HUNGRY GERALD

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.”

Yes, HG’s thoughts about food, dining, Paris, New York, Santa Fe, etc. may sometimes provoke a smile and, hopefully, even a modest grin. But, if you hanker for more robust fare, something that will provoke the eruption known as a belly laugh, get hold of the June 2, 2014 issue of The New Yorker. Turn to the “Shouts & Murmurs” on Page 35 and read Yummy by Paul Rudnick. This short piece on the goy-ification of Manischewitz, the gefilte fish and matzo company, is laugh out loud funny.

Hey, HG isn’t complaining.. HG has a wonderful life (with beloved BSK) in New Mexico and Prince Edward Island. Kids and their spouses (spice?) and the grandkids are an ongoing delight. But, HG’s thoughts occasionally turn to money as HG (with chagrin) notes various news items pertaining to the world oligarchy and the growing income disparity in the United States. Different attitudes toward money could be summed up in an incident that took place some 35 years ago. HG and zillionaire Alan G. were strolling in the Wall Street area of New York. HG had been spinning magical PR webs for the very rich guy who was engaged in a battle with the American Stock Exchange. The two guys watched an adroit African-American young man (and his shill) manipulating a lunchtime crowd with a three-card-monte game. Said HG: “What a shame. These are two bright, sharp young men. It’s a pity that legitimate business options haven’t been opened for these guys.” Said Alan G.: “Those weren’t my thoughts at all. I was trying to figure their hourly take from the hustle given the fact they would have to pay off some legitimate winners to keep the crowd interested. And, I was making a conjecture about an annual profit figuring in fines for illegitimate gambling plus payoffs to amenable cops. So, there’s a big difference in the way our minds work. You’re a talented guy, HG, and you’ll do okay. But, you’ll never get very rich.” And, that sums it up.

Okay. For those unacquainted with yiddish, the rebbitsen is the rabbi’s wife. Convinced that women were smarter than men, HG’s Mom often said: “Listen to the rebbitsen.” The presumption was that rabbis were lost in a haze of spiritual, legalistic and other “of the Book” concerns. Rebbitsens, on the other hand, were sound on earthly matters. A recent New York Times obituary of Omaha Rabbi Myer Kripke (died age 100) brought this to mind. Midwest synagogues did not lavish money on their spiritual leaders but Kripke, through inheritance and frugality, managed to accumulate about $65,000 in the early 1960s. Rabbi Kripke and his wife Dorothy, an author of religious books for children, became friends with another Omaha couple, Mr. and Mrs. Warren Buffet. Buffet was achieving a local reputation as an astute money manager. Dorothy Kripke suggested that they turn over their money to Buffet to manage. Kripke demurred. Buffet was only accepting investors who put up $150,000-$250,000. Dorothy (a traditional noodge) kept insisting that Kripke approach Buffet. It took three years but Kripke finally gave in. Buffet, who liked Kripke, made an exception and accepted the money. By the early 90’s that modest sum grew to $25,000,000. Didn’t change the Kripkes. They continued to live modestly and used their wealth for a variety of philanthropic causes. They were guests at the Buffets’ annual Thanksgiving dinners. Knowing their kosher dietary strictures, Mrs Buffet hired an eminent caterer to prepare tuna salads for the the Kripkes.