HUNGRY GERALD

Jonathan Schell, age 70, a brilliant journalist/historian died at his Brooklyn home a few weeks ago. Schell’s work (most of which appeared in The New Yorker and The Nation) aroused emotions in HG, namely anger, fear and sadness. That’s because he wrote about the worst ailments of our time: Global warming, nuclear weaponry, the Vietnam and Iraq wars, the near destruction of the American democracy during the regime of Richard Nixon. Three of his books are essential reading: The Village of Ben Suc (written when Schell was only 24, it sums up the Vietnam madness through one horrifying incident ); The Fate of the Earth, a frightening analysis of the possible end of our planet; The Time of Illusion, the history of the Nixon presidency and its reliance on lies, fear and downright criminality. No, Schell provided little comfort. But, dedicated truth tellers rarely do.

Lots of weather excitement yesterday as Hurricane Arthur roared across the Canadian Maritimes. Nova Scotia bore the brunt with power lost for many homes. Here, on Prince Edward Island, HG/BSK listened to loud winds and watched the sea produce whitecaps and spray. Beautiful. Turned into rain as the day progressed. Electricity went on and off. Fully restored by early afternoon. All was snug as HG read back issues of GRANTA, the wonderful British literary quarterly. BSK constructed a nice foul weather dinner: An Asiatic influenced beef short ribs soup /stew served with Japanese udon noodles and topped with a poached egg. This was followed by a salad and cumin gouda cheese from PEI’s inimitable “Gouda Lady.” HG/BSK let the winds howl as much red wine was poured. Bright sun and moderate winds this morning as Arthur disappeared. Long, invigorating beach walk. Shore was strewn with bits of jellyfish chopped up by the storm. A first: HG found a nice piece of green beach glass. BSK, the champion glass gleaner, found none.

HG/BSK (and family) have been collecting beach glass for more than a half century. They have walked the shores of Fire Island, Nantucket, Cape Cod, West Hampton, East Hampton, Montauk, and, of course, Prince Edward Island. Always on the alert for bits of glass that have been burnished by the sea. It is a gentle and harmless pastime made delightful by sea breezes, salt air and the sounds of the surf. On the antique Chinese sideboard in the entry to HG/BSK’s PEI home are glass containers filled with more than a thousand bits of beach glass. Some months ago there was a charming New Yorker cartoon depicting a couple at the sea shore. Says the man to his lady friend: “You are a piece of blue beach glass.” When HG saw this, HG remarked to BSK: “You are a piece of red beach glass.” Yes, blue beach glass is rare but red beach glass is the ultimate rarity. In years of beach walking, HG has never discovered one. So, you can imagine HG’s excitement today when BSK shouted: “Come quickly. I found it.” Yes, there in BSK hand was the perfect piece of red beach glass. Like the lady, rare and beautiful.

American chain hotels/motels. HG finds them wonderful. Holiday Inn Express is HG’s favorite. Clean rooms. Working AC. Flat screen TV. WIFI. Shower with good water pressure and plenty of hot water. Abundance of towels, shampoos, etc. A competent toilet that does its job efficiently. Comfortable bed with high quality mattress. Swimming pool and fitness center. Free coffee. And, the price for all this is quite modest. To find something comparable in Europe, you’d be paying lots of dough. Yes, the USA can’t handle the guns problem and the Land of the Brave and the Free likes to indulge in needless, expensive wars. But, when it comes to weary wayfarers wanting an affordable nightly accommodation, Uncle Sam rules.

Here’s a recipe for a perfect night. Start with a dinner of barbecued, Adobo dusted chicken breasts accompanied by a melange of olive oil gilded, grilled vegetables (Belgian endive, red bell peppers, Vidalia onions). Drink plenty of red Malbec. Settle down in the Eames lounge chair with a snifter of Bushmill’s Irish Honey Whiskey. Watch The Leopard on TV (the three-hour Italian language subtitled director’s cut version). Directed by Luchino Visconti and starring Burt Lancaster (adroitly dubbed into Italian), The Leopard (Il Gattopardo), was made in 1963 and is one of the few films that deserves the term “epic.” The final 45-minute ballroom sequence, exquisitely and subtly acted by Lancaster, is a cinema masterpiece, combining social commentary, visual splendor and individual experience. Movie magic. The film is faithful to the great novel upon which it is based, The Leopard by Giuseppe Tomaso di Lampedusa, a Sicilian of noble lineage. Read the book. See the movie.

HG gathers the lethal cocktail, The Martini, is making a comeback among today’s hard drinking generation. A dangerous trend, fears HG. Dorothy Parker, no stranger to strong drink, summed up its fearful effect on women: “One Martini. Two, at most. Three, I’m under the table. Four, I’m under the host.” HG recalls, from his younger days, many embarrassing incidents caused by two Martini lunches and three Martini cocktail hours. HG’s football coach at CCNY tried to inspire HG by saying: If you’ve got the ‘want to’ you’ll have the ‘can do.‘. Well, in terms of amorous adventure, Martinis inspire the want to but diminish the can do.

Last night clumsy HG broke a water glass (market value: 10 cents). This brought to mind some more dramatic events in the history of smashed goods. At a dinner party at a Colorado mountain home, HG saw a guest break two fine crystal wine glasses. “Sorry,” the guest said. The hostess replied: “They can be replaced. They cost $40 a piece.” The hint was not taken. No check was forthcoming. At a New York dinner party, HG’s friend broke the host’s (who happened to also be HG’s friend’s boss) valuable vase. Said the boss: “The only two others are at the Smithsonian.” The event — no doubt — diminished the unfortunate fellow’s chances for promotion. HG’s favorite breakage anecdote: The Hollywood screenwriter and wit Charles Lederer was at a fancy London dinner party. The hostess made a number of hateful remarks about Jews. Lederer strolled to the sideboard and picked up a priceless Ming Dynasty pot. “You certainly dislike Jews, Madame,” he said. “No, I don’t,” the hostess replied. Lederer dropped the pot and as it shattered, he said: “Well, now you do.”

So, pal, life getting you down? Boss giving you the bad eye, buddy? Boyfriend/girlfriend announced a break up, bunky? You need comfort, friend, so do what Asians (and HG) do. Have a few bowls of Congee. If chicken soup is Jewish penicillin then Congee is Asian penicillin. Every Asian mom has her own version (the dish is also called okayu in Japan, Jook in Korea and in Indonesia, Bubur Ayam.) Essentially, it is rice porridge. You can add, shrimp, scallops, pork, beef, chicken or hard boiled egg. You can top it with peanuts, fried garlic, fried shallots, sesame oil. You can flavor it with Sriracha, soy sauce, garlic chile sauce. With each spoonful, the blues will be banished. HG guarantees it. HG began eating Congee at the busy, no frills Congee Noodle House on Broadway in the Mt. Pleasant neighborhood of Vancouver, B.C. A very heartening breakfast on one of Vancouver’s many rainy mornings. At Congee Noodle House, the Congee was accompanied by a fried cruller (a rather greasy special taste). HG ignored the cruller but accompanied the Congee with fiery chile pepper fried squid or minnows. The Congee at the restaurant was very smooth similar to grits or Cream of Wheat. At home in Santa Fe, HG makes the Indonesian version—Bubur Ayam. The rice is not a puree. It retains some body.You can find a very good, authentic recipe on The Asian Grandmothers Cookbook website. Eat Congee. Be Happy.

HG has written before about the reluctance of most Americans to make squid and octopus part of their everyday diet. Sure, raw octopus is hard to find and cooking it well takes some skill. But, squid? Always available at Whole Foods and many supermarket fish counters. Cheap. Healthy. Simple to prepare. Versatile. Here’s how HG/BSK do it. Squid tubes are cut into rings and the tentacles into manageable clusters. Rinsed and then dried thoroughly. Very thoroughly, so that when fried, the squid will get crispy. Toss them into a pan of hot, smoking vegetable oil. Cook for one minute to 90 seconds. After draining on paper towels, BSK ads them to a pan of gently warmed Sicilian olive oil, thin slices of garlic, Greek hot and sweet pickled peppers. Showers the dish with parsley and some lemon juice. HG likes the sautéed squid (minus the peppers) mixed with linguine and a parsley/anchovy/olive oil mix plus some capers. David Tanis, the very good food writer, likes to top warmed canned cannelloni beans (Goya is the best brand) with squid, surrounded by slices of raw, sweet onion and ripe tomato and drizzled with a bit of olive oil. As far as octopus goes, HG gets some cooked octopus at Whole Foods and treats it like sashimi. Otherwise HG revels in grilled octopus at Greek restaurants (The eateries in Chicago’s Greektown section are expert in cooking octopus). But, the best octopus dishes are found in Europe. HG/BSK remember with fondness eating octopus with the late, great Italian food authority Marcella Hazan and her husband, Victor, at a stately restaurant in Mestre, the industrial town that is Venice’s neighbor. These were baby octopus just pulled from the Venetian lagoon, poached gently and served with only olive oil, lemon juice and coarsely ground black pepper. Sublime. In Madrid, HG/BSK found a funky, noisy, non-tourist bistro that served beautifully tender Polpo Gallego (octopus prepared in the Galician style). After lunching on this dish plus a platter of delectable little fried peppers); Gambas Ajillo (garlic shrimp) and a pitcher of sangria, HG/BSK were fortified to view Velasquez, Rubens, Titian, Bosch, Rembrandt, Goya and El Greco at the nearby Prado art museum. Nice to combine delicious food for the body with exhilarating food for the soul.

Warning to you of tender sensibilities — this is an R Rated Posting. HG is going to be naughty. Very naughty. Since HG is of advanced years and has limited knowledge of the mechanical advances in the area of human sexuality, HG was quite surprised recently to find there are many male masturbatory devices on the market. It is a growing industry say economic analysts. Essentially, the onanistic male slips his most precious and private part into a sort of comfy sleeve and electronic vibrations take over. These “sexual aids” can cost as much as $150. The French describe pornographic literature as “Books that are read with one hand.” We Americans (and Japanese where many of these devices got their start) have scaled new heights of decadence by discarding the human hand as a deliverer of solitary pleasure. Farewell to, as the wits of HG’s adolescence termed it, “Miss Palm and the Five Finger Sisters.”