HUNGRY GERALD

HG loves pasta. HG loves the imaginative names Italians have given the various pasta shapes–“little ears”, “butterflies”, “corkscrews,” “wagon wheels,” “snails,” etc. Recently, HG encountered a puzzler–“strozzapreti.” The literal translation: Priest Strangler. The shape is reasonably short and slightly twisted. Looks like a rolled up towel. Nothing ominous or life threatening about it. HG enjoyed a substantial amount of strozzapreti in a lush sauce of long simmered beef cheeks at a wonderful Italian restaurant–“O” The Eating House–in an unlikely location, the Poajque Valley near Santa Fe, N.M. HG asked the chef, Steven Lemon, if he knew how the shape got its anti-clerical name. No clue. HG research indicates strozzapreti is a popular shape in Emilia-Romagna and Tuscany, traditionally anti-clerical regions of Italy. HG believes the name is related to acrimonious landlord-tenant relationships.   In the past, the Church was a major Italian landowner and rents were grudgingly paid.  It all echoes the sentiment of HG’s mother as she counted the money to be paid to the landlord for the monthly rent of our South Bronx apartment: “He should only choke on it!!”

Reuben’s Restaurant and Delicatessen on E. 58th Street (just off 5th) was the classiest deli in New York and HG’s favorite for lunch.  A landmark for many decades it was sold in the 1960’s.  Lindy’s was West Side. Reuben’s was East Side.  Big difference in cachet and clientele.  Reuben’s had some raffish legends, however.  Arnold Rothstein and Abe “The Little Champ” Attell plotted the fixing of the Chicago White Sox World Series in a private room at the restaurant.   HG has posted about Lindy’s previously.  Reuben’s was better.  Lindy’s may have had the cheesecake but Reuben’s had The Reuben Sandwich.  A very big grilled sandwich of lean corned beef, swiss cheese, sauerkaraut and Russian (Thousand Islands) dressing.  Served with pickles and superior French fries.  All Reuben’s sandwiches were great but The Reuben reigned supreme.  The origins of The Reuben are obscure.  Of course, Reuben’s laid claim to its discovery but there are legitimate claimants in Omaha, Chicago and other cities.  Who cares who invented it?  Reuben’s perfected it.  The Reuben’s crowd was a blend of Lindy’s and The Russian Tea Room.  In addition to show biz, Reuben’s attracted Madison Avenue Mad Men, art and antiques dealers, financiers, real estate moguls.  Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and Jimmy Durante were customers (all had sandwiches named after them).

But, the guy who typified Reuben’s for HG was Billy Rose.  Does the name ring any bells?  He was a little stick of dynamite.  First wife was Fanny Brice (“Funny Girl” was her film bio) and Eleanor Holm, the gorgeous Olympic swimmer, was his second.  Billy was a lyricist whose name is on scores of songs (“Paper Moon” among them).  It was believed that he only contributed a line to songs but the writers were glad to give him credit because he got the songs published and cut such tough deals with the publishers.   He was a showman supreme (the “Aquacade” at the 1939 New York World’s Fair; the Diamond Horseshoe Night Club where Billy gave Gene Kelly his start).   He was a Broadway producer (“Carmen Jones” with an all African-American cast was a huge hit and later a movie with Harry Belafonte and Dorothy Dandridge).  Billy was a theater owner (the Ziegfeld and the Billy Rose), an art collector and a very shrewd investor.  He was a Broadway columnist (“Pitching Horeshoes”).  Much of the column was ghosted by an HG acquaintance, the novelist Bernard Wolfe.  When Billy died in 1966 (at age 67) he left an estate of $42,000,000 (probably $250,000,000 in today’s money).  He also created the beautiful Billy Rose Sculpture Garden in Jerusalem.

Billy was always in Reuben’s at lunch.  HG nodded to Billy (they had been introduced by one of HG’s real estate mogul clients) and got an abrupt wave in return.  The little guy simply vibrated with energy.  He was loved and loathed.  He was also an incurable romantic.   He told Bernie Wolfe (who told HG): Never hold back on love. Never play it safe.  Give it all you got.  So what, if you look like a fool?  Love is the only thing that matters.  Who would have suspected the tough, brassy little guy harbored such tender emotions?

HG’s favorite Chinese waiter story (as related by the late, great Lenny Bruce). Bruce goes to neighborhood Chinese restaurant. He’s gone there many times with his wife, Honey, the beautiful stripper. This time Bruce enters alone. Takes usual table. Waiter says: “Where’s beautiful lady? Where’s beautiful lady? ” No answer. Waiter persists. “Where’s beautiful lady? Where’s beautiful lady?” Finally, Bruce answers. “We broke up. We’re not together anymore.” Says the waiter: “Oh. You better off!!”

HG restaurant error Number One: HG goes to a favorite Chinatown hole in the wall. HG is thinking about fried crabs in egg sauce and twice fried pork. At an adjacent table, some older Chinese men are eating something that looks interesting. “I want that,” says HG to waiter. “No, no, Mister,” exclaims waiter, “That is for Chinese people. You will not like it” HG will not be discouraged. Waiter fights the good fight. “You will not like it. You will not like it.” HG wins.  The plate of food is placed before him.  A cosmic error. The aroma is of dirty socks and animal droppings. In goes the HG fork (HG has never learned how to negotiate chopsticks. He is too greedy). HG chews. The textures: Tire scraps. Chewing gum. Rancid Jello. Mattress stuffing. The taste?  Don’t ask.  The waiter hovers. “See? You don’t like it..”  HG’s dignity is at stake.  He cannot lose face. He finishes the dish. Takes a few days to recover.  Moral: Listen to Chinatown waiters. They know what’s not to like.

Restaurant lesson Number Two:  HG has bad morning at Madison Avenue office.  Needs comfort lunch.  That means brains in black butter with boiled potatoes at Veau D’Or, the little French bistro around the corner.   HG is delayed.  Gets there late.  Waiters are setting tables for dinner.  HG rushes in; places his order.

Waiter says: “All right, M’sieu, but you must hurry.  The lunch hour is over.”   HG gets huffy, irate, snippy, furious.   “Hurry?  I am insulted and I am leaving.” On the way out he sees two old ladies finishing the last of their brains, mopping bits of butter from their alabaster maquillage.  Damn.  Those brains look good.  HG settles for a drugstore BLT.

Moral: Calm and humility can lead to a good meal. The reward of huffiness is a BLT or worse..a tuna fish sandwich.

HG is not a big salad fan. Prefers heartier fare. But, had a mind changing lunch experience today at “O” The Eating House, an Italian/French/Mediterranean restaurant five minutes from HG’s Santa Fe , New Mexico home.  “O” is in Pojoaque on the east side of Highway 84/285, some 15 minutes north of Santa Fe–PH: 505-455-2000.  Yes, it’s a strange name for a restaurant but chef-owner Steven Lemon inherited it from the Pojoaque Pueblo which served Native American food there. Lemon decided to forgo the expense of a name change. Anyway, Lemon is a world class chef and today’s salad was a mind bender (HG will be doing a series of posts on Lemon and the restaurant because HG believes significant creative talent should be recognized). Back to the salad: Crisp shreds of duck confit. Tiny cubes of gorgonzola dolce. Toasted pignolia nuts. A variety of lettuces. Thinly sliced apples. Tossed in a vinaigrette of Prosecco, olive oil, sweet sauteed cherries and thyme. Think about it. Confit found a worthy collaborator in the gorgonzola. Pignolias and apple slices created subtle crunch. Cherries added sweetness. Prosecco lightened the olive oil and thyme provided the herbal note. The production had a Parisian air. HG may change his salad stance.

HG has been thinking about hamburgers. HG does not share the great American obsession with burgers.  HG believes that American taste buds and overall health would be improved if The Golden Arches, Burger Royalty, Wendy Crapola and their kin were demolished.  However.  There are times when a properly prepared burger utilizing good meat (not frozen discs resembling hockey pucks) and a bun with some substance can hit the culinary spot.  Consuming a burger allows HG a logical excuse to  eat abundant french fries, onion rings and pickles.  Ketchup, of course.  Hundred Acres in Soho does a quality burger with top notch sides.  And, there’s the landmark Corner Bistro in Greenwich Village.  Inconsistent, but generally good.  Out of town:  Cherry Cricket in Denver is super.  Santa Fe foodies laud Bobcat Bite.  HG is reluctant.  Bobcat Bite serves no alcohol and HG believes that a burger-and-beer is a combination endorsed by the deities.   BSK introduced HG to the world’s ultimate burger when she was a summer stock actress in Hyde Park, N.Y.  The burger joint was Marjo’s.  Does it still exist?  Google research has been fruitless.  But, Marjo’s Platonic ideal of burgerdom still resides in HG’s memory. A gourmand never forgets a goody.

HG’s family, like most American families of the time, had very little money during The Great Depression  (What should we call what many Americans are going though now—The Mini Depression?).  However, the HG family sure wasn’t hungry.  For much of HG’s childhood  (before Mom, to HG’s sorrow, was converted to health foodism),  the cornerstone of the evening meal was meat stewed for a long time with plenty of garlic, onions and potatoes.  There was fried fish accompanied by spaghetti doused with canned tomato sauce (sounds strange and awful but it worked for little HG).  Favorite vegetable dish was tzimes, a carrot bake featuring carrots, honey, chicken feet and a load of chicken fat to be soaked up by rye bread.  (Now, this sounds really terrible–especially the chicken feet–but it was surprisingly tasty}.  Lots of other jewish/Eastern European staples: Blintzes, matzo balls, chicken soup,  herring (schmaltz, pickled and fried); stuffed cabbage, chopped liver, gefilte fish,etc. Cheap, savory and good. One dessert: Stewed prunes and apricots (salutary for, ahem, regularity).  Oh, there was another dessert: Canned peaches and pears.  However, this was a dessert governed by chance.  That’s because they came from Mystery Cans. Mom, always alert to bargains, would go to the A&P Supermarket and buy Mystery Cans for two cents each.  Why Mystery Cans?  That’s because the cans had lost their labels.  The ingredients were a Mystery.  Dinner over,  Mom would hold a can to her ear and shake it.  She believed she could identify by sound whether the can contained fruit or vegetables.  Her batting average was about .400.  Sometimes HG  had a nice bowl of peaches.  But, more often some cold brussel sprouts, or lima beans or asparagus spears were placed before little HG.  Protest didn’t work  “Eat!! Eat!!,’ shouted Mom. “It’s a vegetable!! It’s good for you.”   (Must have been healthy…HG is alive, isn’t he?).

Today, HG noted there are only two bottles of this year’s Beaujolais Nouveau in the wine room. Much has been drunk since some cases of Beaujolais Nouveau arrived in November.   A very good year for the wine.  Light, fruity, full of flavor.  Chill it slightly and it goes with everything—fish, fowl meat, cheese.  HG and BSK will drink those last bottles tonight with a spicy platter of Filipino chicken.  HG believes that Beaujolais Nouveau has only a three month life. Definitely doesn’t improve with age. The wine varies sharply from year to year,  Sometime it’s very good and sometimes it’s undrinkable.  HG and BSK visited Paris in November for many years  (to celebrate HG’s birthday).  Signs on every cafe and bistro would greet them:  Le Beaujolais Nouveau Est Arrivee.  The New Beaujolais Is Here.  Good or bad vintage, the arrival spelled Paris Party Time.  Noisy song, music and laughter throughout the night.  No Gallic restraint.  Beaujolais Noveau is filled with fruit —and treachery. One has a tendency to drink a great deal of it.  One has a tendency to get very drunk. One has a tendency to get pissed, sozzled, shit-faced.  One has a dreadful hangover.  HG makes these observations based upon bitter experience.  Exercise caution, my bibulous buddies.

A young (never out of Noo Yawk) HG visited Atlanta in 1947. Went to a downtown Chinese restaurant. Before the shrimp chop suey arrived,  the pretty Southern drawling waitress (didn’t call them waitpersons in those backward days) presented HG with a big basket of Wonder bread and margarine. Uh,oh. Even then, HG was a Chinatown veteran. He knew a bad omen when he saw one. The chop suey. Eek! Horrors!  Atlanta was a small town then, not the cosmopolitan corporate and transportation hub it has become. But, HG managed to find some good food in that provincial town. Brunswick stew was a staple in the modest diners HG frequented and it soon became a passion. HG hasn’t tasted Brunswick stew in years. The dish doesn’t travel. Strictly regional. If memory serves, it was a stew of chicken, salt pork, giblets, corn, potatoes, onions, lima beans and tomatoes.  Real spicy and real good.  Made hotter through judicious use of the Louisiana hot sauce on the counter. Cafeterias in Atlanta served some hearty platters featuring pork, meat loaf and chicken.  Three “sides” came with the protein.  The diner could assemble a trio from mashed potatoes (Idahos or yams); rice;  mac-and-cheese; creamed spinach; cabbage; collard greens; carrots-and-peas; lima beans; string beans; okra and lots, lots more. Rib sticking might be a good description. There was a place near Georgia Tech–the Varsity–which served great hot dogs.   HG’s faves were the chili dog and the chili cheese dog.  Onion rings were super. The drink was Coke, of course.  The owner was opposed to smoking  (slightly ahead of his time) and he decorated the joint with gory photos of diseased lungs.  Didn’t discourage HG from devouring the elaborate tube steaks and enjoying some after-lunch Marlboros.  Might have been a good idea if HG had paid less attention to the mustard, relish and fried pies and more to those cautionary photos.   Even though The Varsity Hot Dog Czar didn’t exactly specialize in veggies and wheat germ  he sure cared about the health of his customers. That’s more than you can say about Arby’s and other purveyors of highway crapola.

Some evocative BSK  food memories from BSK’s life in Grandmother’s Canada house:  The cool fruit cellar with a smell of apples and potatoes.  Climbing the backyard apple tree and sharing green apples (salted) with neighborhood pals. The taste of fresh-from-the-cow vanilla ice cream sold at the corner dairy (BSK would watch the dairymen milk the cows).  The women with European accents selling stalks of brussel sprouts and other fresh vegetables at the nearby farmer’s market.  The best breakfast: A soft boiled egg in BSK’s personal egg cup (accompanied by “soldiers”–thin strips of toast–for dipping. A lunch in Grandmother’s  clean smelling kitchen and a menu of sharp cheddar cheese, celery and carrot sticks (Kate Smith on the radio). Newspaper wrapped, malt vinegar-doused fish and chips under the bridge connecting Sarnia, Ontario with Port Huron, Michigan.  Wintry mornings spooning the frozen cream from the top of the milk bottles on the front porch (milk delivered daily by a horse drawn cart). Roasting hot dogs at a Lake Huron beach cookout (a litte sand made them taste even better). And, butter tarts, butter tarts–the best dessert/snack/goody in the world–something like a mini pecan pie (but better) and never encountered in the United States. A sweet secret of The Friendly Neighbor to the North.