HUNGRY GERALD

During HG’s budget restricted younger days, a long walk with a girl friend through the ever colorful streets of New York was an entertainment.  New York neighborhoods were low rise, lined with Mom-and-Pop shops.  The poor and middle class had not been banished and the city did not belong to oligarchs.  Inevitably, HG and girl friend would go to Little Italy and Chinatown for dining.   Chinatown has metastasized into a mega-Chinatown but looks the same, for the most part.   Little Italy, however, is a disaster.  The ultimate tourist trap.  Tony Soprano seems to be the local hero or at least the hero tourists want to believe in.   Every type of low TV kitsch glorifying fictitious gangsters is displayed.   And the restaurants that were such an ornament of Little Italy?  They’ve more than gone down hill.  They’ve gone down a precipice.  In the mourned days of long ago,  girl friend and HG would go to Puglia,  Angelo’s,  Grotto Azzura,  Luna and for less than five bucks have a very robust bowl of pasta, plenty of good bread and olive oil,  a big glass or red wine and tortoni or spumoni.   We were welcomed warmly, served with style and dignity.   Sent on our way with kisses and handshakes.   The Italian immigrants who lived in Little Italy built New York with their hands.  The subways.  The building foundations.  The masonry of the high rise structures.  Their sweat; their work.  All immigrant experiences in New York,  from the very beginning,  are sagas of hard work, pain, disappointment and hope. To see it all turned into a TV caricature is troubling.

Max Beerbohm, the Edwardian wit, critic, caricaturist and all-around man of letters observed: “Why do strawberries picked from a dew kissed meadow never taste as good as strawberries bought at a shop?” Beautiful Sharon vehemently disagrees with The Incomparable Max. HG’s thought after Generous Jay paid for the recent Korean barbecue bash: “Why does food have a particularly delicious savor when somebody else is paying?” Thank you again, Generous Jay.

Flushing is a Queens neighborhood adjacent to the old New York World’s Fair sites.  Just 30 minutes from Times Square. Correction: Chinatown is a neighborhood.  Flushing is not a neighborhood.  It is a city, an Asian city plunked down in New York.  The only thing comparable in North America is the island of Richmond next to Vancouver, B.C.  Scores and scores of Chinese and Korean restaurants.  Asian supermarkets.  Fragrant variety of street food.  The chicken lady does charcoal grilled chicken yakitori (chicken kebabs on a stick).  She dips the lightly charred chicken in a dark pool of goodness.  A buck a yakitori.  The line stretches around the block.  Rightfully so.  Chinese mystery.  An unmarked door in an apartment house. Open and enter.  The food aromas are overwhelming.  You are in a souk-like maze of stalls, each equippd with gas ranges and ovens, turning out an astounding variety of grills, stews, noodles, soups, stir-fries, steamed dumplings and more.  Food that adventurous HG has never tasted…grilled cumin lamb on a bun, broad noodles with preserved vegetables and duck, for example.  Hygiene is not strictly enforced.  The sanitary facilities are not third world..they are fourth world, maybe fifth world.  Nevertheless, an experience no food obsessive should miss.  Another don’t miss is Hahn Ji Bahk, a Korean barbecue bistro on a side street.  This was the venue of son Jeremy’s birthday bash.  In attendance: HG, Beautiful Sharon, Jeremy, wife Maiko, grandson Haru.  Plus Jeremy pals Jay,  Jan and Brad.  A ten foot long table covered with every variety of kimchi, salads,  greens,  hot and mild sauces; sauteed, steamed and fresh vegetables.  That’s a pared down list.  Meal started with scallion and shrimp pancakes topped with hot sauce.  Shoju (a Korean spirit that is a cross between sake and vodka).  Korean beer.  Hot, spicy ruby red Korean beef and cabbage soup (very Eastern European).  More pancakes.  Kimchi and side dishes. Rice and beans.  Shoju and beer.  More pancakes.  Two burners on the table were heated and serious barbecue eating began. Thick pieces of juicy pork dipped in vinegar and chopped peanuts and wrapped in thin slices of daikon radish.  Thin slices of beef and hot sauce wrapped in lettuce leaves.  More shoju.  More beer.  Much more.  Final dish: A remarkable egg souffle. Much laughter.  Noise.  Ribald stories.  Love.  Who could ask for more?

Prescient HG. At the height of the Vietnam War (Police action? Battle to prevent evil Communism spreading across Asia through the Domino Effect? American craziness?) HG made two predictions: Uncle Ho would win and New York and some other American cities would get some splendid Vietnamese restaurants. Well, Ho won;  Vietnam is a growing American tourist destination. Capitalism toppled all Dominoes and it looks like China (if it ever calls its loans) will own the United States. And, you can get some terrific pho
all over the land of the free, brave and bigoted. When HG lived in Denver he haunted Federal Boulevard,  lined with more than 40 Vietnamese eateries. So, when can we expect some Iraqui restaurants with platters of mezze and inventive kebabs? Of course, Afghan barbecue has many fans and is eagerly anticipated. (Soon, HG hopes, after this nutso war ends).  Before the New York World’s Fair of 1939 New York had a few very cheap French restaurants..mostly on the far West Side catering to the crews of French Line cruisers like the Normandie and Ile de France. Then war hit in 1939. Henri Soule ran the French Pavilion at the Fair. Eye opening cuisine. The Fair closed. Soule wisely stayed in the United States. Opened Le Pavilion in New York. Great haute cuisine. It was the breeding ground for great chefs, sous chefs, waiters, busboys, maitres d’ who all went on to open wonderful restaurants and change American dining and cooking forever. Moral For the obsessed gourmand like HG there’s always a silver lining.

The phrase “starving artist” is, of course, a cliche. But, like many a cliche it points to a truth. Making art in New York is a tough creative, emotional and financial undertaking. An artist, can, indeed, starve. But, it’s not likely as long as Vanessa’s (on Eldridge between Grand and Hester) is around. This was HG’s thought as he watched a thin, sensitive young man (the paint stained coverall indicated his metier) devour one dozen of Vanessa’s pan fried Chinese pork dumplings. The price of these rather large delicious items is four-for-a-dollar. That’s right. A buck. Four is lunch. Six is dinner. A dozen for one person? Unheard of. My sensitive painter dining neighbor was clearly suffering from the Missed Meal Blues. There’s lots more on Vanessa’s bill of fare: Chinese pancakes (really quesadillas); soups (the hot and sour is a killer); robust sandwiches (roast pork with shredded fresh vegetables is a favorite). Most dishes are two dollars. A few super-lavish plates are four dollars. All is fresh, hot and good. The place (naturally) is usually jammed. But, the Chinese women at the counter and in the kitchen are brisk, unsmiling and get you in and out. It’s a throwback to the days when joints—usually named Busy Bee—fed the New York masses for pennies. But, Vanessa’s is Chinese and that makes it really good. Gourmandise for a buck.

HG and Beautiful Sharon are in Riverside, R.I. in the bosom of their family. A spectacular clam chowder crafted by daughter Lesley Riva (whose cuisine HG praised in a previous post) awaits us.  During the HG stay (two days) in New York, HG consumed:  Congee (Chinese rice porridge);  the Chinese version of quesadillas (the Chinese take on tortillas filled with chives and egg); a classic, capacious plateau de fruits de mer; brandade  (the French puree of salt cod, garlic and sweet cream);  Korean pork and beef barbecue accompanied by six kinds of kimchi; special, lush mozzarella;  a piggy variety plate starring pork belly, pork chop and pork sausage.  And more. Much, much more. Shoju (the Korean spirit that shares affinities with both sake and vodka);  martinis; Beaujolais (Morgon);  Muscadet;  Chinese and Korean beer—–all were drunk in copious quantity with happy toasts to convivial company.  The quantity of food and drink was challenging.  HG met the challenge–and conquered.

Two days in The Apple. Lights of the Chrysler and Empire State never looked better. Checked into our Chinatown hotel at 10PM and an hour later HG and Beautiful Sharon were at Congee Village (98 Bowery) gazing at a giant flounder steamed in rice wine, ginger and garlic; a platter of crisp fried, tender squid and (for good health) Chinese broccoli with whole heads of garlic. Bowls of rice and Tsing Tao beer. Restaurant decor: Chinatown bleak (HG always finds “decorated” Chinese restaurants questionable). Food: Divine. Atmosphere at midnight: Lively. Ah,Noo Yawk.

European clams are blah…even in Paris and Venice. Pacific Coast clams are just barely so-so. Long Island (and New Jersey clams are very good). New England clams are sublime and those Yankees know how to cook ’em. For clams on the half shell (raw): Balthazar and Grand Central Oyster Bar (both New York). Boston: the Legal Seafood chain (the Logan Airport branch is a winner); Providence: Hemenway’s; Denver: Palm Restaurant (HG isn’t kidding. The little necks are really good..go figure). For fried clams: The two best are Flo’s Clam Shack in Portsmouth, R.I. and Bob’s Clams in Kittery, Maine (a Calvin Trillin favorite). For linguini with white clam sauce: Riviera Restaurant, Rt. 46, Clifton, N.J. (runner up to Beautiful Sharon). The biggest ever (very good) portion of his delightful dish was at a tiny shack (now closed) on the bike path between Riverside and Bristol, R.I. Clean plate ranger HG could nver finish a helping.  Steamed soft shells: No favorites…good throughout New England. New England Clam Chowder: Once more, Legal Seafood is the winner. Sad and wistful note: The lovely Gage & Tollner restaurant in Brooklyn (closed for some years) featured clam bellies sauteed in butter. The rubbery tails of the clams were snipped away and only the chubby little tummies basked in butter.

For the HG family the golden age of the clam was the period 1963-1975. After an active day on the beach of Fire Island (swimming, body surfing, frisbee tossing, whacking a tennis ball in our own version of sand kadimah), HG, family and friends grabbed buckets and waded into Great South Bay. For those without a New York background: Fire Island is a splinter of a barrier beach off the south shore of Long Island. It is some 31 miles long and as narrow as 100 yards at some points. It fronts on the Atlantic Ocean  and Great South Bay.   It begins at the Jones Beach Inlet and ends at Moriches.  The HG dune house was in the community of Ocean Ridge, just across the Bay from the town of Patchogue.  Fire Island has been the subject of plays, novels and poetry. The colorful communities that stretch along its length range from the out front gay to the relentlessly boy-meets-girl heterosexual.  It’s a mad mixture of bohemians, families,potheads, exhibitionists,  churchgoers,  show business and fashion celebrities.Okay, enough geography and culture. Let’s get back to clams. Once in the Bay, the HG clam posse did vigorous toe wriggling. Dodging horseshoe crabs and thrusting into the swampy Bay bottom, their  toes were seeking the smooth outlines of clams poking out of the mud. During those years  the bay was unpolluted and the bivalves flourished.  The HG clam posse was skilled and 90 minutes of clamming would yield as many as 600 clams. Back at Chez HG a clam feast was prepared.  HG possessed a shucking implement that made the job simple.  Pals and neighbors descended. White wine was opened.  Beers were pulled out of the refrigerator. Martinis were mixed. Joy commenced. First course was clams casino. Open clams got  a mixture of garlic, parsley, olive oil, oregano, light dusting of bread crumbs. Sometimes there was a topping of bacon. Into the oven they went for a brief bake. They were consumed on the back deck, facing the blazing sunset. Then indoors for linguni with white clam sauce. This was Beautiful  Sharon’s specialty: A hundred clams were shucked and all the briny juice retained.  A substantial amount of chopped garlic. Big bunch of chopped flat leaf Italian parsley. White wine. Into the saucepans the ingredients  went. The proportions and timing were Beautiful Sharon’s secret. A Beautiful Sharon clam was always plump and juicy; never rubbery and overcooked. The sauce, filled with succulent clams, was poured over bowls of al dente linguini.  The hot chili pepper flakes were passed. Wowee!!!! Make that double Wowee!!!!  Great South Bay now has pollution problems. The dune house is gone  (replaced by an ocean front paradise  on Prince Edward Island).  Beautiful Sharon is still a deft hand with seafood linguini but with clams selling for $1.25 each her bivalve of choice is the Prince Edward Island mussel.