HUNGRY GERALD

Why does looking at great art make me so hungry? In Madrid, there’s a great art walk along Paseo del Prado. There’s El Prado, of course, with scores of master works by Velasquez, Goya and El Greco. The Reina Sofia has Picasso’s Guernica and outstanding examples of Italian Futurism.The Thyssen-Bornemisza has good examples of everything from Rembrandt to Braque. Now there’s a new place along the Paseo, the Caixa Forum. Completed after my last visit, this former power house renovated by the Swiss Team of Herzog and De Meuron (the duo who did the Tate Modern) features one of the world’s largest vertical gardens, a spectacular staircase and a collection of contemporaries. Enough to give HG a raging appetite.  During his last visit these museums forced HG to eat sumptuous amounts of pulpo al gallego (tender chunks of stewed octopus in a smoked paprika sauce) and pimientos del padron (lauded in a previous post).  In Paris,  after a good helping of Legers and Picassos at Centre Pompidou and Degas at Gare d’Orsay,  HG’s cry is:”Shuck those oysters!! Sizzle that duck confit!!  And, please,  encore those pommes frites.”

Shishito peppers are a standard Japanese nosh, done tempura style and washed down with beer or sake. In Spain, pimientos del padron are consumed by the zillions in tapas bars (with dry sherry) or as part of a casual meal (with sangria).  In the United States: Virtually unknown.  Let HG enlighten you.   Shishitos are small green peppers (two to four inches long).  Pimientos del padron are a close cousin but often slightly smaller than the Shishitos.  Preparation is simple. Heat a pan until really hot.  A splash of olive oil.  Stir fry until slightly charred, adding some finely chopped garlic at last moment so it doesn’t burn.  Plate. Give it a hit of sea salt and a pinch of cayenne, if you like.  Kumpai !! Ole!! Ole!! But wait, HG has a warning: These are sweet peppers but every ten peppers or so there’s a rebel, a really hot, blazing guy.  Zap!!  Don’t say HG didn’t warn you.

I’m talking about kasha (formal name is buckwheat groats). This excellent food (cereal? grain?) is a staple of the East European diet but rarely appears on American tables. Pity. It’s good stuff with a unique nutty and toasty flavor. Try it as an accompaniment to a beef stew or brisket (one with lots of sauce). Toss ladlefuls into some steaming chicken broth. Use the pepper mill generously. Instant lunch. Better than any packaged ramen. Try a bowl topped with some Greek yogurt (HG likes to put Greek yogurt on almost anything but oysters). Kasha’s good with sauteed onions and mushrooms. Where to buy it? In the bulk section of Whole Foods or boxed in many supermarkets (the brand is Wolf’s, I believe). How to cook? Add a cup of kasha to a heated pan. Beat one egg. Add beaten egg to the pan.   Stir, under reasonably high heat, until the egg is absorbed and the grains of kasha are coated and dry.  Add 2 to 2- and -a- half cups of boiling chicken broth, salt, pepper and a bit of butter (my Mom, the health addict, would give it a big hit of chicken fat). Cover. Lower the heat and cook until the kasha gets soft (but not mushy). Give a few stirs during the cooking process. Eat like a Slav.

The Tin Roof. Don’t know what a Tin Roof is? Vanilla (or chocolate) ice cream with a generous pour of Hershey’s Chocolate Syrup. Topped with Planters Cocktail Peanuts (salted) packed in a can. The Tin Roof is the perfect blend of sweet, salty and crunch. Do not, I repeat, do not go upscale with fancy chocolate topping or exotic nuts. Has to be Hershey’s and Planters in the can. Sometimes low end is the best.

Never buy anything in the supermarket labeled “Lite,” “Instant” or “EZ.” In the ethnic section never buy anything labeled “Kosher Style.” It is or it ain’t. Avoid all salsas described as “Mild.” What, exactly, is the point of a “Mild” salsa? Avoid risotto at Italian restaurants. It’s never any good. Risotto demands lots of attention and lots of stirring. Make it at home. In Italy, stirring risotto (or polenta) is man’s work. Women have better things to do.

In years past whenever sadness, depression or just plain blues hit me, I had the perfect antidote: A chat with publicist, TV host Richard H. Roffman, the champion of the famous unknowns of New York. Richard represented as publicist and presented on his public access TV show,  an amazing crew of characters such as a lady who wrestled in a vat of Jello and a man who whistled (creditably) through his nose. (These were the headliners…he also represented lesser talents). You can get the full flavor of the inimitable Richard by hitting Google and logging into a You Tube clip of his TV show. It has been said that Woody Allen based his “Broadway Danny Rose” character on Roffman. So, when down in the dumps, I would call Richard. His voice was ripe with enthusiasm. His joy was boundless. This was his inevitable greeting: “Gerald!! Gerald!! You’re doing wonderful things, wonderful things!! The whole town’s talking about you!!.” Bye, bye, blues. He made my day.

In Paris a few years ago I had the stimulating experience of seeing the definitive show of the Dada movement organized beautifully at Centre Pompidou. The work of Hans Richter..his films, paintings, woodcuts, graphic designs..were given great prominence. I was pleased.  Hans Richter is one of my heroes and mentors, little known or remembered in the United States but as the Dada show indicated,  much appreciated in Europe. Some background on Richter (1888-1976): Born in Germany.  Wounded while fighting with the German army in World War One.   An artist almost from birth, he left for Switzerland (Zurich) after his army discharge. He was convinced of the total absurdity of war and its trappings…medals, uniforms, marches, flags, patriotic songs, jingoistic speeches…..accompanied by booming guns and ending with the meaningless maiming and murder of young men. This anti-war stance coupled with his belief in revolutionary change (only modified during World War Two) was part of his belief structure and artistic thrust. The absurdist Dada movement seemed an appropriate response to war madness.  With great enthusiasm, Richter joined Zurich’s Dada circle of artists, writers and musicians. I am not going to give the very literate followers of HG a lengthy description of Dada. If you’re not familiar with Dada, look it up.  In 1940, Richter moved to the United States and for the next 18 years divided his time between New York and his summer home in Southbury, Connecticut.  His principal activity during these years was making films..abstract, surreal films. They are remarkable.  Here are three: Dreams That Money Can Buy (my favorite); 8 x 8: A Chess Sonata In 8 Movements (with Marcel Duchamp, Jean Cocteau, Max Ernst, Fernand Leger, Alexander Calder);  Dadascope (poems written and spoken by Hans Arp, Kurt Schwitters, Marcel Duchamp).  As you can see by his list of collaborators,  Richter knew,  worked with, and was admired by,  many of the towering figures of modern art.  He was a particular hero of the avant garde in the United States and Europe.  I met Hans when I was an undergraduate at City College of New York and he was teaching at the College’s Institute of Film Techniques. My concentration was in journalism so I spent a year at his classes,  watching the great films and writing lengthy film critiques,  envisioning a future career as a film critic like James Agee and Manny Farber.  Richter was a great, passionate teacher.  His German-accented voice sometimes grew  hoarse as he rhapsodized about von Sternberg,  Griffith , Renoir,  Pabst,  Von Stroheim and others. Basically, he taught me how to see.  His dissection of my papers was meticulous.  I was a favorite student, received only ‘A’.  I admired Hans.  He was the picture of European elegance.  Straight steel gray hair.  Casual, but well tailored clothes.  Never a tie (too bourgeois).  Rather, a silk ascot and a casually draped wool scarf (followers of HG may note that he continues this tradition of dress albeit without the requisite elegance).  One afternoon after class, Hans invited me for coffee so we could continue our heated discussion of “Grand Illusion.” He maintained that it was a film about war but without any villains. It was totally anti-war but didn’t have any carnage scenes.  Instead, it focused on the absurdity of the entire enterprise and intimated that those who believed in it would be, as Lenin put it: ‘Swept into the dust bin of history.” Well, Renoir was a great film maker but not historically prescient. Not only is war still with us…maiming and murdering…but it becomes more absurd with each passing day. Segue back to Hans Richter and the young HG at The Campus Griddle on Broadway. Hans ordered a grilled cheese sandwich with his coffee. I was mesmerized by the grace of his table manners. Fork in his left hand, knife in his right. He cut the sandwich into eight segments. Deftly picked each one up and ate. No crumbs. He took his leave. On his way to a dalliance, I thought. For he was not only a dandy but even at late middle age a bit of a libertine, I suspected. He returned to Switzerland in 1958 (probably sickened by McCarthyism)  while still spending some time at his American summer home.   He gave up film making and returned to painting.  Hans died in Switzerland in 1976.

There is only one way to cook a steak. Any other method is meat massacre and a waste of an expensive hunk of meat. Heat (until really hot) a black, cast iron frying pan. Before heating, cover the bottom with a thin layer of coarse (kosher) salt. Sear both sides of the sirloin or rib steak (you surely wouldn’t be cooking a wimpy, tasteless filet mignon).
After searing, turn the heat to medium and cook for five to seven minutes (just on one side..no more turning).  Timing depends on whether you like the meat bleu (a bit raw and bloody) or saignant (rare). HG is tolerant.  Have it your way.   Cut into the meat and take a peek. Obviously, if you peruse HG you don’t eat “well done” steak. HG likes his steak Florentine style: A splash of olive oil and some finely chopped raw garlic. Continue the Tuscan theme with a side of Goya’s white navy beans (once more, with olive oil and garlic). This is the perfect meal and ..because of the plentiful garlic..you won’t have to share it with Count Dracula.

Bathgate Avenue. East Bronx. Circa 1935. This was a loud, ramshackle street of pushcarts and shops dispensing a huge variety of food, fruit and vegetables at astonishingly low prices (even for 1935). The prices were why my Mom, with HG at her side, was there. The quality was good. But, wariness was necessary. Sharp dealing abounded. Lots of things were sold live..chickens, ducks and turkeys; lobster tanks and trays of wriggling crabs at the Italian-patronized fish store and a big fish tank with lively fish at the Jewish fish emporium. There was lots of blood. From the butcher shops and especially from the chicken store. My Mom bought her chicken live after much careful selection. The chicken guy slit the bird’s throat (much blood on his already bloody apron). Then the chicken was handed off to the chicken plucker (known as “the flicker”). Plucking the chicken cost about 2 cents, I recall, and in those Depression days many housewives did their own plucking to save that sum. The chicken guy usually eviscerated the chicken. My Mom did her own because she rendered chicken fat (a staple of the HG diet) and did many wondrous things with chicken innards. A chicken “flicker” was not held in high regard. A bad boy was admonished: “You’ll grow up to be a chicken flicker!!” Trade on Bathgate Avenue was conducted in very loud, tones of Yiddish, Italian and heavily-accented English. Deportment could be termed in-your-face. Okay. Let’s segue to Mom at the fish tank. She points to a fish. That’s my guy. Crafty fish man turns his back to Mom, obscuring the tank, lowers his net. The fish is on the cutting block. Before the knife descends, Mom screams (and I mean screams): “THIS FISH IS DEAD!!!”
I look.  Damn, that’s one dead fish.  The fish man looks at my Mom and says,benevolently: “Ehr shluhft.” Translation: He’s sleeping.  Of course, he was replaced with a wide-awake guy and the incident was recorded permanently in family lore. Two morals: (One) Watch out!! (Two) If you screw up, have a funny excuse.

My friend Andre of long ago was a lovable, irritating, manic gourmand, libertine and madman. He taught me a very valuable lesson. We Fire Island pot heads were looking, with distaste, at a large jumble of pots, pans and dishes following a very long, weed and alcohol infused dinner. Andre said: “This what you have to do about dirty dishes. Count to ten. Jump to your feet. Deep breath. Summon up every bit of your energy. And, attack..really attack..those dishes.” That’s what he did. Dishes, etc. were done in a flash. Have followed this technique many times. It works. Try it.