HUNGRY GERALD

HG/BSK tasted Padron peppers for the first time in Madrid a few years ago. After hours on the majestic city’s museum row (the Prado and other wondrous venues) HG/BSK settled down for a late lunch at a busy, plain spoken Galician bistro. Grilled Chorizo. Shrimps in garlic sauce. Very tender Polpo Gallegos (octopus cooked in the Galician style). A big pitcher of Sangria. Good bread. And, a platter of Spanish Padron peppers fried in oil and garlic until they blistered. They were a taste revelation and HG wolfed down a dozen before a hot specimen set HG’s lips aflame. And, so HG discovered the Spanish saying (which applies to any number of experiences and persons), “Some Padrons are hot. Some are not.” You can’t tell by appearance. You only learn the truth by tasting. Last year, BSK ordered these peppers at Bones, the very good Asian fusion bistro in Denver. BSK had enjoyed the dish there many times. On this occasion, however, BSK swallowed a pepper so hot that BSK almost lost consciousness and was left with a severe and ringing headache. A stroke was feared. Since then HG/BSK have become pepper cautious. Most of the time BSK buys Shishito peppers at the Santa Fe or Pojoaque Farmers Markets. These peppers are an East Asian variety transplanted to the United States. They are very similar to Padrons, slightly smaller, never hot (and in HG’s opinion, slightly less tasty). Last night, BSK took a chance and fried a big batch of Pojoaque Padrons to accompany Adobo dusted fried pork chops. Heaven. Nary a hot coal, just peppery garlic enhanced flavor.

Pete Wells, The New York Times restaurant critic, did a delightful, witty review of Sammy’s Romanian Steakhouse, The Cardiolgist’s Nightmare on New York’s Lower East Side. Sammy’s serves a nostalgia drenched, schmaltz (chicken fat) drenched, heavy on garlic cuisine. The place evokes the yesteryear Jewish New York of The Bronx, Brooklyn and the Lower East Side. It is loud and clamorous with music from a non-politically correct pianist. Customers, fueled by vodka from ice enclosed bottles, join in the songs and dance between the tables. There are no strangers, just one big family. Wells got it right when he called it a “permanent underground bar mitzvah where Gentiles can act like Jews and Jews can act like themselves.” The restaurant provokes strong emotions. Love it or hate it. Wells wrote: “Sammy’s is the most wonderful terrible restaurant in New York.” BSK is firmly anti-Sammy’s. HG and SJ love it. Sammy’s is a once (maybe twice) a year place. More than that is suicidial. HG once left Sammy’s full of vodka, chopped liver and silver dollar potatoes. Driving uptown on the East Side drive, HG’s equally sozzled companion pointed out he was driving in the downtown lane. Both survived. Barely. Some sensitive Jewish readers have complained about the Wells review. HG’s advice to them: “Lighten up. Sammy’s is just a Jewish joke. Have a shot of icy vodka. L’Chaim.”

Ring those bells. Make noise. Shout happy new year wishes. Rosh Hashonah is upon us. Though not a practitioner of very orthodox Judaism, HG’s Mom would always make a tasty, multi-course dinner to welcome the new year. A feature was tzimmes, a sweet and savory carrot stew. The sweet element was supposed to induce a happy new year. Among the ingredients were chicken fat (of course), ginger, honey, a touch of cinnamon. And, plenty of chicken feet. HG”s Mom thought they brought a rich, glutinous quality to the “tzimmes.” HG loathed them. They looked very much like what they were — scaly feet, with nails — and were unpleasantly gristly and nasty. HG ate his way around them. HG still hates chicken feet. The Chinese love them, serving them up as snacks at Taiwanese movie theaters and, of course, they are a standard on dim sum carts the world over. HG likes every other part of a chicken–liver, heart, gizzard–so last year HG tried to give them another chance by tasting them at Nom Wah, the venerable dim sum eatery in New York’s Chinatown. Terrible. For some obscure reason, the word “tzimmes” is a Yiddish idiom for a fuss or tumult. HG’s Mom didn’t believe in coddling. When little HG sought sympathy for a cut or a scrape, Mom said: “Don’t make a tzimmes. It’s only a scratch.”

One frosty winter night in Montcalir, N.J., many years ago, HG/BSK (and family) joined their friends, the great jazz duo Jackie Cain and Roy Kral (plus their daughter, Dana) for ice skating on the frozen pond in the center of town. BSK and Roy were graceful skaters, HG was a klutz. Everyone else displayed moderate skills. Lots of laughs as appetites were sharpened under the starry suburban skies. Apres skate, the group gathered around the Cain/Kral dining table for a perfect winter dish–steaming bowls of Texas chile. The hungry folk topped their bowls with grated cheddar cheese and chopped raw onion. The fiery heat of the chile peppers was tamped down with some dollops of sour cream. Jackie confessed that the secret of the chili (best HG had ever tasted) was the use of Wick Fowler 2-Alarm Chili Mix. It was the only packaged mix that Jackie ever allowed in her home. The mix included numerous packages–chile powder, sage, super-hot cayenne pepper, masa flour, oregano, paprika, garlic, salt. These ingredients were added to two pounds of browned ground beef, a can of Ro-Tel (or canned tomatoes) and two cans of water. A half hour (or a bit more) of simmering and you had a noble Texas treat. According to chili history, Wick Fowler in 1967, won the first world chili cook-off. The event was held in Terlingua, Texas, and the Chili Mix company was born soon after. Roy Kral died in 2002. Jackie died last week in the Montclair home where we first tasted her (and Wick Fowler’s) chili. So, here in New Mexico, HG/BSK (and granddaughter Beautiful Sofia R.) paid tribute to HG/BSK’s dear friend and lovely artist of song: Jackie and Roy cd’s were on the Bose. Wick Fowler’s 2-Alarm Chile was on the table. A bittersweet occasion as rollicking times were recalled and toasts were drunk to Jackie. Happily, her voice filled the room with its essence of champagne bubbles (SJ’s memory) and eternal spring.

For a few years, one of HG’s favorite lunchtime treats has been a big, steaming bowl of instant ramen–specifically hot and spicy Shin Ramyun Noodle Soup, created and manufactured in Korea and consumed throughout the world. Low in calories. No cholesterol. Healthy stuff, thought HG, until Gifted Daughter Lesley R. pointed out that a package contains 1040 mg of sodium. That’s a super abundance of salt. Not helpful for high blood pressure. Instant ramen has been under attack from American nutrition scientists (causing consternation in Seoul). With all of this in mind, HG has not given up on Shin Ramyun but has made (HG believes) beneficial modifications. Each package of Shin Ramyun contains a little package of dried vegetables and a package of soup flavoring. These are the villains, HG surmised. The noodles themselves are just a modest source of carbohydrates. So, HG tossed those packages (but adding a 1/2 teaspoon of the soup flavoring for color). HG provided taste by putting some tablespoons of healthy kimchi (sourced at Whole Foods) in the ppt with the water and noodles. Turned out great. HG has been experimenting. Tofu and a smidgen of soy sauce to the noodles. A beaten egg swirled in the soup and a dash of Frank’s Louisiana Thick Hot Sauce or Sriracha. In the future is noodle soup with a poached egg and bacon (low sodium chicken broth instead of water). Also the soup with watercress and snippets of ham. David Chang, the eminent chef and founder of the Momofuku restaurants, demonstrated that ramen translated perfectly into a Roman style cacio e pepe; then again, Chang likes to munch on the uncooked noodles as a snack. HG will take a pass on that one.

HG is often nostalgic about the spicy, fatty, garlicky dishes HG’s Mom constructed during HG’s Bronx boyhood. A particular favorite was kishke (also known as “stuffed derma”). This was a beef intestine (or chicken neck) stuffed with matzo meal, chicken fat (obligatory in much of Mom’s cuisine); garlic, finely chopped onion and a plentiful amount of of salt, black pepper and paprika. This was roasted and served with long cooked brisket and gravy or pan broiled liver and onions. Good? Like Dashiel Hammet’s Maltese Falcon: “It was the stuff dreams were made of.” Kishke often appeared on the menus of the Jewish “Borscht Belt” hotels nestled in New York’s Catskill Mountains. The principal road leading to these resorts was nicknamed “the Derma Road.” “Kishkes” was a Yiddish slang term for stomach or guts. HG recalls fight fans at venues like St. Nicholas Arena and Sunnyside Garden cheering on headhunting Jewish boxers with the immortal phrase: “Hit him in the kishkes!!”

HG/BSK agree: Best restaurant ever when hungry beyond delirium was the China Barn (Memory slips — it was either located in Waitsfield, Vermont or adjacent to Sugarbush Mountain. Anyway, it’s long closed). HG/BSK, very young SJ and daughter Lesley, would rush to the restaurant after a frigid, high energy day battling Sugarbush’s icy ski runs. Temperature usually hovered around zero. Slopes were demanding (HG ended an undistinguished ski career there after a right leg spiral fracture). When the HG/BSK family were seated at China Barn their collective appetites were honed to sheer madness. HG, a renowned over-orderer, kept the food coming. Dumplings, Noodles. Stir fries of pork, beef, shrimp, chicken and vegetables, won ton soup (a kiddy favorite). Did appetite have something to do with the family admiration of China Barn? As they say in the middle west: You betcha!! After the sumptuous Chinese feast, it was back to the rented condo for hot showers and ice cream in front of the TV. This was recalled by HG/BSK last night at a very late Chinese dinner following a long (no lunch) day of Prince Edward Island shore walking, sun bathing and swimming on a perfect, sunny, cloudless day. HG cooked a spicy Chinese eggplant dish. BSK stir fried Souris sea scallops and delectable snow peas with ginger, garlic, oyster sauce, etc.. BSK provided a pot of fluffy rice. Red wine. Gahan’s IPA brew. Sugarbush-type appetites were appeased.

The New Yorker Magazine writer, Adam Gopnik, HG’s favorite essayist, wrote a charming account of his psychoanalysis, “Man Goes to a Doctor” in his collection Through The Children’s Gate. The protagonist of this lightly comic but deeply felt memoir is Gopnik’s late, imperious analyst, a European Freudian of the old school. During an analytic session, Gopnik expresses a desire to visit Venice. The analyst immediately makes a reservation for Gopnik at his favorite Venetian hotel. He then gives Gopnik a list of good Venetian restaurants (all old fashioned and traditional). “Order linguine con vongole (white clam sauce). You will be happy, at last.” Excellent advice. HG has rarely been happier than when eating linguine con vongole. Many decades ago HG/BSK and family would collect clams from the bottom of Long Island’s Great South Bay, a short stroll from HG/BSK’s home perched on a sand dune facing the Atlantic Ocean. HG had a very effective clam shucking instrument and could shuck a few hundred clams in a short time. This meant raw clams on the half shell (with a dash of lemon juice); clams casino (clams dotted with bread crumbs, garlic, parsley, drenched in olive oil, topped with bacon and given a quick broil in the oven) and the main course — BSK’s incomparable linguine con vongole.

Bittersweet sadness. Summer is ending here on Prince Edward Island. In too few days HG/BSK will return to the Land of Enchantment. As the wistful song has it: “The days dwindle down to a precious few.” In the meantime, HG/BSK are eating plenty of incomparable sweet corn from the Deb and Gary and Blum’s trucks in Montague. Yes, it will be many months before HG/BSK and family have another sweet corn orgy. Sweet corn has been particularly good this season. HG/BSK have had much corn on the cob; corn chowder (both clam and cod); corn griddle cakes; peppers and onions with corn kernels; a succotash with yellow beans. A surprise was corn tempura prepared by the magical Japanese chef, HG/BSK’s daughter-in-law Exquisite Maiko. That hit all the taste buttons: crispy, sweet, salty, savory. Garrison Keillor wrote: “People have tried and they have tried but sex is not better than sweet corn.” In HG’s opinion, Keillor overstates, But, then, the sage of “Prairie Home Companion” has not had the benefit of 51 years of marital bliss with BSK.

Here’s a flat, unequivocal assertion: The New Jersey tomato is the best tomato on earth. Better than San Marzano. Better than Provence. Better than the possibly lab-created Kumatos that satisfy HG’s Winter tomato lust. Yes, Joisey rules. When HG/BSK lived in Montclair, New Jersey, tomatoes starred on the HG/BSK indoor and outdoor dining tables. Fresh mozzarella (still dripping milk), made hourly at Belgiovine’s Grocery on Bloomfield Avenue. Slices of good italian bread toasted and rubbed with garlic. Sun warmed and ripened tomatoes and basil, harvested by BSK from her well tended garden. Dark green Sicilian olive oil from Manganaro’s on New York’s Ninth Avenue (sadly now closed). Beaujolais (or rose) with a few ice cubes. This comprised HG/BSK’s typical summer lunch enjoyed under a wisteria and trumpet vine bedecked pergola. Sometimes BSK made a quick Spaghetti Aglio e Olio and topped it with chopped raw tomatoes and torn basil leaves. When HG/BSK left Joisey for a new life in the West, a thoughtful business colleague sent them a case of tomatoes. Though missing that extraordinary fruit, HG/BSK console themselves on Prince Edward Island with matchless sweet corn, potatoes, oysters, clams, lobster and Atlantic fish. In New Mexico, HG/BSK enjoy the wonders of freshly roasted and harvested chile, local oyster mushrooms, hard-neck garlic, succulent al padron peppers and all the other delights provided by local farmers including Mr. G, HG/BSK’s neighbor who is famed through the state for his organic lettuces, escarole, bok choy and more. Though surfeited with good stuff, HG continues to miss those rosy red wonders from the Garden State.