HUNGRY GERALD

After dinner and until bedtime, HG sips happily Canadian whiskey and Scotch whisky. One semi large shot glass is enough. The Canadian booze is J.B. Wiser and Crown Royal. Glenfiddich is the scotch. When BSK’s worldly grandmother learned that BSK was marrying a Jew, she consoled BSK about the intermarriage preventing country club membership. “Jews make good husbands. They’re good with money. They never hit their wives. They don’t drink.” Well, Sharon is batting .666. Obviously canny granny didn’t realize that alcohol was part of HG’s heritage and always present when HG was growing up. For many decades in Belorussia, HG’s paternal ancestors operated a flour mill and distilled vodka. HG’s late father’s youthful chore was driving the horse and wagon with threshed wheat. The young guy (nicknamed “Grisha”) also delivered vodka to taverns. (During World War Two the mill was destroyed and HG’s family was among the hundreds of thousands of Jews murdered by the Germans and Ukrainians). Growing up in The Bronx, HG recalls his father coming home from work and drinking a shot of rye whisky (Park & Tilford was a favorite) followed my a munch of pumpernickel or rye bread with “schmaltz” (chicken fat) and coarse salt. Little HG always joined Father in the ritual with a few drops of the booze. Father home brewed “visniak” (cherry brandy). Powerful stuff. Only drunk with friends or relatives and accompanied by cake or cookies. A byproduct was tasty, sweet, alcoholic cherries. (Little HG HG stole some at one dinner and at age seven experienced a mini-drunk). Mom and Father were socialists and did not keep a kosher home. Nevertheless, they observed Jewish high holy days and HG had a Bar Mitzvah. In the basement of Kingsbridge Heights Jewish Center on Eames Place in The Bronx, HG received Bar Mitzvah instructions. In order to leave the synagogue, HG had to pass through a room where old, white bearded Jewish men studied the Talmud (and disputed with each other). On the study table was a platter of salty herring, sliced onions and pumpernickel bread. Plus bottles of rye whiskey. The old guys invited the Bar Mitzvah “bucher” (young boy) to join them in “ah brumfen” (shot of booze) and a snack. HG enjoyed this and when finished, said “nuch ah mul” (again). With merry shouts of “shikker” (drunkard) the Talmudists complied. HG arrived home for dinner in a happy,woozy condition. Since those days, HG, a devoted vodka drinker, has mused why HG’s father never drank vodka. No vodka on the Talmudist table. Possibly, vodka carried unhappy connotations of pogroms and tragic memories of “the old country”.

Now, that’s a resounding triple tier name (even though the “Smith” is a bit of an anti climax after the first two names). Logan Pearsall Smith (1865-1946) was born in New Jersey to a wealthy and intellectual Quaker family. He lived in Great Britain for most of his life and eventually became a British citizen. He had two sisters. Both married prominent men (philosopher Bertrand Russell and art historian Bernard Berenson among them). Smith wrote more than 40 books but is best remembered for “Trivia” and “More Trivia”, collections of aphorisms and thoughts (know in French as “pensees”). His life was dedicated to writing perfect, balanced sentences. His writing is often sardonic; also wise, funny and elegant. HG finds “Trivia” and “More Trivia” splendid bedtime reading. HG likes Smith’s thoughts about old age. “Growing old is no gradual decline, but a series of tumbles, full of sorrow, from one ledge to another. Yet when we pick ourselves up we find that our bones are not broken; while not unpleasing is the new terrace which lies unexplored before us. And far below we may pluck from the Tree of Life its mellowest fruit, the joy of Survival, which can only ripen there.” Two weeks before his death he was asked if he found any meaning in life. He replied: “There is a meaning, at least for me, there is one thing that matters—to set a chime of words tinkling in the minds of a few fastidious people.” A stylish and characteristic response.

There’s a food cliche about Italians. They may be radical in the arts and politics but are conservatives when dining. Basically, they desire the food their beloved Mama cooked. That describes HG (Though HG has gone beyond HG’s Mom’s cuisine. However, nostalgia for chicken fat remains). Roast chicken and poached, steamed or fried fish are the principal HG dishes. Once a month rare steak, middle eastern keftas, pink pork chops, rosy lamb chops. Beer is drunk with Indian food, Mexican dishes and a rare choucroute garnie. White wine with fish (the Canadian Jackson-Trigg’s chardonnay is very good). Chilean, Argentine, Spanish red wine with pastas and meat. Salt butter on whole wheat toast accompanying oysters. Sweet butter on the toast with smoked salmon or roquefort cheese. Salt has to be Malden’s sea salt or kosher salt. Pepper is black (fresh ground), white or smoked. No desserts though HG may have a chunk of halvah with the last of dinner red wine. Post dinner there is bourbon or scotch with some praline coated pecans. Before bedtime HG has a few spoons of vanilla ice cream. Discipline and willpower are necessary when confronting ice cream or gelato.

Yes, marijuana becomes legal in Canada (and Prince Edward Island) on Oct. 17. Too late for HG. The greedy fellow has not puffed weed for many decades after some scary, paranoid episodes. (Like LSD, certain strains of marijuana can bring on a bad trip). One such episode occurred at the great bar, steakhouse and venue for top flight jazz pianists, Bradley’s on University Place in New York’s Greenwich Village. Two jazz greats, Bradley Cunningham, jazz patron and owner of Bradley’s, and Roy Kral, superb jazz pianist and half of the immortal vocal and jazz duo, Jackie (Cain) and Roy, brought HG into Bradley’s tiny office and restored HG to calm sanity. So sorry to precede the beloved names, Bradley, Jackie and Roy with the dread words “the late.” You can learn more about the Bradley era by delving into the New Yorker magazine archive for the Bradley profile by Whitney Balleitt. Before saying goodbye to weed, HG was a devotee for many decades. Bought his first “reefers” at age 14 at the College Avenue Pool Room in The Bronx, a hangout for dealers, hustlers and pool sharpies. The nicely packed smokes were about 25 cents each. HG found marijuana life enhancing. Brought much added pleasure to music, sex and food. Also led to some harmless craziness. Once, HG got super stoned with a group of pals and gals. The group decided that raging hunger could only be appeased by White Castle ” Sliders”, two inch square little burgers served on a soft bun. Nearest White Castle was on Fordham Road near the campus of Fordham University. On arriving, HG and his two stoner companions thought about the amount of Sliders to be ordered. Some 200 for six people seemed to be about right. The astonished White Castle staffers got busy and filled sack after sack. HG managed to eat nine Sliders. That was about average for the males. The girls ate four or five each. Yes, stoner eyes were much, much larger than stoner tummies. When the group looked at the mini-mountain of left over Sliders, there was much laughter.

A few days back (June 25) marked the 26-year anniversary of HG being free of the pernicious nicotine addiction. Yes, it is an addiction, not a habit. And, an addiction that is very, very hard to end. Beloved SJ has tried, with varying degrees of success, to end his addiction. Very tough. Especially in Tokyo where SJ and family now live. From all reports, the city is filled with cigarette smokers. During HG’s half century smoking days (from age 13 to age 63), the ever puffing fellow smoked at least two packs of Marlboros daily interspersed with Punch maduro leaf cigars (which HG inhaled). There are few family photos of HG without cigarette in hand. First cigarette was upon awakening in the morning and last was before turning out the bedside lamp and going to sleep. Breakfast consisted of many cigarettes, black coffee and the New York Times. (Woe, woe, unfortunate BSK, the victim of omnipresent clouds of second hand smoke). Did the desperate addiction affect HG’s health. You betcha. Throat cancer in 1992. Saved by a miraculous 12 hour surgery by a team headed by a genius surgeon. Difficult one year recovery period. At present, HG has COPD. Finds walking at high altitudes (like Santa Fe) difficult. Also, has to sleep with a noisy oxygen tank at high altitudes. (HG and BSK possess many pairs of ear plugs). HG can’t credit will power and mental toughness with ending the nicotine addiction. It was the death drama of cancer that did it. HG has been asked (now that HG is moving on to age 89) if he would like to resume smoking at age 90. No. HG hates the smell of tobacco smoke. Finds the sight of smokers depressing. It all signifies death, not pleasure, to HG.

The New Yorker magazine was where HG discovered the late, great writer, Philip Roth. The New Yorker published young Roth’s short story, “Defender of the Faith.” Roth recalled that he bought a number of copies of the magazine when it came out and had moments of sheer delight seeing his fiction in print for the first time. For HG, the story was a revelation. Here was a writer, HG felt, who captured all of the complexities of being a Jew in post-Holocaust, post-World War Two, America. (The story was very controversial. Roth became the object of accusations and calumny from the Jewish establishment). As the years went by, HG read all of Roth’s short stories, novels and essays. Roth was unique. He could be searching, illuminating and intellectually challenging. He could also be very funny in the style of a stand up comedian like Lenny Bruce. Almost the same age, HG often mused that Roth spent a lifetime alone in a room crafting his fictions. HG, on the other hand, had a career in noisy newspaper and wire service “city rooms” followed by mingling with office mates as HG composed a million words of press release piffle. HG believes HG had a happier time. HG read Anthony Bourdain’s first piece in The New Yorker where he warned readers never to eat fish in a restaurant on Monday. Once more, an original voice was heard. HG/BSK had much joy watching Bourdain’s CNN television culinary/travel/culture/politics series. Thought HG, if HG could be another person, HG would be Bourdain. He combined all of HG’s food, moral and political passions. Moreover, he was paid well to travel the world and explore cultures. His suicide was shocking. A man who embodied pleasure, hid some dark demons.

Last meal in Rhode Island before setting off to Prince Edward Island. And, the finale was festive, full of culinary fireworks. The venue was Bristol Oyster Bar in the historic town of Bristol. They do a “buck a shuck” oyster night on Tuesday. Decided to do a reprise of the oyster feast HG/BSK (and Lesley R.) enjoyed during our Christmas season visit. Of course, this time HG overdid. Three dozen oysters, chilled, briny, nicely shucked. All from Rhode Island waters: Moonstones, Quonrie Rocks, Point Judith Salts and Aquidnacks. Then, on to a ceviche of fresh raw scallops with crispy potato chips, cucumber, lime, cilantro and ginger. Steamed “Drunken” little neck clams in a mind-blowing sauce of beer, onions, garlic (grilled bread to soak up the deliciousness). Cajun tuna (cooked rare) with potato crisps, parsnip chips, spicy New Orleans mayo and chimichurri cream. Mussels in a garlic and wine broth topped with salt and vinegar potato sticks gilded with a red pepper coulis. Fried oysters in a cornmeal crust with pickled red onions, lime and cilantro. Cajun pork belly confit on a bed of parsnip puree with an array of house made pickles. Fresh local green salad with goat cheese, parsnip chips and marinated vegetables. (Hey, don’t characterize us as gluttons. These are all modest small plate portions). To drink: Sancerre for BSK and Brilliant/Beautiful granddaughter Arianna R. Black and Tan (Guinness and IPA ale) for HG. Happy heads and tummies. Off to bed to get an early start on Canadian motoring.

BSK (the best long distance driver) is at the wheel and Toby, The Wonder Dog (the best canine traveler) is snuggling on HG’s lap. Off to the democracy to the north, Canada, and the HG/BSK oceanfront home on Prince Edward Island. First stop is Amarillo, Texas, home of Tyler’s Barbecue. Yes, Tyler’s is what Texas ‘cue is all about. HG/BSK devoured big platters of pulled pork, brisket, beans and cole slaw. Tangy Tyler’s sauce. Condiments were pickles, chopped onions and jalapeños. Big glasses of icy pink lemonade. Carnivore heaven. Drove through a hundred miles of Texas and Oklahoma wind farms. Mused about the mid-American psyche as billboards lauded the virtues of Jesus Christ and the enticements of “Gentlemen’s Clubs” and sex toy emporiums. HG swam in the La Quinta pool (Oklahoma City) and BSK did floor exercises and stretches. Too full of bar-b-q to contemplate dinner. Yes, barbecue and highway chain motels are two of the things America does best.

He was the best. No one wrote better about the America of HG’s lifetime. Inventive, penetrating, fearless and funny. Made HG reflect on being a Jew, an American, a man. He relentlessly explored facets of male sexuality, portraying it, in turns, as funny, tragic, angry and an expression of power. HG believes he was the last of the male authors who have dominated American fiction for the last 60 years (Bellow, Updike, Mailer, etc.). Women (like Rachel Kushner) are taking over. Alice Munro and Margaret Atwood are absolute fiction all-stars. (HG believes there are five great masters of the short story–Munro, Chekhov, Malamud, William Trevor and Raymond Carver). Women have a huge repository of experience that has been minimized, their intellect an object of condescension; they have often been barred from power and, of course, sexually abused. In mass culture they have been characterized as unrealistic physical wonders used to sell virtually everything. Now, it’s time for women’s fiction to have the readership and respect equal to that of the late, great Phillip Roth.

HG recently mused about the pleasures of matzos (matzo brei and solda). But, like much of Jewish history, there is a dark side to matzos. Namely, “the blood libel”: For centuries Jew haters claimed that the blood of a Christian child (later expanded to Muslim children) was the necessary ingredient in the composition of matzos. Jews in Britain were murdered in 1144 after being accused of “the blood libel.” Similar murder of Jews in France (1171). There are more than 150 cases of “blood libel” actions against Jews in recorded history. (Hundreds more were not recorded.) Probably the most significant “blood libel” pogrom took place in 1903. The place was Kishinev, a Bessarabian town at the edge of the Russian Tsarist Empire. During Easter time, in three bloody days, 49 jews were killed and hundreds of Jewish women were raped. “POGROM: Kishinev and the Tilt of History” by Stanford University Professor Steven J Zipperstein, was recently published. Philip Roth described the book thusly: “POGROM is a splendid book that pinpoints the moment at the start of the twentieth century when exile in Europe turned deadly in a way that foretold the end of everything. It tells us the horror that occurred street by street, butchery by butchery–with gripping clarity and an admirable brevity.” Ten years later, Menahem Mendel Beilis, a Jewish Kiev factory supervisor, was accused of murdering a Christian to obtain blood for matzo baking. The case against Beilis never had any substance. Beilis, not an observant Jew, was working at the factory on the Sabbath when the murder took place. He was observed in the factory by the entire gentile work force. Nevertheless, Beilis was jailed. Soon after, authorities gave him an plea-offer to go free. He refused and demanded a fair trial. The trial jury, despite being composed of many members of the anti-semitic “Black Hundreds,” found Belis innocent. The Beilis case was fictionalized by Bernard Malamud in the novel (and later movie), “The Fixer.” The Beilis character in the fiction bears little resemblance to the real Beilis. He gave all credit for his freedom to the Russian detective and Russian lawyer who worked on his behalf. He said they risked their reputations and their lives in the cause of justice. One would presume that this ridiculous myth of baking blood into matzo would have disappeared in these more enlightened times. Not so. In 2012, Saudi cleric Salman Al-Hodeh repeated “the blood libel” accusations. As did an Egyptian political leader in 2013 and Hamas officials in 2014. The madness persists.