HUNGRY GERALD

Returning to Santa Fe in slow, mellow stages. HG and BSK spent the night at the perfect Sandman hotel at the Toronto Airport. Beautiful design. Efficient front desk. Great price (a penthouse suite for $109). Tired and hungry HG/BSK dined at Moxie’s, the hotel restaurant. Had low expectations. Big surprise. A splendid roast chicken with a goat cheese and thyme emulsion. Top flight stuffed baked potatoes and French fries. Fresh broccoli done right. Knocked off a tasty bottle of Argentine Malbec. Breakfast was super lattes and warm bran muffins. Good stuff.

Nom Wah Teahouse — the birthplace of my dumpling obsession and the oldest Dim Sum restaurant in New York City (serving since 1920!). Back in the 70s HG and I would often spend an early afternoon there hailing the Dim Sum carts and loading up our table with varieties of dumplings, folded rice crepes and buns while studiously avoiding those scary dishes of chicken feet. We would eat and drink tea until our stacked plates began to sway like skyscrapers in the wind. Back then your check was determined by the amount (and type) of plates left on the table, and crafty HG would often “joke” with the surly waiters by “hiding” the majority of plates on his lap. A practice guaranteed to cause great embarrassment to your children. It was the spot where I first used my barely learned chopstick skills to SLOWLY convey a slippery Har Gow (shrimp dumpling) to my waiting lips. Suffice it to say that Nom Wah is responsible for making the rattle of a loaded Dim Sum cart the most hunger inducing sound that I know of.

So it was with great joy (and some real trepidation) that I read in HG’s earlier posting (“Nom Wah. A Great Tradition”) that Nom Wah had re-opened with new ownership and a revamped menu. I could not wait to try it so I gathered up Exquisite Maiko, Mr. Haru and my sister, Victoria (the Restaurateur!) — a hard-hitting posse of Dim Sum lovers if there ever was one — and headed off to the Bloody Angle of Doyers Street.

It was with real relief that we walked in and found Nom Wah to be essentially unchanged. Relief because it is just a wonderful space — a 1930s luncheon spot with red checked table clothes, coat hangers at every table and the warm patina of age. The new owner is the nephew of the previous owner and his love for the restaurant allowed him to somehow do the impossible — renovate and clean the space without changing a thing. The result is that Nom Wah verily hums with joy — It is old fashioned without seeming nostalgic or forced; it is packed with tourists, but absolutely genuine. It is in the details: the mismatched plates and tea cups that have been in service for decades, the tray of condiments (duck sauce, worcestershire sauce, Chinese mustard) that no new dim sum palace would allow on a table, the dappled surface of the mirrors, the tiny bathroom sink with hot & cold faucets. What has changed is only positive. Gone are the surly wait staff and gone are the rickety dim sum carts. In their place are made-to-order dim sum and a group of people (owner included) who just seemed happy to see you, happy that you decided to come into a restaurant that they themselves seem to love.

So…the food? Well, it is totally fine. The Egg Roll is clean and not greasy. The Steamed Pork bun was fluffy and generously stuffed with sweet & savory meat; the Har Gow were silken skinned and the shrimp snapped with freshness. The rice rolls were okay; and I happily gnawed on some steamed spare ribs. There were some menu nods to modernity with notations for “gluten-free” items, some clearly marked vegetarian and kosher options and a quite wonderful “new style” dumpling stuffed with snow pea leaves and shrimp. Without a doubt, I’ve had better dim sum in Sunset Park and out in Flushing and even at Dim Sum Go Go a few blocks away. But, for the two un-rushed hours me and my wonderful family sat in Nom Wah, talking, eating and laughing at Victoria’s stories about throwing dumplings at her first Nom Wah visit, there was simply no other place — no other restaurant! — that I would have rather been. It is an absolute testament to the great job that Nom Wah’s new owners are doing that this old standard has been reborn as a restaurant that I can’t wait to get back to.

Many years ago HG sat astride a big bucket perched on a raft floating in the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Fire Island — the barrier beach heralded in fact, fiction and gay (in all senses of the word) memories. Two companions were armed with nets and they were energetically capturing blue shell crabs swimming busily in the waters. HG assisted in scooping the crustaceans into the bucket and in the process was nipped by the little devils. In fact, HG’s arms and legs were very bloody. Didn’t hurt too much but looked frightening — like the pig blood scene in Brian De Palma’s “Carrie”. Some 150 crabs were boiled and, annoyingly after all that work, there was little to eat. Not worth the bloody effort.

For a crab feast HG could get his stomach around, HG focused on New York’s Chinatown where the Phoenix Garden, Wing Fat and a number of other eateries did great things with crab (including an intriguing dish known as “Crab with Fried Milk”).

However, the best dish of all was BSK’s crab cakes, crisp and moist. Held together by her own amalgam of mayonnaise, Dijon mustard, lemon juice and a few — very few — bread crumbs.

Hake is a member of the cod family and swims happily in the Atlantic. Absolutely delicious. HG first encountered hake in a nautical themed, upscale Madrid restaurant. After an appetizer of very lush (and expensive) baby eel (so slim and garlicky they resembled a bowl of vermicelli) HG was presented with a platter of hake gently sauteed in the best Spanish olive oil. The fish was adorned with capers, chopped parsley and garlic chips. It was surrounded by a melange of peppers, onions and fried potatoes. Oh, my! Flaky, juicy fish. Much flavor.

HG met hake again in Barcelona where the fillets floated on a bed of roasted tomatoes. Equally good.

Here on Prince Edward Island the hake is super fresh and is a staple of the HG/BSK table. Never encountered it at the Whole Foods fish counter and have never seen it on a New York menu. Must question Daughter Victoria, the brilliant restaurateur, about this piscine puzzle.

So, Sam Sifton, the all-powerful New York Times restaurant critic, is no longer the make-or-break-restaurant Times fresser. He has been promoted to National Editor. All in all, HG liked Sifton’s reign even though his star ratings seemed erratic. Hope he continues to contribute recipes for the Sunday Times Magazine. They are simple, earthy and good.

At one time, Clementine Paddleford (love that name) of the defunct Herald-Tribune was the chief New York food scribe. But, it was Craig Claiborne of the New York Times who elevated the status and power of the American restaurant critic. (Does anyone remember the $4000 meal CC shared with his collaborator, Pierre Franey, at Chez Denis–long closed–in Paris?). CC had taste and knowledge but was a sucker for Chinese restaurants and Jewish delicatessens. Relentlessly overpraised them.

HG quite liked Claiborne’s female successors, Mimi Sheraton and Ruth Reichl. Another woman who could write about food was the lusty and lustful Gael Green of New York Magazine. HG misses her presence at the mag (HG gathers she’s now contributing to Crain’s New York Business).

The dining reviews in The New Yorker seem fey and uneven. HG is not fond of Zagat and finds all guidebooks misinformed or out of date.

In the end HG agrees with SJ: Best restaurant critic, bar none, is the great and adventurous David Sietsma of the Village Voice. He is a man whose palate knows no fear and is willing to travel to the ends of New York City to track down the best food from Burkina Faso or a particularly talked about slice of Pizza. He is the opposite of pretentious and a downright hilarious writer to boot. A true New York treasure and just about the only reason to pick up the Village Voice.

As Europe faces an economic meltdown, HG adds a further woe by declaring: North American food is better than European food!

North American oysters (South Lake and Colville Bay) and mussels (St.Peter’s Bay) from Prince Edward Island are better than anything Europe can offer. And, yes, HG speaks from experience as HG’s gobbled up oysters in the best London and Paris locales. Halibut, cod, hake and haddock caught in North America’s Atlantic waters overshadow anything from the Baltic, Adriatic and Mediterranean Seas. HG makes an exception for real Dover sole (insanely, ludicrously pricey). HG lauds Maine/Nova Scotia lobsters and all the clam varieties from New England to points north. Dungeness crabs from the Pacific and Chesapeake Bay soft shells are superb. Canadian and American lamb (especially from Colorado) make Parisian gigots seem like nasty mutton. And, no steak any where or any place tops a noble New York Strip. An American prime rib roast easily beats the John Bull variety (though English Yorkshire Pudding has decided merits).

With farmers markets proliferating Americans can (at last) get the freshest fruits and vegetables. HG is not a fan of Italian or English bread. Yes, a great Parisian baguette or croissant is a treat. But, not easy to find these days. Meanwhile, Whole Foods daily offers wonderful bread and muffins. And, compared to Whole Foods or Trader Joe’s, European supermarkets are dismal.

HG makes one concession: Few American restaurants have the warmth of an Italian trattoria, a Paris bistro or the suave elegance of an upper class London restaurant.

BSK looks good. HG has been observing the woman for 48 years and she still has the body of a much, much younger woman. Her energy level is extraordinary. BSK can push, pull, lift, swim, kayak, etc., etc. at a high level. She is flexible and supple.

What are the secrets? First of all, be lucky in your choice of gene pools. BSK is the daughter of athletes. Then, there’s movement. BSK is rarely still for long. Stretching, walking, and various Yoga poses are part of her daily routine.

Food? BSK loves food and wine. But, unlike HG, BSK is rarely immoderate. BSK adores fruit and vegetables. BSK’s most frequent lunch is carrots, radish, celery, turnips, raw broccoli dipped into hummus. BSK is devoted to salads. Green salads. Radish and celeriac. Raw, sliced turnip. BSK grills chicken and flank steak. Serves it over mounds of greens in a mustardy vinaigrette. Fish and chicken are staples. Lots of chicken salad for lunch and often dinners of Spatchcocked roast chicken (dusted with Goya Adobo). Unlike naughty HG, BSK does not eat the lush, crisp, flavorful chicken skin. When in a hurry, BSK lunches on Greek yogurt and blueberries. Winter breakfast is blueberries and oatmeal. When corn is in season, BSK is voracious. But, she uses little or no butter. Just some coarse sea salt. Since yellow beans are now in season on Prince Edward Island, BSK prepares them in abundance. Steams them until tender. Stops the cooking with splashes of cold waters. Dresses the beans in (once more) the special mustardy vinaigrette. Showers the salad with an abundance of herbs.

BSK weaknesses: Ice cream, of course, and an old fashioned English perversion — a sickening licorice variety pack known as Licorice All Sorts.

Why was New York’s Jewish population so fond of Chinese food? It was a Sunday night tradition to eat (in the ignorant parlance of the times) at the “Chinks.” When HG was growing up Moms cooked family dinners throughout the week and the whole family was present at these meals. Sunday was a vacation day for Mom. Therefore the journey to the “Chinks” and the joyful gastronomic mix and match game of putting together (from rows A & B, which were what how most Chinese menus at the time were organized) a fine “combination platter.”

The HG family bypassed Sunday Chinese cuisine for platters of corned beef, pastrami, cole slaw, potato salad and sour pickles from the neighborhood delicatessen (the HG family favored the Tower Delicatessen on Kingsbridge Road in The Bronx). Following that meal there was tea and pastries with family friends and vigorous games of pinochle. The Sunday-Vacation-Day-For-Mom theme was set by obligatory listening to the Sunday morning Horn & Hardart Children’s Hour which consisted of music (instrumental and vocal) from gifted kiddies. Horn & Hardart (renowned for its Automats) was promoting its take-out stores. The program’s theme song was: ” Less Work For Mother, She’ll Understand.”

Now, none of this actually explains the original question of why New York Jews loved (and still love!) Chinese food. For a searching analysis, HG turned to perceptive SJ. Here’s what SJ has to say on this cross cultural subject: SJ cannot definitively answer such a weighty and complex question. But, it is worthy of intellectual speculation. SJ suspects that it had something to do with immigrant Jews (who were trying desperately to fit into their new American homeland) feeling a sense of ease while dining in establishments where the Chinese staff was, if anything, more foreign then them; and furthermore, a staff who saw no difference between Jewish customers and any other customer — which could not be said for many restaurants of the time. Plus it was cheap, salty and delicious. The fact that linchpins of Chinese cuisine were un-kosher pork and shrimp, was blithely ignored.

HG’s daughter-in-law, Exquisite Maiko, made summertime magic last night. Here were the dishes: Cucumber Salad (Maiko thinly sliced some seedless cucumbers. Salted them for 1/2 hour and then squeezed out all water. Marinated them briefly in vinegar and sugar and served them with a dressing of sesame oil, vinegar and soy sauce. Decorated with halved cherry tomatoes).

Chirashi Sushi (Vinegared Sushi Rice with nori, Japanese preserved vegetables and strips of egg crepe).

A Japanese Take on Gambas al Ajillo (Maiko did quick stir fry of tiger shrimp and garlic and finished it with a light dusting of Spanish smoked paprika and soy sauce. It’s all in the timing Maiko shrimp are juicy and bursting with flavor.).

Sauteed Sole with Kombu and Garlic Chips (Maiko slow cooks thin slices of garlic in vegetable oil. The key is slow cooking. Drains the brown chips on a paper towel. Maiko dusts sole fillets in salt and black pepper. Adds some soy sauce. Sautees gently. Tops with garlic chips and crisp pieces of kombu).

Don’t you wish you were dining Chez HG, BSK, SJ and Exquisite Maiko last night? Grandson Haru liked it as well.

Misanthropy is defined as a generalized dislike, distrust, disgust, contempt or hatred of the human species. Contemplating the Tea Party crazies, Syria, Somalia and the assorted knaves, incompetents and ideologues running the world these days, HG would have to be defined as a misanthrope.

HG’s misanthropic tendencies were heightened by a recent reading of A.J.P. Taylor’s “The First World War–An Illustrated History.”. Misguided fools — known as Generals — fed millions of men into a military meat grinder of death. Senseless, avoidable slaughter. Assailed by all these gloomy thoughts, HG mused: Life is short, brutish and the end is terrible.

Sooo, in the meantime, let’s have a good meal. Last night it was daughter LR.’s sublime fishcakes accompanied by local Prince Edward Island asparagus and tiny, new potatoes. Plus Theresa’s tomato chow-chow. The cloud of gloom was vaporized.