagues was among four people who left the restaurant and elevatored to safety just minutes before the terrorist plane struck). There are other New York restaurants, thankfully spared disaster, with great views: The glittering art-deco Rainbow Room in Rockefeller Center. The “Top of the Tower” in the Beekman Tower Hotel. In Italy, incredible views were matched with culinary delights: In a miniscule trattoria atop a lofty hill in Tuscany HG and BSk feasted on tagliatelle with generous shavings of white truffle. In Sicily there were extravagant aquatic vistas viewed from a dining terrace where the specialty was Spaghetti Norma (eggplant sauce). Also in Sicily, HG and BSK ate linguini with sardine sauce while seated on the terrace of a posh Taormina hotel, the endless blue of the Mediterranean shimmering in the distance. For many years, HG and BSK didn’t have to leave home to enjoy dining scenery. For some 16 years HG and BSK’s Colorado dining table faced some 75 miles of views including the Front Range of the Rockies, the lights of Denver, Pike’s Peak and the plains of Kansas. (The HG/BSK home was 9,000 feet above sea level). The HG/BSK loft in Vancouver looked over mountains, sea and glittering skyscrapers. Here, in New Mexico, HG and BSK dine with a crackling fire in their fireplace (nights are cool, even in May and early June) with Las Barrancas (the Cliffs) in the distance. These cliffs, which change color throughout the day as sun and shadow paint their surface, are on the land of the Poajque Pueblo. They are steeped in tribal history. Nice backdrop for HG and BSK’s wine accented dinners.

In France eggs are not relegated to the breakfast table; instead they are treated with the culinary seriousness they deserve appearing on both bistro and three star restaurant menus. Oeufs Mayo (hard boiled eggs toped with lots of freshly made mayonnaise) is a nice entree. So are Oeufs Meurette (poached eggs in red wine sauce). One bistro even serves BSK’s childhood favorite: Eggs and Soldiers. The dish consists of a soft boiled egg with buttered spears of a baguette. Naturally, omelettes are prominent. HG loves a bistro mushroom omelette, brown and crisp on the outside, soft on the inside. (The French descriptive word for this is baveuse which literally means “oozing.”) A baveuse omelette accompanied by pomme frites, red wine and good bread (perhaps a bit of salad) makes an ideal light, but hearty lunch. (The comic genius, Mel Brooks, discusses a baveuse onion and tomato omelette in this month’s Bon Appetit Magazine). HG also likes fried eggs and bacon tucked into a Norman galette, a crisp edged buckwheat crepe. Back home in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave, HG likes a summer egg salad (heavy on the mayo) sandwich on whole wheat toast with a glass of cold lemonade.

On the way to summer fun (kayaking, sun bathing, swimming, beach walking, cycling, oysters, mussels, lobsters, fresh fish) on Prince Edward Island, HG and BSK will spend a week in Montreal. Have leased an apartment in the colorful Plateau district and will be joined by SJ, Exquisite Maiko and their 2 children. Gifted Daughter Lesley says she will join us for a few days. And, admittedly a long shot, Restaurateur Daughter Vicki and chef/husband Marc say they will try to get away for a brief visit. Guaranteed: Loads of fun and feasting. HG is eager to try the much vaunted Jewish food in Montreal. This means Schwartz’s (smoked meat); Fairmount Bakery (bagels); Wilensky’s (fried salami with mustard on a “pletzel”/onion roll). Will pass on Moisha’s, an expensive steak house, but will dine at Au Pied de Cochon, A Quebecois restaurant that is on the cardiology black list (savory foie gras and snout-to-tail pork specialties). Have heard good reports about Montreal dim sum, Lebanese take-out and cheap, spicy Portuguese chicken. A full report will be forthcoming. While noshing on Jewish specialties in Montreal, HG will ponder why some of his favorite Jewish writers come from that city — Saul Bellow, Mordecai Richler and the New Yorker Magazine’s brilliant Adam Gopnik. Of course, Montreal’s Leonard Cohen is an HG favorite in his roles as poet, song writer and performer.

It is always a delight to dine with HG and BSK’s talented, food and wine loving friends in Vancouver. Pablo R. is a talented modernist architect (and former restaurateur) and his wife, Monica J., is an international lawyer. HG and BSK had never been to their new Gastown apartment, a dwelling they occupy with their 18-month-old daughter. Surprisingly (given Pablo’s cutting edge sense of design), the building turned out to be a rather shabby “heritage” structure. But, when the front door opened you were in a world of contemporary, minimalist design. Startling. It seems the developer retained only the facade of the building (required by neighborhood’s zoning laws) and built an entirely new building behind it. As to be expected, Pablo and Monica’s duplex is a lovely space. For dinner, Pablo prepared a Vancouver specialty — fresh Pacific Black Cod. Pablo marinated the fish in miso before a quick saute. Served with pasta, it was memorable.

There was another remarkable fish dish in HG’s future when HG/BSK dined at Chambar Restaurant with Jamie S. and his glorious lady friend, Karen St. John (pronounced “SinJin” in the English fashion which Anglophiles HG/BSK were pleased to learn). At Chambar, HG had a perfect chunk of halibut cooked with the kind of exquisite timing HG associates with Le Bernardin in New York. Chanbar, which seems to attract Vancouver’s beautiful people, is a great place to drink (as well as eat). HG had a Negroni cocktail which outshone anything HG ever drank at Harry’s Bar in Venice. The Belgian beers and ales on tap are equally outstanding. Before Chambar, HG/BSK, Karen and Jamie, drank some very good white wine at Jamie’s triplex apartment which features his carefully curated collection of Alessi, Starck and other design icons. Jamie’s roof deck is one of Vancouver’s great spaces, overlooking mountains, water and the glittering skyline of the high rise city. Generous and hospitable, Jamie has furnished it for entertaining with an emphasis upon barbecue. A great Vancouver night (when it isn’t raining, of course) is devouring a Jamie steak accompanied by one of the splendid reds from his wine cellar. Sea gulls fly overhead, lights twinkle, Jamie is at hand to refill glasses and uncork another botttle of splendor. Don’t you wish you had a pal like that?

Rain, rain (Why do you think Vancouver is so brilliantly green and floral?) is pouring down and HG and BSK have chosen the perfect moist morning activity: Dim sum at Szechuan Chonquing Restaurant on Commercial Drive. Sharing the feast is Pablo R., the duo’s brilliant young architect friend. No carts here. You order from a menu and everything is deliciously fresh. Dan Dan noodles (a house specialty of noodles in a fiery peanut/sesame sauce) with crisp bits of pork. Har Gow (thin skinned steamed dumplings filled with big, juicy prawns). Shu Mai (super sized pork and shrimp dumplings). Steamed pork buns. Sea scallop rice rolls. Chinese broccoli (abundant garlic). Attentive, courteous service, much hot tea and a ludicrously small bill. Perfect. Food was followed by the Art Spiegelman “CO-MIX” exhibit at the Vancouver Art Gallery. “A Retrospective of Comics, Graphics and Scraps,” confirms Spiegelman as a major artist, creative, humane and subtly (and not no subtly) subversive. Maus: A Survivor’s Tale,” of course, is a modern classic which helped to establish cartooning as a viable method of treating serious material in narrative form. Equally impressive is Spiegelman’s graphic work. His explosive New Yorker Magazine cover (celebrating Valentine’s Day) of a Hassidic Jew and an African-American woman locked in a passionate kiss, is funny, sardonic and politically illuminating. Part of the exhibit is a film documentary of Spiegelman’s life. It is heartening to see that he is an unassuming New Yorker, happily married to Françoise Mouly, the fine French artist, publisher and New Yorker Art Director.

The Hooters restaurant chain (locations throughout the world) provokes HG anger. Like a lecherous uncle, there is something downright perverse about the chain’s deliberate exploitation and objectification of the bodies of young women. (HG has never been in a “Hooters” but has watched the chain’s repulsive, leering videos). One of HG’s favorite food bloggers is David Lebovitz (“Living the Sweet Life in Paris.”) He is a graceful writer and an accomplished cook. Recently, Lebovitz attended a holiday party and through a silly gift exchange, he wound up with The Hooters Cookbook. Bemused (and amused), Lebovitz decided to test a recipe: Deep Fried Onion Rings. And, annoyingly, the onion rings turned out to be splendid. As a matter of moral principle (even though HG loves onion rings–even more than he loves French fries) HG will not try the recipe. Since HG will be summering with BSK and family on Prince Edward Island, HG will enjoy the world’s best deep fried onion rings at Rick’s Fish and Chips, the delightful restaurant near the edge of St.Peter’s Bay. Six oysters on the half shell, fresh fried haddock, onion rings, cole slaw and a cold bottle of locally brewed artisan ale—that’s what HG will be eating at Rick’s following a day of swimming, sunning and kayaking. Envious?

The 10-cent Nedick’s hot dog (Nedick’s, now shuttered, was a New York City based fast food chain predating Mickey Dee). The Sabrett’s hot water dog with its odd tomato and onion sauce. The Chicago hot dog replete with “sport” peppers, celery salt, pickles and other greenery. The Bronx kosher deli dog with hot mustard and sauerkraut. The estimable doggie sold in the Costco food court. All of these have provided HG with varying degrees of pleasure. But, HG’s favorite canine can only be found in the small state of Rhode Island. Yes, Rhody is of modest size but it specializes in big, highly idiosyncratic flavors. And, for sheer oddity (as well as a strange, hard-to-pin-down savoriness) the “New York System Hot Wiener” (accompanied by a cold Coffee Milk) stands out and makes HG bark with delight. Permit HG to do a scholarly exegesis on the proletarian pup: The wiener used in a NY System is either the skinless product, the Little Rhody or the Saugy which has a natural English sheep casing (giving it a characteristic snap). Alone, or in a roll, these small sized dogs are certainly good but nothing to write an HG posting about. But, then comes the sauce. Ah, the sauce. The French say cheese is milk’s leap into immortality (When the French get things right, they get them really right). And, the spicy meat sauce that smothers the Hot Wiener makes the tube steak leap into nosh immortality. Created by Greek immigrants in the early 1920s (or somewhere around there) the meat sauce is truly the flavor of the old world (Europe, Middle East) meeting (or meating!) the new. There are hints of Italian Ragu and Greek Mousaka. Bits of Texas chili. Smidgens of Middle Eastern kefta (possibly due to tiny infusions of cinnamon, cumin and possibly all spice). The faintest evocation of Portuguese stews. But, why try to analyze it. Like a kiss from a beautiful woman, just enjoy it and don’t intellectualize. One would think that the sauce could stand alone, No. Rhode Islanders further enhance the Hot Wiener with mustard, chopped onion and celery salt. So, what do you drink with his extravaganza? Just as HG believes the only appropriate drink to guzzle with a New York hot pastrami sandwich is the “Jewish Champagne” that is Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray Tonic, Rhodys opt for Coffee Milk. This beverage is made with two tablespoons of locally made Autocrat Coffee Syrup mixed with icy milk. Stirred well. Simple. Perfect. HG believes the Rhode Island fondness for coffee milk is somehow linked to the Rhode Island fondness for coffee and donuts at Dunkin’ Donuts. Rhodys are the nation’s largest per capita consumers of donuts (the Providence sports and entertainment center is the Dunkin’ Donuts Arena known to all followers of Providence and Rhode Island University basketball teams as “the Dunk).

Given all of this yummy history, HG’s heart picked up a beat today when he opened a package from the Family R.: Gifted Daughter Lesley, Profesore/Dottore Massimo, Glorious Granddaughters Arianna and Sofia. The little bundle contained a package of Olneyville N.Y. System, R.I.’s Best Hot Wieners, Hot Wiener Sauce Spice Mix (since 1946) plus a bottle of Autocrat, enough to make many glasses of Coffee Milk “The Official State Drink of Rhode Island.” The enclosed card read: “A taste of Rhode Island for Hungry Gerald.” HG has a kind and thoughtful family. HG will sample these good RI things while listening to Blossom Dearie sing: “Rhode Island Is Famous For You.”

HG loathes all of the popular, incessantly advertised, heavily sugared, artificially sweetened and chemically infused carbonated beverages. Coke, Pepsi, Sprite, Dr. Pepper, etc. To HG they seem to be part of a health destroying plot against the American people. Principals in the plot are the evil profiteers who stock the supermarket shelves with these nasty drinks and their collaborators, the “snack” manufacturers. (Recently they have been joined by the brewers of the “energy” drinks — a la Red Bull). HG looks with dismay as women, accompanied by children, wheel their supermarket carts laden with these vile objects. Do they hate their kids? Have they been brainwashed by television hucksters? In the interests of full disclosure and intellectual honesty, HG must admit to a twice-a-year fall from grace. That’s when HG eats a traditional overstuffed Jewish pastrami sandwich in New York (at Katz’s or Carnegie Deli). What Sauterne is to foie gras and Burgandy is to steak — that’s what Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray Tonic is to pastrami. The companion made in heaven. Of course, Cel-Ray reeks of fraud. It’s flavored with some kind of celery seed extract — not nice, fresh, healthy celery. It certainly isn’t a tonic. (Okay, okay. At some point the FDA made the manufacturers stop calling it a tonic and label it as “Soda.”) And, HG suspects Dr. Brown’s medical school credentials. Nevertheless, when eating pastrami the drink seems to be just what the doctor ordered — the pungent, almost peppery flavor is the perfect foil for the juicy fat of perfect pastrami. It is a very Jewish beverage and only found where Jews abound — New York and South Florida. You can also find it in such Los Angeles heartburn heavens as Langer’s, Canter’s and Nate and Al’s. Cel-Ray had its birth in Brooklyn in 1868 and for generations was known as “Jewish Champagne.” Pass the pickles and sour tomatoes, please.

It seems that the very odd treat — the chow mein sandwich — is alive and well. As HG has previously posted, the Chow Mein sandwich is a guilty pleasure, a low-end treat relished by HG and only available at Nathan’s Famous hot dog emporium on Coney Island and its branch (long closed) in the mid-Manhattan movie and theater district. A very messy sandwich. Care and numerous napkins ae required. A year ago, this sandwich appeared at Lee’s Chinese in Rhode Island. And now, HG has just read, with pleasure, that the chow mein sandwich has been thriving at Mee Sum Restaurant and Cocktail Lounge in Fall River, Mass. Jane and Michael Stern, those intrepid discoverers of funky food on America’s highways (and creators of the seminal Road Food Good Food books and website), reported on the cuisine of Fall River in this month’s (March 2013) issue of Saveur Magazine. They describe the excellence of the noodles on the Mee Sum sandwich: “Thin and elegant, fried until wicked crisp, the noodles are an ideal foil for brown gravy laced with celery and onion. The sandwich is a fascinating textural swirl: soft and crunchy, wet and brittle.” The Sterns, noting the treat is “mischievously delicious,” observe the chow mein sandwich is little known except as an “oddity” at Nathan’s. It all sounds good but the mention of “brown gravy” is enticing. Nathan’s sandwich binds the celery and onions with a traditional, light beige, corn starch thickened, gravy. Does this difference of gravy darkness represent a genuine, regional split?

The year was 1966, HG and BSK were off on their first European trip. Five days in Paris. Five days in London. They were accompanied by two-year-old Lesley, their remarkably precocious, articulate (and, needless to say) beautiful daughter. The dollar was strong. Stayed at the Hotel Pont-Royal on Rue du Bac in Saint Germain des Pres. The hotel was arty, picturesque, nicely shabby (and cheap). Now it is super posh following numerous expensive makeovers (there’s a Jöel Robuchon restaurant on the premises). Steeped in intellectual nostalgia for the Existentialists HG and BSK’s first stop was at Cafe Flore. During the German occupation, intellectuals gathered at the well heated Flore rather than their pre-war cafe-of-choice Deux Magots, the other great St. Germain cafe, because Deux Magots was favored by German officers. (Little did HG and BSK know at the time that they needn’t have traveled far for their nod to intellectual greatness as the basement bar of the Pont-Royal was the hangout of the most advanced intellectuals, political engages, writers and philosophers. It was where Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir held forth when they were not pontificating at the Cafe Flore.) Little Lesley had her first Croque Monsieur. Loved it and subsisted on those sandwiches for the entire Paris visit. HG and BSK were enthralled by the style and elegance of the Parisians. It was April in Paris. The costume for young women was a vivid, clingy sheath and a short leather jacket. (These items — plus a tweedy topcoat — were immediately purchased by BSK and, of course, BSK was the height of casual chic.) In order to fit into the Paris scene, HG visited a Boulevard Saint Germain shop for some stylish suits and a blazer. The welcome to HG was cool. Then HG had an insight. HG spoke to the store manager in Yiddish. Everything changed. HG was treated like a long lost son. Received a discount. Clothes were instantly altered and delivered within a few hours. Stylishly clad in their new duds, the duo dined at the famed Laperouse, a restaurant renowned for high cuisine and discreet private rooms for amorous gourmands. HG and BSK ordered badly. Heavy, heavy cream and butter sauces. BSK became ill and was laid up for a day. HG and little Lesley explored the lovely streets and squares of the district, pausing before many enticing shop windows. Naturally, there were many stops for Vin Rouge for HG and un chocolat chaud for Lesley. Once BSK’s health and appetite returned, the trio was off to museums; Luxembourg Gardens (Lesley was delighted by the puppet show); a stroll through the Tuileries to the Louvre; a visit to a toy store an the Champs Elysee, etc. On the last night in Paris a baby sitter took Lesley to a carousel (and a dinner of a Croque Monsieur and hot chocolate, naturally). HG and BSK dined at a Left Bank bistro. A bottle of very good, young Beaujolais. The waiter brought a platter of thick, white steamed asparagus (first of the Spring) wrapped in a linen napkin. A big bowl of Sauce Mousseline (better than Hollandaise). Heaven. This was followed by gigot, rosy slices of young, roasted lamb. An abundance of perfect pomme frites. Next course was a small green salad with a wedge of ripe camembert. Dessert was bowls of wild strawberries with creme fraiche. Then, strong demi tasse and (for HG) a snifter of cognac. It was the perfect meal.

London was not an anti-climax. HG and BSK had smoked salmon and Dover sole at Wheeler’s. Traditional roast beef and Yorkshire Pudding at Simpson’s in the Strand. Afternoon tea at Brown’s. A visit to the National Museum. Strolls in the beautiful parks. An amplitude of fish and chips. For Anglophiles like HG and BSK it was the culmination of many childhood dreams. This was the time of Mod London and so a visit to Carnaby Street, the center of Mod fashion, was obligatory. Here, the proud parents kitted Lesley out in striped bell bottom trousers and a vivid safari jacket. There was universal agreement that she was the hippest, cutest little girl in Britain.