HUNGRY GERALD

If there is no such word as plutography then there should be. How else can one explain a magazine like Architectural Digest? The reader (or viewer/voyeur–since the magazine is basically a photo book) wallows in the conspicuous consumption of plutocrats. There is something creepily pornographic in the portrayal of these multi zillion dollar homes and apartments. What the photos arouse in HG, however, is not lust but the full force of the angry left wing feelings of HG’s student days. “To the barricades, citizens,” HG feels like shouting. The owners of the burnished palaces in AD don’t make anything except money. They are financiers, money managers, hedge fund executives, and investors. Though each palace has a huge, lovingly photographed kitchen, HG refuses to believes that any real cooking (or eating) goes on there. These aren’t homes. They’re statements. And, the statement is: “I am rich. Very, very rich.” (Please enlarge the photo below. No, this isn’t a posh shop on Madison Avenue, Rodeo Drive or Rue St. Honore. It is one rich woman’s dressing room complete with an illuminated floating rack of handbags. Grotesque, says HG).

Yes, HG does think (in brief bursts) about other things than food, wine and spirits. And, when HG does, HG seethes. Here are some things that piss off HG: Opponents of same-sex marriage. Why the fuss? As Henny Youngman might put it: Let gays be as miserable as the rest of us. (I’m kidding, beloved BSK).

(2) The war on drugs. Obviously, there’s no chance of winning this war as long as we’ve got 20,000,000 drug users in the United States and we keep pouring money (and blood) into Afghanistan, the world’s leader in heroin production. Drug addiction isn’t a criminal problem. It’s a medical problem. Instead of facing this fact, the USA continues to fill its overpopulated prisons with perpetrators of “drug related crimes”–primarily young African-American men. Wouldn’t addiction medical research be a better (and cheaper in the long run) idea?

(3) Giving religion a free ride. HG is a non-believer and humanist. However, there are many things about religion HG loves. Namely: Gospel music. The interiors of Italian churches. Gregorian chants.The great religious paintings in museums and cathedrals. Cantorial singing. But, HG does not like the idea that churches, synagogues, mosques and TV “ministries”, etc. pay no taxes. HG thinks they should join the vast mass of disgruntled taxpayers.

(4) Liberals and left-wing folks who hate Israel to the exception of the many countries the world over who are engaged in on-going and morally nebulous conflicts. Israel is located in a very bad neighborhood where folks seem to delight in killing each other. No, the Israelis aren’t saints and Arabs aren’t all blood-thirsty fanatics. But, Israel is still a country surrounded by furious, dedicated enemies and a daily target of terrorist attacks. In order to remain a functioning democracy for 65 years, Israel has had to be tough. So, bleeding hearts, cut the Israelis some slack.

Yes, it’s that time of year…NBA playoff time! It’s time to watch the world’s greatest athletes: basketball players who combine great size with agility, cunning, power and grace under pressure. Basketball is an intimate sport. You get to know the players — their tattoos, hairdos, weird rituals at the foul line, theatrics when called for a foul. It’s action theater with an added benefit…you don’t know how the performance will end. HG well remembers Michael Jordan’s heroics during the closing seconds of various NBA finals and Dirk Nowitzki’s laser guided shotmaking against the Heat two years ago. This is the time for cold beer and meals in front of the TV. That means bowls of chili or posole. Franks, sauerkraut and potato salad. Pan fried hamburgers topped with melted, sharp cheddar and roasted chili peppers. Rhode Island New York System Wieners (thoughtful daughter Lesley sent HG the fixings). Salad of Spanish canned tuna, chopped red onion, Goya canellini beans and chopped sweet onion (plus plenty of olive oil, lemon juice, ground black pepper). Unlikely that HG’s favorite teams (Knicks, Nets, Nuggets) will make it very far but HG will keep munching away.

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The http://hungrygerald.com/dating-garden-grove/ is pure magic. The building itself can, in HG’s opinion, be described as a perfect work of architecture. It is a masterpiece by Arthur Ericson, the distinguished Canadian architect. A structure of poured concrete and glass, it displays Ericson’s creative mastery of these materials as well as his sensitive, poetic creation of flowing horizontal volumes and rhythms (his Simon Fraser University in Burnaby and the Law Courts in downtown Vancouver are other examples). The MOA has two interior highlights: the Great Hall and the Bill Reid Rotunda. The Great Hall is a spectacular lofty glass-walled space suffused in sunshine. It houses tall totem poles and large carvings from MOA’s definitive collection of Northwest Pacific Coast First Nations Art. The Bill Reid Rotunda is a circular skylit space that displays Bill Reid’s monumental wood scupture, “The Raven and The First Men”. It depicts the First Nations myth concerning the creation of humanity — the trickster Raven discovering wriggling human forms in a clam shell. The late Bill Reid, a very great artist, is venerated in Canada but little known in the United States. This is not surprising since the American view of Canada is comprised of cliche images of battling hockey players, “Eskimos,” “Mounties” and Polar Bears. And, snow, of course, endless snow. HG and BSK discussed this, among other things, as they ate samosas and butter chicken wraps and drank cups of hot chai in MOA’s cafe.

Rain, rain (Why do you think Vancouver is so brilliantly green and floral?) is pouring down and HG and BSK have chosen the perfect moist morning activity: Dim sum at Szechuan Chonquing Restaurant on Commercial Drive. Sharing the feast is Pablo R., the duo’s brilliant young architect friend. No carts here. You order from a menu and everything is deliciously fresh. Dan Dan noodles (a house specialty of noodles in a fiery peanut/sesame sauce) with crisp bits of pork. Har Gow (thin skinned steamed dumplings filled with big, juicy prawns). Shu Mai (super sized pork and shrimp dumplings). Steamed pork buns. Sea scallop rice rolls. Chinese broccoli (abundant garlic). Attentive, courteous service, much hot tea and a ludicrously small bill. Perfect. Food was followed by the Art Spiegelman “CO-MIX” exhibit at the Vancouver Art Gallery. “A Retrospective of Comics, Graphics and Scraps,” confirms Spiegelman as a major artist, creative, humane and subtly (and not no subtly) subversive. Maus: A Survivor’s Tale,” of course, is a modern classic which helped to establish cartooning as a viable method of treating serious material in narrative form. Equally impressive is Spiegelman’s graphic work. His explosive New Yorker Magazine cover (celebrating Valentine’s Day) of a Hassidic Jew and an African-American woman locked in a passionate kiss, is funny, sardonic and politically illuminating. Part of the exhibit is a film documentary of Spiegelman’s life. It is heartening to see that he is an unassuming New Yorker, happily married to Françoise Mouly, the fine French artist, publisher and New Yorker Art Director.

New Mexico is in the midst of a drought so HG and BSK thought it an appropriate time to enjoy the moist magnificence of Spring in Vancouver. It’s April and the cherry trees are in bloom, filling the avenues with color. Tulips and daffodils have popped out of every available scrap of earth. Yes, Mother Nature, that exuberant dame, really struts her stuff in this glittering (and wet!) Canadian city wedged between mountains and the sea. There are bursts of botanical beauty everywhere from elegant front yards to the communal neighborhood gardens that enliven street corners with seasonal plantings. HG and BSK inhaled big breaths of salt air as they walked along the English Bay shoreline at Jericho and Spanish Banks (Easily available beaches and giant salt water swimming pools are among Vancouver’s urban amenities.) Appetites sharpened, HG and BSK visited their old favorite, Congee Noodle House Restaurant in the Mt. Pleasant neighborhood. Whether or not absence makes the heart grow fonder, Congee House was even better than remembered. HG and BSK shared a perfect Congee with scallops and Chinese mushrooms and a platter of hand peeled noodles with bean sprouts and beef. Absolutely perfection.

More natural beauty (plus man made art) and robust Asiatic feasting await the happy duo. It is good to be back.

HG’s late mother, a woman who grew up in pogrom plagued Czarist Russia, believed that all non-Jews harbored an ineradicable hatred of Jews. HG found this ridiculous, but understandable given her background, and cited BSK as an example of a non-Jew devoid of any trace of ethnic, racial or religious animosity. “Just wait,” warned HG’s mother. That’s why, after almost a half-century of marital bliss, HG was startled by an incident last week. HG suggested a breakfast of post-Passover matzo brie. (For the uninitiated, matzo brie is an Ashkenazi Jewish staple — a mix of softened matzos and beaten eggs fried into crisp pancakes. When sprinkled with ground pepper and coarse salt, they are heavenly. Alternatively, sweet toothers like them with a pour of maple syrup.) BSK’s response: “Matzo brie is disgusting. Tastes like eggy old pieces of cardboard.” Wow. Could this be latent anti-semitism rearing its ugly head after all these years? HG then recalled BSK’s distaste for the chicken fat drenched food at Sammy’s Roumanian Restaurant in New York and her luke warm response to kishka (a goose or chicken neck stuffed with garlic and chicken fat enhanced matzo meal). And now this blistering attack against one of the cornerstones of the Jewish table…HG responded angrily: “So, BSK if you are through delighting in Mein Kampf you might want to browse the Protocols of the Elders of Zion and embroider your nightie with swastikas.” HG continued in this vein until BSK exploded: “Go on with this craziness and I’ll cover you in tuna melt and freeze you in a lime Jello mold.” HG has desisted. An uneasy peace prevails.

Peter Alan Meyerson died this week in Los Angeles at the age of 82. It was remarkable that he lived to an advanced age since he relished a variety of unhealthy habits: A diet that stressed pizza and Jewish delicatessen (with an occasional visit to a Chinese restaurant). He chain smoked unfiltered Camel cigarettes and was no stranger to mind altering substances. He usually had a rich, mahogany tan, the result of relentless sun bathing. Peter was a dear person, HG’s friend for some 58 years. It is very difficult to sustain sad thoughts about Peter’s passing because, simply put, he was one of the funniest people that ever lived. Yes, he had a many decade career in Hollywood as a comedy writer and producer of such shows as The Monkees, Welcome Back, Kotter (the TV show where John Travolta got his start), That Girl etc., etc.. But, the place where his humor was best expressed was in his wild improvisations. In New York, on Fire Island, in Hollywood delicatessens…Peter reduced his friends to weakness-in-the-knees as his comic riffs became more irreverent, scatalogical, satirical, surreal. So many memories: Peter doing an routine (complete with patriotic song and dance) that reduced President Lyndon Johnson’s actions in Vietnam to a mad travesty. Peter (looking very furtive) asking a porn shop clerk: “Do you have anything with marshmallows?”. Peter narrating a bathing beauty contest for Nuns. All pure spur-of-the-moment creations. Goodbye, unforgettable Peter. You left us the memory of a million laughs.

HG and BSK have spent these last evenings watching PBS’ Vietnam: A Television History This balanced (but very moving) account of that dreadful, wasteful, almost endless horror made HG and BSK relive the turmoil of the 60’s and early 70’s when the couple marched and protested against the war. BSK recalled HG’s comment as they blocked (under the gaze of Secret Service agents and sneaky FBI photographers) New York’s Whitehall Street draft board headquarters: “After thousands of Americans and millions of Vietnamese are dead and billions and billions of dollars are wasted this is going to be the end result: We’ll get out. The North Vietnamese and the Vietcong will win. And, the United States will get a lot of good Vietnamese restaurants.” A very prescient HG. The recent wasteful (in lives and dollars) war adventures of our peace loving (???) country seems to have produced few benefits (outside of killing Bin Laden). Aside from everything else, where are the Iraqui mezze and Afghan barbecue restaurants that should be opening throughout our fine land?

HG was alerted (through Wikipedia, so maybe not historically impeccable. But, it makes a lovely story ) to a little known sidebar regarding Vietnam history. In 1946, David Ben-Gurion, one of the remarkable founders of Israel, and Ho Chi Minh, the indomitable leader of North Vietnam and fighter for the unification of that nation, were both staying in a Paris hotel. They liked and admired each other and became very close friends. Ho made a remarkable offer. He would turn over a portion of Vietnam as a Jewish homeland. Ben-Gurion thanked him for the offer but said he would drive the British out of Palestine and establish a Jewish state. HG has mused. What if Ho’s offer had been accepted? Would matzo balls now be floating in brimming bowls of tasty pho?

The coming Academy Awards reminds HG that dining is always treated in a perfunctory manner in films and television. Yes, there are elaborate dining room scenes in such Masterpiece Theater epics as Downton Abbey. The clothes are great and the service (butler, footmen, etc.) looks exquisite. But, what, exactly, are these aristocrats eating? And, is it any good? Drinking gets lots of attention. Much tippling but little tipsiness. Last night, however, HG discovered an exception to cinema’s superficial treatment of dining. After watching brilliant, funny Bill Maher, HG channel surfed. HG stopped at the film adaption of John Le Carre’s, The Constant Gardener. Here’s the scene HG watched: The film’s protagonist, played by Ralph Fiennes, is in London to meet with the aristocrat, Sir Bernard Pellegrin. Meeting place, of course, is the aristocrat’s venerable Pall Mall club. Nice camera work detailing all of the palatial spaces and antique detailing of the club. Into the dining room for lunch. Dark woods. Nicely spaced tables. Subdued lighting from chandeliers. And, here comes the great, cinematic food moment. Sir Bernard suggests sole. Mentions that it is available “Meuniere” or grilled. Fiennes’ character chooses grilled. There are some murmurs and then all action ceases as the camera focuses on an alluring still life. There is the sole, dusted with chopped parsley and glittering with melted butter. Nestled beside it on the plate are small boiled potatoes and what appears to be some fresh asparagus spears. The camera does not move. The food obsessed viewer has plenty of time to absorb this perfection. Mind you, this has nothing to do with the plot. Obviously, there was a food nut in the cutting room. If you want to experience a London Dover Sole experience, HG suggests J. Sheekey in the theater district. The dish will bend your credit card but is well worth it.