Basking in post-election euphoria, HG celebrated the HG birthday (Nov. 9) by tucking into some rare lamb chops, fingerling potatoes, sauteed Shishito peppers and grilled baby eggplant. A mighty feast heightened by a super-robust bottle of Amarone. Warmed by the many birthday greetings from friends and family, HG sipped an after dinner port and contemplated how rapidly Karl Rove has morphed from Evil Genius to Silly Windbag. Karl, who seems to have blown some $400 million of other people’s dough, is now telling the story. Examples of The Story: Romney lost because Obama maligned Romney’s business career at Bain. Romney would have won but Hurricane Sandy blunted his momentum. Etc, etc., ad nauseum. What does HG mean by telling the story ? Back in the distant past, HG was a Broadway press agent. When HG failed to get a client the amount of publicity the client believed he or she deserved, HG always had an excuse: It was Lent (or Passover). Rainy weather. Heat wave. Snow. Big murder case dominating the news. All media attention was focused on a championship prize fight. Among HG’s fellow press agents, this was known as telling the story. HG was a creative master. Rove is a maladroit amateur.
Post election dinner was relatively spartan — tomato and mozzarella salad; some very good mortadella and a baguette. (Okay, HG had a celebratory “tin roof”: vanilla ice cream smothered in Hershey’s Chocolate Syrup and topped with salty Planters Cocktail Peanuts. Hey, got to do something piggy after a wonderful win). HG continued to muse about the election. HG liked the comment of an African-American voter: “I watched the Republican Convention. It looked like a Klan meeting. I watched the Democratic Convention. It looked like America.” (HG felt the morose Romney Boston headquarters on election night resembled the membership of a midwest country club that had just learned the greens fees had doubled). HG liked Rachel Maddow’s overview of the election. The woman is super-super smart. If you missed it do your best to source it. Very rewarding.
As an old fogey, HG thought about his days as a New York journalist and the political analysis he received from an Irish big shot in the Democratic Party who said: “The Micks vote. They all want civil service jobs so they want to be on the good side of me. Jews vote, 100%. (The big shot knew HG was Jewish or he would have referred to the Chosen People with a denigrating term). Can’t rely on Italians unless an Italian is running. (Referred to Italians with a denigrating term). African-Americans don’t count. They don’t vote. (Of course, he referred to African-Americans with a traditional denigrating term). Hispanics? Fuhgeddabout it!! (Yes, he used another denigrating term).” This pol expressed the political wisdom of the mid-1950’s. It seems more than a half-century has gone by but the Republicans seem to be trapped in a time warp,still sharing — to a considerable extent — the racist and ethnic cliches of that disgusting old pol. Yes, Republicans. African-Americans vote. Yes, Hispanics vote. And, they are willing to face all the voting machine hazards you have created and have their say about the future of this country. Hooray, says HG.
Election night was fun and frolic. Our great friends, Polly B. and David F. joined HG and BSK before the TV. Naturally, there was plenty of vodka, wine, garlicky chicken, fried potatoes and other good things. Strong Obama supporters, the group’s joy kept mounting as the results came in. Now, the morning after, HG is in a contemplative and cerebral mood. Some observations. The American elections are mad, bloated, excessive. (Funny, the Europeans who disdain us often use these words to describe Americans). However, how else can one describe an election process that costs billions, goes on endlessly and is unable to efficiently handle the process of voting? No other industrialized nation has such an irrational system.
Another observation. Plutocrats must seem frustrated today. What’s the of having billions if you can’t buy an election? After all, you can eat just so much caviar.
Observation three. Republican party leaders must make it mandatory that rape cannot be discussed and all mention of women’s reproductive processes be banned.
Observation four: Republicans would be better served if they stopped listening to Limbaugh and Rove and spent more time reading Nate Silver, The New York Times’ extraordinary polling prognosticator. As usual, he was 100% accurate in his forecasts.
Observation five. It is time for civility and consensus. The present division in our country is dangerous and unproductive. One or two mishaps could trigger violence — and that would be terrible. HG spent time this morning talking to two saddened Republicans: HG’s long time (almost 40 years) accountant and the banker who, for some eight months, has been trying to refinance HG and BSK’s home mortgage. The accountant felt that our federal deficit is a true danger and Mitt Romney, a sophisticated financier, was best qualified to reduce it. The banker pointed out that Obama regulations governing bank mortgage policies were an overreaction to previous excesses. He said that HG and BSK’s refinance had been approved (good news). He added that the Obama regulations had made mortgage financing unwieldy and cut off financing for many credit worthy applicants. Perhaps, mused HG. This is being mentioned because the two Republicans are not mad right wingers but decent people who have differing views on taxes and economics. There is a middle ground. Let’s hope that it is reached in the next four years. Republican leaders have to realize that demonization and intransigence don’t work. Obama’s triumph proves it.
HG and BSK often settle down after dinner around the warming fireplace and watch a film courtesy of Netflix. A few nights ago the duo watched films on successive nights that were set in India. The films were Gandhi (overlong, talky, simplistic — but saved by Ben Kingsley’s remarkable performance in the title role) and The Man Who Would Be King (a rousing John Huston version of the Kipling tale with Sean Connery and Michael Caine — a critical success but, surprisingly, a box office failure). For fun, HG and BSK thought they’d preface each film with Indian food. So, a peek through two favorite cook books Vij’s Indian Cuisine and Vij’s At Home, revealed two splendid vegetable dishes Cauliflower Steaks and Eggplant, Tomato and Green Onion Curry. Lots of cumin and turmeric in the cauliflower dish. Cayenne and Mexican chile powder gave the eggplant dish heated zip. Warm naan, fluffy rice plus mango chutney and lime pickle were part of the meal. Good eating. Had some leftovers for the next Indian meal (and film). This time BSK grilled a juicy chicken breast rubbed with cumin, garlic and garam masala. Worthy addition. (If in Vancouver, B.C., do not miss the two famed Indian fusion restaurants, Vij’s and Rangoli.)
A few nights later Netflix delivered Under The Volcano, a film set in Mexico The novel by Malcolm Lowry is riveting but the film, despite a virtuoso performance by Albert Finney, is a fallure. With John Huston directing, the fillm, of course has some rewards — the eerie cantina-hell that dominates the last part of the film, Anthony Andrews’ plaintive singing of a Spanish Loyalist song about Madrid and the beautifully photographed Day of the Dead holiday. HG and BSK are unsympathetic to self destructive drunks and after watching Finney’s bravura self destructing they could only murmur: “We don’t care.” The duo had thought about Mexican food before the film but opted for pasta with broccoli di rabe and grilled Italian sausage. HG and BSK will save the Mexican dishes for a more rousing film set in Mexico — possibly Viva Zapata.
Lesley R., gifted daughter of HG and BSK, has spent much time living in Italy with her family. When HG has visited them (in Bologna, Venice, Siena) meals often started with a platter of Bresaola (thinly sliced, air dried beef). Lesley covered the beef with fresh, baby arugula, good olive oil and shards of Parmesan. Splendid dish. HG hasn’t encountered Bresaola in the USA and feared an Italian trip was the only way to access this delicacy. Well, happy news. Trader Joe’s is now carrying Citterio’s Bresaola and it’s mighty good. Had it last night with arugula fresh from the Farmers’ Market.
Some more nice taste news. When HG and BSK lived in their Vancouver loft, they often enjoyed Black Cod (also known as sable — when smoked it is that lush stuff found at Russ & Daughters, Zabar’s and other New York smoked fish specialists). Vancouver chefs sometimes prepared it with a maple syrup glaze or sauce. The sweetness complemented the richness of the fish. Well, don’t want to sound like a Trader Joe’s press agent, but TJ is now carrying frozen Black Cod filets. HG has sourced a nice recipe for Black Cod with “maple syrup gastrique” — a fancy way of saying maple syrup sauce. HG is not a fan of frozen fish but HG’s had a good experience with TJ frozen sole. So, the Black Cod may be a winner. Will keep you informed.
It has long been HG’s custom (properly provisioned with vodka, ale and salumi) to watch a few hours of pro football every week. An autumn ritual. Now, HG is having second thoughts. HG has long felt that big time college football was a cynical branch of show business. The impressarios (the coaches) are paid millions. The producers (the colleges) make money and use successful football programs as a mechanism to raise money from alumni. The actors (the players) are exploited. They are paid nothing. They are often injured badly. And, when injured, they usually lose their scholarships. Only a miniscule number go on to a productive career in professional football… Bob Cox is an ex-journalist and publisher. Now he’s a New Mexico horseman and an ornament of the Abiquiu community. Best thing that’s happened there since Georgia O’Keefe. Bob’s witty and balanced view of life in these strange United States (Can one imagine Oxford or the University of Bologna spending millions on a televised sport?) can be found on his blog: anoldgringosgazette.com. Log on and read his observations about pro football — a sport where what would be criminal behavior in everyday life is applauded by fans and well compensated by owners. HG supports Bob’s views. The death of the remarkable Alex Karras highlights the viciousness of the sport. Besides being a talented athlete, Karras was an intelligent man, an original wit and an actor who gave pleasure to many. Pro football left him a physical wreck and, like so many other players, a sufferer from early dementia. The owners of pro football teams are, like most capitalists, dominated by greed. Witness their recent behavior against striking referees which made the game, for a time, a veritable farce. If they truly cared about the game and the players,they would invest some of their millions and invent helmets and other equipment that would keep players safe. If nothing is done, pro football will remain a brutal variation of Roman gladiators doing battle. Entertainment for bloodthirsty viewers and early dementia and wrecked bodies for the gladiators.
While waiting to hear President Obama’s DNC speech, HG began to think about history. HG realized that he is now old enough to have a visceral link to the Civil War. The Memorial Day (usually called “Decoration Day”) parade on the Grand Concourse in The Bronx was a dramatic and memorable occasion. HG’s famiy watched the parade from a vantage point on W. 164th Street. Marching bands. Flags. World War One Veterans. A few Spanish-American War vets. Then, a true dramatic moment, one that drew loud cheers and applause from the crowd. A convertible auto drove by slowly. In the back seat (with a nurse) were two very, very frail old men. Civil War veterans (Union army, it is presumed). They waved. Feebly. Six-year-old HG was thrilled. After the parade, HG’s family went to a favored delicatessen on Mt. Eden Avenue for pastrami sandwiches and garlicky hot dogs doused in sharp mustard. Inevitably, that food has become linked in HG’s mind to that special occasion; and it was those memories that re-surfaced during the closing night of the convention. Many hopeful (and ominous) thoughts.[/caption]
Contemplating Mitt Romney and the current condition of American thought has put HG in a misanthropic frame of mind. Therefore, HG has been thinking of various food dislikes. As noted, HG will be visiting Montreal this year. HG will shun poutine, a Quebecois obsession; Nay, perversion would be a better descriptive. Montreal takes pride in its bagels. HG has learned that in that city bagels get a bath in honey water before boiling and baking. This strikes HG as a major error on par with the dreaded Cinnamon-Raisin Bagel. The Philadelphia specialties of cheese steaks and soft pretzels with mustard have many fans. HG is not among them. St. Louis Italian restaurants offer fried ravioli. Awful. New England clam chowder is glop (except at the Downy Flake Cafe on Nantucket Island). Chicago beef sandwiches are unpleasant. Soggy bread. Tasteless meat. Greasy gravy that drips on your clothes. Chicago deep dish pizza is an aberration. Southern hush puppies are little grease bombs and pecan pie sets HG’s teeth on edge with its overpowering, gooey sweetness. Only good pecan pie was made by HG’s late, beloved sister. Southern fried chicken is overrated. Koreans and Chinese fry chicken better. Despite some fear about reprisals from Texas good ole boys, HG states, emphatically: SJ’s Brooklyn barbecue is better than any HG ever tasted in Texas. HG despises all cream sauces. The only good hamburgers are the hamburgers HG makes at home. All others range from vile to borderline okay. In the area of exotica, HG, a lover of Japanese food, cannot stomach monkfish liver. HG does not like haute cuisine restaurants (especially in Paris) and tasting menus (too much food and HG always feels queasy after this overindulgence). HG hates all fast food chains (with the exception of Chipotle) and believes that fast food bears the same relationship to nutrition as the Tea Party does to civilized, rational thought.
HG was discussing “scary” movies with his knowledgeable six-year-old grandson, Haru Sakamto Freeman. Haru doesn’t like such films and neither does HG. When little HG was Haru’s age, his beloved sister brought him to a local cinema to see Bela Lugosi in Dracula. The little fellow was traumatized. Still has an unreasonably negative attitude toward mosquito munching bats. Discussion about horror led HG, inevitably, to thoughts of horror meals he has confronted. The worst was somewhere in Vermont. On a country road HG and famished family stopped at a pretty chalet that advertised German home cooking. Oompah music greeted HG and family as they entered and a jolly gent in lederhosen lead us to our table and a steam table buffet. Food must have lingered in that buffet for months. There was mold, congealed grease. Food was not only inedible, it was probably lethal. On another New England trip, HG encountered a New England clam chowder composed of library paste and stale flour. HG’s fury at this horrifying soup has become the stuff of a family legend, oft repeated. HG and BSK once went on a trail riding vacation in Wyoming. The starting point was an attractive ranch where HG and BSK were promised down home Western cooking. This consisted of “instant” potatoes, semi-raw baked (from the texture it might have been crow or vulture) chicken and canned string beans. Jello mold for dessert. After a day’s ride (great horses, spectacular scenery) we bunked at another ranch. Served steak (that’s the way it was described). HG sawed away with his steak knife. Could not make any headway. Had to content himself with Wonder bread (stale) and canned baked beans (luke warm). Rugged cowboy at our table managed to cut his meat and chewed loudly. “Mighty tasty,” said the ranch gourmand. In New York’s Chinatown, HG was once intrigued by a dish at a neighboring table that was being heartily enjoyed by a Chinese family. HG pointed at it and disdaining the advice of his waiter, ordered it. A plate of shoe leather and rubber bands on a bed of rotted fish heads (that’s the way it tasted). These are the only horror meals HG recalls. HG’s healthy food psyche has blanked the others.
This week The New York Times reported the passing (at 87) of Robert Treboux, the proprietor of the frozen-in-time French bistro, Le Veau D’Or located in New York’s Upper East Side. Sad news. Treboux was a gracious man who kept alive old fashioned, French bistro cooking. Nothing ever changed at Le Veau D’Or. Not the decor. Not the menu. Not the gracious service. Only the clientele, which got older every year but remained faithful to this temple of quenelles, tripe, brains in black butter and long simmered butter and wine sauces. When HG had offices on Madison Avenue and 60th Street HG lunched there frequently. HG was served a giveaway of mussels in mustard sauce. Then there was an ample plate of sausage in crust with warm potato salad. Crocks of Dijon mustard (the real, tongue tingling stuff before pallid Grey Poupon arrived on the scene) and cornichons. Then a serving of brains in black butter with crusty bread and parsley-flecked boiled potatoes. A wedge of ripe Camembert helped HG finish his luncheon bottle of Beaujolais. In cold weather, HG often dipped into a huge cassoulet or a Provencal pot roast redolent of garlic, tomatoes and fresh herbs
Two years ago, HG lunched at the restaurant with SJ in tow. Treboux was there to give a pleasant welcome. At the end of the meal, HG encountered Elaine Kaufman of Elaine’s Restaurant and settled down to an afternoon of cognac and gossip. Elaine died a few months later. And, now Treboux. Thus, does HG’s New York fade into oblivion.
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