HUNGRY GERALD

Catfish has been much maligned. HG will admit that some of the bottom feeders used to have a taste of Mississippi mud. But, today’s farm raised catfish are just firm fleshed and tasty. Here’s how HG does it:  Soak catfish in buttermilk.  Dust with flour.  Dip in beaten egg.  Roll in Zatarain’s Fish Fry.   Sizzle in hot oil.  Serve with a dollop of mayonnaise mixed with sriracha (plus a lemon squeeze). Down home Southern goodness. Goes good with beer and the  Super Bowl.

Snow in Santa Fe.  An occasion for BSK to do some comfort food.  And, what is more comforting than a burger?  HG’s idea of a comforting burger is a lamb meatball prepared a la BSK.  Here’s how BSK does it.  Ingredients:  Ground lamb, finely chopped onion and garlic; chopped parsley (or mint); cumin, Goya Adobo seasoning (no proper household should be without this magic stuff); salt, pepper.  BSK has a secret: BSK saves water from canned Italian tomatoes and adds a bit to lamb mixture to enhance juiciness.  BSK pan broils the meatballs leaving them pink in the middle.  Last night BSK accompanied the meatballs with Israeli couscous and a lush eggplant curry (adapted from Vij’s, the spectacular Indian-fusion restaurant in Vancouver). There was a bowl of Greek yogurt on the table and some harissa, the spicy Moroccan condiment. It all made for a toasty evening.

HG’s Mom made a version of comfort burgers called karnezelach.  Ground chuck was the base. Mom added chopped onion, chopped garlic (enough to defuse Dracula and a platoon of vampires), salt, pepper. Shaped the mixture into a series of fat cigars. Dusted them with hot Hungarian paprika. Broiled them in the oven.  Served them with fried onions, boiled potatoes and sour cream.  Beat the hell out of a Big Mac.  You can devour karnezelach at Sammy’s Roumanian Restauarant on New York’s Lower East Side. Sammy’s is a good place to visit it you wish to raise your cholesterol level and create heartburn of searing intensity.

More than a half century ago, HG’s very late night (and after hours) hangout was Dubiner’s, a saloon in New York’s Lower East Side (located on Stanton Street east of Allen).  It was a hangout of night crawling journalists (like HG) and Jewish tough guys.  The tough guys included “shys”  (loan sharks);  the simian looking fellows who interviewed, so to speak, recalcitrant clients of the “shys’; bail bondsmen; bookies.  Beer, whiskey and vodka were served.  The only food HG recalls was excellent gefilte fish (with powerful horse radish) and chopped liver with raw onion and chicken fat. No juke box.  No TV.  The clientele provided the entertainment.  A gentle fellow, Natie O., was a mob driver among other trades.  Surprisingly, he had an Irish tenor voice and a vast stockpile of  Irish songs.  For some reason this went over big with the 100% Jewish customers  (he also did splendid versions of  “Roumania, Roumania!!” and “Beltz, Mein Shtetele Beltz” for the nostalgia addicts in the room).

The unquestioned star of  Dubiner’s was my companion,  Alice C., a pretty  (but bedraggled)  Broadway press agent with a beautiful voice (she had been a Las Vegas entertainer when she was in her teens). Miss C .had a very serious alcohol abuse problem.  At some point in the early ayem  (after numerous vodkas), Alice would do a super schmaltzy (choking back the tears and other bits of shtick) version of  “My Yiddishe Mama”, that thoroughly phony exaltation of Jewish mothers.  In the patois of stand-up comedians: She Killed.  Tears rolled down the faces of the tough guys.  Encores were demanded. Best of all, we were showered with free drinks and had to, almost literally, crawl to a taxi at closing. There are scores of recorded versions of “My Yiddishe Mama”  (good ones are by Sophie Tucker, Al Jolson, Billie Holliday, Billy Daniels, Tom Jones…the best is by Charles Aznavour).  But, none can touch the Alice C. version.

So, what happened to Alice C.?   Here’s the kicker.   She gave up booze.  Cleaned up. Somehow got a college degree. Went to medical school. Became a doctor specializing in pediatrics. Married (happily) with two children. That’s HG’s Yiddishe Mama tale. Happy ending.

HG loves Chicago (despite the weather). The architecture. The wonderful art museum. And, of course, the food. HG’s favorite restaurant in Chi is the venerable http://hungrygerald.com/hiv-dating-site/ Steak House  in the River North neighborhood.  BSK may have invented  Garbage Soup but Garbage Salad has been on the G & G menu since BSK was a wee babe.  HG always starts his meal at G & G with the salad.  Okay, what is it?  Here are the ingredients: Shredded iceberg lettuce, julienned  Genoa salami, diced mozzarella, sliced red onion, minced garlic, thinly sliced radish, chopped celery. grated Parmesan cheese.  Dressing is quality olive oil, wine vinegar and lots of freshly ground pepper.  G & G serves each portion with a large, cold steamed shrimp on top. For home architects of Garbage Salad the proportions of the ingredients can vary with individual taste  (garlic tolerance, for example).  The guys who run G & G aren’t exactly philanthropists. They don’t give their food away.  The salad costs $18.75.   Garbage Salad.  Very large rare sirloin ($41.75).  Onion rings. Broiled mushrooms.  Bottle of robust red (Zinfandel).   Dessert (cheesecake).  Cognac and coffee. With tip, this meal for a growing boy costs about $170  (HG usually shared this repast with a companion to keep the expenditure within reason).  Ah.  City of Bg Shoulders and Big Meals.http://hungrygerald.com/young-guys-dating-older-woman/

BSK announced she was going to make “garbage soup.” “What’s this?,” thought suspicious HG. “An homage to the Manson family?” BSK emptied the refrigerator and vegetable larder: broccoli (raw and cooked); zucchini; onions (raw and cooked); string beans; tomatoes; mache; romaine, spinach,kale.   BSK sauteed some garlic with olive oil in a big stockpot.  In went all the vegetables plus chicken broth.  Salt, black pepper, cayenne pepper  (actually, a great deal of cayenne).  Simmered for a long time and then pureed.  BSK served it with a bit of Greek yogurt.  Sublime.  Healthy. Spicy. Economical.  And, the perfect antidote for winter chills. All it needs is a better name. Let’s just call it Beautiful Soup.  (BSK called to HG’s attention the Lewis Caroll poem,”Soup of the Evening.” It begins: “Beautiful Soup, so rich and green, waiting in a hot tureen!  Who for such dainties would not stoop? Soup of the evening,Beautiful Soup.”)

In HG’s recent post, “Anti-Clerical Pasta,”  HG ventured that the pasta shape, “strozzapreti”  (Priest Strangler) was linked (especially in the Italian province of Romagna) to the reluctance of farmers  to pay land rent to the Church. HG’s principal source was Wikipedia which stated: “Wives would customarily make the pasta (strozzapreti)  for churchmen as partial payment for rent (in Romagna).  Husbands would be so angered by venal priests stuffing their mouths with their wives’  food they would wish the priests would choke as they stuffed their mouths with it.”  (HG’s mom’s sentiment concerning rent paid to Bronx landlords). Well,  controversy has erupted.  Daughter Lesley, authoritative in all things Italian, questions this legend: “Traditional image of priests as gluttons is central in Italian imagination. Stems from fat, well fed priests in a landscape of starving peasants. Never heard it linked with rent.”  Son-in-law Profesore R. casts further doubt on the Romagna legend. Il  Profesore traces the phrase to 17th century Neapolitan dialect: “strangula previti.” And this, he states has its origin from a Greek phrase meaning “round.”  HG bows to the judgment of these authorities on the phrase’s origins. HG holds to his opinion that it’s mighty tasty with the appropriate meat based sauce.

Sauerkraut isn’t used enough, in HG’s opinion.  Most folks only eat it when it’s on top of a ball park hot dog.  That acid, briny, sour stuff is okay on top of the frank.  But, that’s not the whole kraut story.  It’s the ideal companion of pork chops, pork roasts, kielbasa and every type of sausage  (especially knockwurst and weisswurst).  But, do sauerkraut the BSK way.  BSK washes the brine off the kraut  (Bubbie’s is a good brand but most canned kraut will work) and cooks it with white wine, sliced onions, slices of apple and a splash of olive oil.  Some caraway seeds if they’re in the pantry. Not essential.  Flank the kraut with pork chops  (Trader Joe has the best), boiled or home fried potatoes.  Hot mustard and Bubbie’s pickles on the table. Beer.  Winter comfort food…and if the weather reports are right, you New Yorkers and Northeasterners need plenty of comfort.

HG, the eternal romantic, and BSK will be off to Paris soon. Reason for the trip, according to HG:  The celebration of their meeting 48 years ago.  BSK,  the realist, attributes a baser motive to HG:  The opportunity to eat a great abundance of oysters in salubrious settings.  As usual,  BSK has a point.  HG likes to knock off scores of oysters in two Parisian brasseries: Le Stella in the 16th (on rue Victor Hugo)  and Le Vaudeville  (opposite the Bourse)  in the 2nd.  Stella is HG’s first choice.  Because:  The oysters are perfectly shucked and served with grace;  HG can also nibble bulots (whelks) with mayonnaise and follow with the best steak tartare and frites in town; Maitre d’ Christian is a gentleman of true charm; few tourists, only quiet upper class types.  As for Le Vaudeville: An art deco monument of nicotine stained marble, glittery brass, dark wood and comfortable banquettes backed by racks in which to toss your coat. Very buzzy. Very busy.  Very much fun. Oysters are splendid,  just slightly below Stella’s winners.  HG oyster rules:  The only wine to drink with oysters is Muscadet  (Okay, Sancerre,  if no good Muscadet is available).  The oyster should be enjoyed in its pristine state.  No lemon.  No vinegar-and-shallot concoction  (BSK disagrees).  And–Eek!! Horrors!!–no horrible, taste deadening red sauce.  Accompaniment:  Thinly sliced brown or rye bread with sweet butter.  Bring on those Belons, Papillons,  Fines Claires, Pousses de Claires and Utah Beaches.  And, M’sieu, another carafe of Muscadet, si vous plait.

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?