HUNGRY GERALD

European clams are blah…even in Paris and Venice. Pacific Coast clams are just barely so-so. Long Island (and New Jersey clams are very good). New England clams are sublime and those Yankees know how to cook ’em. For clams on the half shell (raw): Balthazar and Grand Central Oyster Bar (both New York). Boston: the Legal Seafood chain (the Logan Airport branch is a winner); Providence: Hemenway’s; Denver: Palm Restaurant (HG isn’t kidding. The little necks are really good..go figure). For fried clams: The two best are Flo’s Clam Shack in Portsmouth, R.I. and Bob’s Clams in Kittery, Maine (a Calvin Trillin favorite). For linguini with white clam sauce: Riviera Restaurant, Rt. 46, Clifton, N.J. (runner up to Beautiful Sharon). The biggest ever (very good) portion of his delightful dish was at a tiny shack (now closed) on the bike path between Riverside and Bristol, R.I. Clean plate ranger HG could nver finish a helping.  Steamed soft shells: No favorites…good throughout New England. New England Clam Chowder: Once more, Legal Seafood is the winner. Sad and wistful note: The lovely Gage & Tollner restaurant in Brooklyn (closed for some years) featured clam bellies sauteed in butter. The rubbery tails of the clams were snipped away and only the chubby little tummies basked in butter.

For the HG family the golden age of the clam was the period 1963-1975. After an active day on the beach of Fire Island (swimming, body surfing, frisbee tossing, whacking a tennis ball in our own version of sand kadimah), HG, family and friends grabbed buckets and waded into Great South Bay. For those without a New York background: Fire Island is a splinter of a barrier beach off the south shore of Long Island. It is some 31 miles long and as narrow as 100 yards at some points. It fronts on the Atlantic Ocean  and Great South Bay.   It begins at the Jones Beach Inlet and ends at Moriches.  The HG dune house was in the community of Ocean Ridge, just across the Bay from the town of Patchogue.  Fire Island has been the subject of plays, novels and poetry. The colorful communities that stretch along its length range from the out front gay to the relentlessly boy-meets-girl heterosexual.  It’s a mad mixture of bohemians, families,potheads, exhibitionists,  churchgoers,  show business and fashion celebrities.Okay, enough geography and culture. Let’s get back to clams. Once in the Bay, the HG clam posse did vigorous toe wriggling. Dodging horseshoe crabs and thrusting into the swampy Bay bottom, their  toes were seeking the smooth outlines of clams poking out of the mud. During those years  the bay was unpolluted and the bivalves flourished.  The HG clam posse was skilled and 90 minutes of clamming would yield as many as 600 clams. Back at Chez HG a clam feast was prepared.  HG possessed a shucking implement that made the job simple.  Pals and neighbors descended. White wine was opened.  Beers were pulled out of the refrigerator. Martinis were mixed. Joy commenced. First course was clams casino. Open clams got  a mixture of garlic, parsley, olive oil, oregano, light dusting of bread crumbs. Sometimes there was a topping of bacon. Into the oven they went for a brief bake. They were consumed on the back deck, facing the blazing sunset. Then indoors for linguni with white clam sauce. This was Beautiful  Sharon’s specialty: A hundred clams were shucked and all the briny juice retained.  A substantial amount of chopped garlic. Big bunch of chopped flat leaf Italian parsley. White wine. Into the saucepans the ingredients  went. The proportions and timing were Beautiful Sharon’s secret. A Beautiful Sharon clam was always plump and juicy; never rubbery and overcooked. The sauce, filled with succulent clams, was poured over bowls of al dente linguini.  The hot chili pepper flakes were passed. Wowee!!!! Make that double Wowee!!!!  Great South Bay now has pollution problems. The dune house is gone  (replaced by an ocean front paradise  on Prince Edward Island).  Beautiful Sharon is still a deft hand with seafood linguini but with clams selling for $1.25 each her bivalve of choice is the Prince Edward Island mussel.

HG and family are driving to a Cape Cod vacation. HG’s mood is foul. HG is Mister Grouch. HG is in the midst of one of his attempts to stop smoking and nicotine withdrawal is driving him nuts. HG and family are ravenous. HG refuses to make a food stop. “Just wait. We’re in New England. When we get to Falmouth we’ll have big bowls of real New England clam chowder.” Falmouth at last. HG and family enter a promising restaurant with a nautical name like: “Salty Captain Bill’s Clam Shanty.” Yum!! The bowls of The Real Original New England Clam Chowder are presented. HG has a taste. Famished little Jeremy raises a spoon. HG screams: “Don’t touch it!! This is EXCREMENT!! EXCREMENT!! EXCREMENT!! (of course, HG uses a shorter, coarser word).   HG has tasted the alleged clam chowder.  It has the hue, consistency and taste of library paste mixed with a dash of brackish water.  There are no chunks of clam.  It smells like wet dog.  Crazed HG keeps screaming. Customers try to avert their eyes.  HG and family get up to leave. A  bill is presented.  “Are you mad? Do you actually think I am going to pay to eat EXCREMENT?”  Consternation and embarrassment.  Little Jeremy tries to hide.   Pre-teenage Lesley realizes that her father is a lunatic.  Rational Beautiful Sharon says: “Hey, it’s only a bowl of bad chowder.” The waitress says: “I am calling the police.” Seething,  HG throws a bill on the floor.   Exit.   Later ironic discovery: An outstanding chowder and fried clam shack is on the Falmouth waterfront,  a block from Captain Bill’s EXCREMENT establishment.

HG at 17 was fortunate. HG had a beautiful Brooklyn girlfriend who possessed great legs and a Chrysler Woody, best car ever made. As always, amour in HG’s life was linked with food. That meant numerous forays to Lundy’s, the famous landmark restaurant at Sheepshead Bay. HG always had a dozen little necks and a dozen cherry stones on the half shell. Always served with piping hot southern biscuits dripping butter. Plus an obligatory India Pale. The girl friend ate more modestly. Often, we went to Nathan’s Famous in Coney Island. Here, we had clams but also soft shell crab sandwiches…deep fried soft shells on soft buns with plenty of house-made tartar sauce (no disgusting little Kraft’s cellophane packets). Ocean breezes. Greasy faces. Ah, young love.

World War Two makes it hard to find help so 13-year-old (lied about his age) HG is hired as kitchen worker by the Harbor Rest, a Rockaway road house fronting Jamaica Bay.  Its specialty was seafood.  The manager, a very tough guy named Reilly, presented HG to Simon, a grizzled African-American who was busy opening clams. “Show the kid how,” said Reilly and that’s what Simon did. Shucking wasn’t so easy. A very sharp, thin pointed knife was our implement.  My first attempt drew blood.  Instead of sympathy, HG got laughter.  A quick learner, HG soon became adept.  Never had tasted a clam.  Hated the first one.  Tolerated the second one.  Loved the third and after that…addiction.  As Simon and I shucked we ate.  Our chant: “One for us. One for that bastard Reilly.”

Lucky afficianados of HG. Starting tomorrow there will be a multi-post series on that wonderful bivalve—The Clam.

HG wants to visit: Buffalo (for the original wings and beef on weck).  Rochester (for white hot dogs).  St. Louis (for chop suey..that’s right, chop suey).  Milwaukee (for frozen custard).  Copenhagen (for smorrebrod).  Ann Arbor, Mich. (for Zingerman’s).  El Paso (for enchiladas). Kansas City. (for all those Calvin Trillin treats).  Austin (for barbecue).   HG wants to revisit: Terre Haute (for after church Sunday lunch at a dignified cafeteria).  Chicago (for shrimp and grits at Soul Kitchen).  Boston (oysters and clams on the half shell at the airport Legal Seafood and Dover sole at the city locations).  Los Angeles (Cobb salad at the Beverly-Wilshire).  New Orleans (Galatoire’s and Mosca’s).   Baltimore (crab boil).   Miami Beach (Stone Crab Joe’s).  Tokyo (for ramen and yakitori and everything else).   San Francisco (for sand dabs and sloe gin fizzes at Tadich Grill). Gatlinberg, Tenn. (for Wop Salad….that’s what they call it on the menu).

The Berlin Wall came down. The Soviets left Czechoslovakia and the Czechs had a gleeful taste of freedom. It was 1990…time for HG and Beautiful Sharon to visit Mittel Europa with Prague being the high point. We found Prague extraordinary. Untouched by the war and bombing, Prague retained a medieval atmosphere with stunning architecture and a great castle dominating the skyline. The Jewish Cemetery,  literally jammed with headstones, did seem the appropriate place for the birth of The Golem.  And, with its air of melancholy and mystery it was fitting that Prague was Franz Kafka’s hometown. Twenty years ago, Prague was a city of dingy store fronts featuring the worst of behind the Iron Curtain fashion displayed in a jumble of dust and disarray. Everything was laughably cheap. Street life was joyous, with musicians on every corner. Street style was odd. Men, from teens to middle age, favored short-short shorts, black socks and unspeakable local sneakers. Their appearance was not edifying.   HG feared, because of envious glances, that his Nikes might provoke a mugging. The food was inedible; the Czech menus impenetrable. Whatever we ordered we received brown stuff (pork? beef? lamb? dog?) covered with brown stuff (sludge? worse?). We didn’t starve. Old ladies sold steaming sausages on the street that were hearty and good. We encountered a delicious Prague custom. A window opened in an otherwise blank wall. A sign appeared: VAFFLES. Instantly a crowd gathered to buy sweet, crispy, very tasty waffles topped with lush whipped cream. Toward the end of our visit, we came upon a very chic Chinese restaurant run by Germans: CZINKY.  it attracted the city’s fashionistas and the cuisine reminded HG of
Brooklyn circa 1950. Quite good. We also went to the city’s ultimate gourmet heaven, a restaurant specializing in roast duck. It was in an unspeakably ugly structure built by the Communists (and this in a city of fairy tale buildings). The restaurant was vast, virtually unpopulated, tacky, dirty. Our slovenly waiter spent much of his time trying to seduce some local frump. After much shouting, the surly guy brought our duck (admittedly, rather good).  It summed up life under the Communists.  Waiting for our train to Berlin, HG visited the pay men’s toilet guarded by a stolid lady at a desk. “Pee-Pee? Kah-Kah?”, she inquired. The price varied, it seemed. A few years later son Jeremy spent his post college graduation year in Prague.  Between reggae DJ stints on radio (Vaclav Havel was a fan), Jeremy was a steady customer at a bar where he liked the Pilsener and beef roasted in “the Jewish style.” He suggested to the proprietor,  since there were many American and English tourists,  that the menu be translated into English. And, so Jeremy’s favorite dish soon appeared: ROAST JEW.

HG and Beautiful Sharon will be in Paris for a few weeks early in 2011. So, why Paris for the umpteenth time rather than Copenhagen or Hong Kong or Vienna or other great destinations? Sure, there’s great art (but not better than New York or Madrid). Great architecture (but not better than Barcelona). Great street life )but not better than Venice). Great cafes (but not better than Buenos Aires). Good looking women (certainly not better than the beaches of Rio de Janeiro). Is it the food? Well, to be truthful you eat better in New York. And, Steven Lemon, the chef at “O”–The Eating House (five minutes from HG’s New Mexico home), makes a better duck confit than you’ll find in Paris and better pizzas than in Rome). So, once more, why Paris? The answer is attitude and ambience. The Parisian attitude is that dining is a delightful, but serious, ritual. A meal, whether a tartine at a bar or a gala dinner, demands attention. It is a collaboration between the waiter, the chef and the diner. At a restaurant gastronomique there is the sommelier to consider. Judgments have to be made. Does the menu (the fixed price meal) have some good choices or should one delve into the more expensive carte? Modest dishes and an expensive wine or vice versa? Cheese platter or dessert or both? A gourmand is not a glutton. Rich must be balanced by relatively austere. And, the entire meal (lengthy or brief) must have a pleasant rhythm…allowing for conversation and laughter with friends, intimacies with lovers and fond recollections with life partners. That’s why the Paris waiter serves a drink (almost never strongly alcoholic) and allows the diner ample time to evolve the appropriate gastronomic and vinuous strategy. HG mentioned ambience. In a Parisian restaurant you are a guest not a mere customer. Everyone in a good establishment takes pride in performance. At HG’s favorite brasserie, Le Stella, the chef lauds the expertise of the men in charge of the outdoor bank of oysters and shellfish; the waiter tells you the Ile Flottante is prepared in house and is the best in Paris; the maitre d’ summons a captain expert in choosing modestly priced but very drinkable wines…and so on. Since the diner is a guest there is the question of good manners. Whether a grand restaurant or a modest bistro, there is a pleasant buzz but voices are kept low. Though the trend is toward the casual, diners are well dressed.  The Parisienne in nicely fitting (not skin tight)  jeans, sweater or shirt and a creatively tied scarf, is a very pleasant sight. And, that goes for young women and ladies of a certain age. How can HG sum up the special essence of Paris? Okay. One incident. HG enters Cave de Abbesses (the funky backroom bar of a wine shop where oysters are being served at a bargain one Euro each). HG orders a dozen and a carafe of chilled muscadet. They are presented. The oysters glisten. There is the fragrance of the sea.  HG says to the waiter: “Say prayers. I have died and am in oyster heaven.” The waiter translates for the crowded bar. Hilarity. Glasses are raised. HG is recognized as a member in good standing of the international tribe of gourmands. Ah,Paree!!

Murray Bernthal (1911-2010) is gone. The Syracuse,N.Y. music/theater impressario and music educator died a few days ago. Age 99. His daughter, Bobbi Schlesinger,  is HG’s long time friend and a former colleague and collaborator in the nefarious business of public relations, so HG met Murray a number of times.  A remarkable, fortunate guy.  He married well.  Rose,who predeceased him, was a beautiful, stylish elegant, super-smart woman.  A shapely dynamo adorned with bravura false eyelashes, she lit up any room she entered. Their children were Ricky, a very successful lawyer and Bobbi, publicist extraordinaire. Murray left behind a host of accomplished grandchildren and cute great-grandchildren. My favorite of the brood is his grandson, Adam Schlesinger, Academy Award nominee, Broadway composer, member of the “Fountains of Wayne” rock group. Funny and generous (Adam and wife gave me some great couture ties for my last birthday).  Murray was steeped in nachis (the Yiddish word meaning pride in the accomplishments of your family). His professional career was distinguished. He was a prominent member of the Syracuse University music department. In addition, he could also be termed The Impressario of Syracuse. For many decades, as a private entrepreneur, Murray brought to that city the great musicians of our time for concerts. He also attracted the best touring companies of Broadway dramas and musicals. There were many doubters. As if you didn’t know, Syracuse isn’t exactly Paris. Also, weather’s a factor. The city is in the middle of the New York State snow belt and, for many months of the year, it’s worth your life to venture out for the morning mail let alone go to play or a concert. But, Murray (aided by Rose,of course) made it work and year after year brought (at a profit, surprisingly) music, art and enlightenment to Syracusans. No subsidies. No grants. Pure private enterprise. He was recognized and appreciated by his audiences. Murray was an athlete (a talented tennis player, he only stopped playing doubles a few years ago) and a proper gentleman. As young marrieds, Murray and Rose were pals with Bud Wilkinson and wife. Bud was the Syracuse football coach and later achieved great fame as the coach of the invincible Oklahoma Sooners and as an Oklahoma political figure. Murray, recalled with admiration, that Bud, a tough and demanding guy, never sullied his lips with a dirty or profane word. HG did not point out to Murray that his daughter, Bobbi, could use some mighty salty language when circumstances warranted it. So, what has all of this to do with food, HG’s primary interest (obsession) ? Be patient. The Bernthal/Schlesinger clan has some food oddities. Despite her protests, HG knows that Bobbi could live very happily on candy bars, cigarettes and Coca-Cola. As for Murray, he would eat anything but insisted the food be smothered in ketchup. No exceptions. Okay, maybe breakfast cereal and ice cream. There’s a family legend about how a famous chef tried to brain Murray after he covered one of his creations with ketchup. HG has contemplated Murray’s passing at such an old age. Could it be true? Is ketchup the key to longevity? Murray, a remarkable man, will be missed by many. Not, least by the Board Chairman of the H.J. Heinz Company.