HUNGRY GERALD

Off on the 3,000 mile journey to New Mexico. First stop is Senator Hotel in Augusta, Maine. Swim and hot tub for HG. Stretching exercises for BSK. Appetites are raging. HG/BSK drank crisp white wine and knocked off a dozen cold Maine oysters. Good. Not great. HG/BSK have been spoiled by Prince Edward Island’s briny, lush, meaty South Lake oysters, among the world’s best. Time for a traditional dinner. Yes, roast prime rib, mashed potatoes, string beans. Red wine. Freshly grated horseradish. English mustard. (HG ate a few modest crab crab cakes to accompany the tender, medium rare beef). Happy time.

HG often reads the Prince Edward Island Guardian (“We cover the Island like the dew”) with a second cup of breakfast latte. A story caught HG’s attention yesterday: It concerned a dog lover’s organization in Britain that was teaching Newfoundland dogs to swim, search and rescue. Yes, that was their function living on the ships of the Newfoundland and Labrador fishing fleets where they originated. But, when these gentle giants moved inland as household pets in the United States and Canada these skills were lost. So glad these dedicated Britons are trying to bring them back. Bobo was the name of HG/BSK’s Newfie companion on HG/BSK’s horse ranch in the Colorado Rocky Mountain foothills. Gentle and loving with children, obedient, very intelligent. For example, when HG was ready for sleep, HG would pat Bobo on his massive head and say: “Bedtime, Bobo.” Without any urging, Bobo would rise and hop down the stairs to the garage level (because of his heavy coat, Bobo liked to sleep in the cool garage). Using his paw, Bobo would open the garage door. Would carefully close it behind him before he slept. The procedure was reversed at breakfast time. Big dogs like Bobo (he weighed 150 pounds) don’t have much longevity. In the vet’s office, just before his demise, Bobo turned to HG, licked his hand and received a final nuzzle. One, last soulful look at HG. Goodbye. HG sobbed. Tears rolled down HG’s face. HG vowed. No more dogs. The end is too heartbreaking. However, many years later came Toby, The Wonder Dog. HG will be 89 in one month. The odds are in favor of Toby outliving the old guy.

De luxe. (HG loves that phrase. Very reminiscent of the 1930’s). Super luxury. And, that’s what HG/BSK experienced on some of their trips abroad. (Of course, there were some clunkers). An HG/BSK favorite is La Mamounia in the colorful city of Marrakech, Morocco. Splendid lobbies and lounge areas. Beautiful bedrooms overlooking the lush gardens where Winston Churchill once painted. HG/BSK breakfasted on their room’s terrace. Exquisite. Exercised with personal trainer, Abdul. Swam in the giant pool. Poolside lounges were occupied by attractive Frenchwomen in topless bikinis. Eye candy for HG. Savory Middle East buffet in the pool area’s dining section. Spectacular. Vacationing at Mamounia is expensive. Worth it. Another de luxe establishment is the venerable Savoy in London (never liked the equally sumptuous Dorchester and Claridge’s). Wonderful bedroom with super mattress on bed and linen sheets. Giant tub in bathroom, perfect for pre-theater bath. HG/BSK were very fond of the Savoy Grill. Glamorous art deco interior and superb food. Never slept at The Connaught in Mayfair. Decades ago, HG/BSK often dined at the hotel restaurant. HG can state, without reservation, this was the best restaurant in the world. Beautiful antique decor with comfortable seating. Gentle lighting. Nicely spaced tables. Impeccable, warm and professional service. The food was beyond superlative. Great French dishes (critics said the best French restaurant wasn’t in Paris, it was London’s Connaught). HG/BSK concentrated on the English classics: Oysters, smoked salmon, Dover sole, mixed grill with souffle potatoes; steak and kidney pie; boiled silverside with pickles and hot mustard, etc. Restaurant “modernized” its cuisine in recent years with unfortunate results. Too bad. London’s Hotel Wilbraham near Sloane Square was HG/BSK’s home in their frequent visits to the city long ago. Not luxe at all. Just comfy, inexpensive and shabby genteel. As expected, it has been refurbished and is now very expensive and posh. The old character has been lost. HG/BSK have forgotten the names of two hotels –one in Berlin and one in Tokyo–that were very memorable. Both super modern hotels with dazzling upper floor views. The breakfast buffet at the Berlin hotel was dazzling and extensive. Every variety of egg dishes.. Pancakes. Waffles. Jams, jellies and syrups. Numerous yogurts. A multitude of cereals, hot and cold. Fruits, both fresh and cooked., Salads. Breads, rolls, croissants, brioche, muffins, crackers. Smoked salmon and other fish. Scores of cheeses. Bacon. Ham. Many sausages (some, German specialties). Cake. Cookies. Pies. Pastries. Coffee, tea, fruit juice, wine and champagne; Bloody Marys and Mimosas. All available. HG/BSK would begin their day with exercise in the hotel gym and swim in the pool. Shower. Then, with raging appetites, attack the buffet extravaganza. Worked off the calories with long bike rides through the Berlin streets on the way to museums and landmarks. In Tokyo for the marriage of SJ and Exquisite Maiko, HG/BSK occupied a high floor bedroom with panoramic views of the city. Made New York look like a small village. The bathroom had the usual Japanese wonder toilet. Excellent gym and soothing hot baths. Thankfully, breakfast was English/American. HG loves Japanese cuisine but doesn’t fancy the traditional Japanese breakfast of grilled fish, miso soup, rice and pickles. Bleakest hotel room ever was in Prague soon after the Czech liberation. Didn’t matter. Prague was a glory.

HG awoke to an icy cold driving rain. Sea dotted with whitecaps and big rollers. Brrr!! Invaluable daughter-in-law Exquisite Maiko to the rescue. Presented HG with the perfect breakfast. A big bowl of congee (rice Porridge) done in Japanese Maiko style. The rice was simmered in dashi broth with slices of ginger and a touch of soya sauce. Unlike the congee HG enjoyed in Chinese restaurants in Vancouver and New York, Maiko’s congee was not a puree. The rice kernels were soft but had not lost their integrity. The broth was savory. The dish was topped with the Maiko signature of a swirl of finely chopped scallions. The dish was like a warm hug from a loved one. Pure comfort. The rain continued. BSK mitigated the chill with a fire in the wood stove. Dinner time (or supper as it called in Price Edward Island). Maiko plucked a tray of her incomparable gyoza from the freezer and fried them into crisp succulence.  Then there was Maiko soup: a homemade pork bone broth. Ginger. Garlic. Onions. Scallions. Apple. Slices of left over pork. Rice noodles. Hearty comfort. EM is a treasure.

The real Russian/Iranian caviar—beluga, sevruga — is unbelievably expensive. Can only be enjoyed by oligarchs, billionaires and other plutocrats. Some 58 years ago HG would order these treats (inexpensive then) from Caviarteria in New York and heap tablespoons on lightly toasted and buttered slices of Pepperidge Farm Thin Sliced White Bread. No adulteration of taste by additions of lemon juice, chopped onions, chopped hard boiled eggs and sour cream. Drank icy Polish Vodka Wyborowa from a bottle covered with frost from the freezer. This is a happy memory. However, HG is pleased that one of the great affordable luxuries, Red Salmon Caviar (the color is closer to orange) is readily available online from Zabar’s (HG’s choice) and Russ & Daughters, two New York smoked fish institutions. When living on the upper west side of Manhattan, HG/BSK would have a favorite brunch at The Russian Tea Room on W. 57th Street (this delightful eccentric restaurant was a show biz, dance and music hangout but after many ownership changes and glitzy renovations it is a hyper-expensive shadow of its former self). The brunch would start with “Eggplant Orientale”, a Slav version of baba ganoush. This was followed by stacks of blini drenched in melted butter and topped with red salmon caviar and thick sour cream. Oh, my!! Gifted Daughter Lesley R. makes her version of this with thin crepes (HG murmurs: “More, more.” ) SJ contributes superb latkes that get the caviar-and-sour cream adornment. This takes place at the family feast of the fishes (Russo/Jewish version) on Christmas.Eve in Rhode Island. When back in New Mexico, BSK makes BSK’s inimitable omelets. Very soft on the inside (the French call it “baveuse”) with gently browned exteriors. BSK fills the omelets with red salmon caviar. Scoop of sour cream on top. Heaven.

HG refers to HG/BSK’s summers in Fire Island, the fabled barrier beach that stretches for miles separated from the south shore of Long Island by Great South Bay. HG/BSK and kids, Lesley and Jeremy, were on the beach for about eight hours (or slightly more) every day. Blazing sun. Temperature in the 90’s. Besides an hour of sun bathing, HG/BSK were in perpetual motion. Long walks to gather beach glass. Frisbee games. Kadima paddle ball. Volley ball. Tossing and catching a football. All of this under hot sun with no sun block. Yes, there were cooling swims and body surfing in the Atlantic Ocean (Even with a large tummy, pregnant BSK was an expert body surfer. Onlookers were shocked). The kids were super active, of course. Little SJ pranced about in a nude state and was a favorite of many nubile young women. HG/BSK and family turned the color of reddish mahogany. HG thought about those days on the beach yesterday at HG/BSK’s Prince Edward Island oceanfront home. Hot, hot day. HG did some refreshing swimming (water is warming up). BSK waded. Though protected with hats and sun block, three hours of beach fun was enough. Fingers are crossed. Melanoma hasn’t struck. Yet.

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.