HUNGRY GERALD

HG at 17 was fortunate. HG had a beautiful Brooklyn girlfriend who possessed great legs and a Chrysler Woody, best car ever made. As always, amour in HG’s life was linked with food. That meant numerous forays to Lundy’s, the famous landmark restaurant at Sheepshead Bay. HG always had a dozen little necks and a dozen cherry stones on the half shell. Always served with piping hot southern biscuits dripping butter. Plus an obligatory India Pale. The girl friend ate more modestly. Often, we went to Nathan’s Famous in Coney Island. Here, we had clams but also soft shell crab sandwiches…deep fried soft shells on soft buns with plenty of house-made tartar sauce (no disgusting little Kraft’s cellophane packets). Ocean breezes. Greasy faces. Ah, young love.

World War Two makes it hard to find help so 13-year-old (lied about his age) HG is hired as kitchen worker by the Harbor Rest, a Rockaway road house fronting Jamaica Bay.  Its specialty was seafood.  The manager, a very tough guy named Reilly, presented HG to Simon, a grizzled African-American who was busy opening clams. “Show the kid how,” said Reilly and that’s what Simon did. Shucking wasn’t so easy. A very sharp, thin pointed knife was our implement.  My first attempt drew blood.  Instead of sympathy, HG got laughter.  A quick learner, HG soon became adept.  Never had tasted a clam.  Hated the first one.  Tolerated the second one.  Loved the third and after that…addiction.  As Simon and I shucked we ate.  Our chant: “One for us. One for that bastard Reilly.”

Lucky afficianados of HG. Starting tomorrow there will be a multi-post series on that wonderful bivalve—The Clam.

HG wants to visit: Buffalo (for the original wings and beef on weck).  Rochester (for white hot dogs).  St. Louis (for chop suey..that’s right, chop suey).  Milwaukee (for frozen custard).  Copenhagen (for smorrebrod).  Ann Arbor, Mich. (for Zingerman’s).  El Paso (for enchiladas). Kansas City. (for all those Calvin Trillin treats).  Austin (for barbecue).   HG wants to revisit: Terre Haute (for after church Sunday lunch at a dignified cafeteria).  Chicago (for shrimp and grits at Soul Kitchen).  Boston (oysters and clams on the half shell at the airport Legal Seafood and Dover sole at the city locations).  Los Angeles (Cobb salad at the Beverly-Wilshire).  New Orleans (Galatoire’s and Mosca’s).   Baltimore (crab boil).   Miami Beach (Stone Crab Joe’s).  Tokyo (for ramen and yakitori and everything else).   San Francisco (for sand dabs and sloe gin fizzes at Tadich Grill). Gatlinberg, Tenn. (for Wop Salad….that’s what they call it on the menu).

The Berlin Wall came down. The Soviets left Czechoslovakia and the Czechs had a gleeful taste of freedom. It was 1990…time for HG and Beautiful Sharon to visit Mittel Europa with Prague being the high point. We found Prague extraordinary. Untouched by the war and bombing, Prague retained a medieval atmosphere with stunning architecture and a great castle dominating the skyline. The Jewish Cemetery,  literally jammed with headstones, did seem the appropriate place for the birth of The Golem.  And, with its air of melancholy and mystery it was fitting that Prague was Franz Kafka’s hometown. Twenty years ago, Prague was a city of dingy store fronts featuring the worst of behind the Iron Curtain fashion displayed in a jumble of dust and disarray. Everything was laughably cheap. Street life was joyous, with musicians on every corner. Street style was odd. Men, from teens to middle age, favored short-short shorts, black socks and unspeakable local sneakers. Their appearance was not edifying.   HG feared, because of envious glances, that his Nikes might provoke a mugging. The food was inedible; the Czech menus impenetrable. Whatever we ordered we received brown stuff (pork? beef? lamb? dog?) covered with brown stuff (sludge? worse?). We didn’t starve. Old ladies sold steaming sausages on the street that were hearty and good. We encountered a delicious Prague custom. A window opened in an otherwise blank wall. A sign appeared: VAFFLES. Instantly a crowd gathered to buy sweet, crispy, very tasty waffles topped with lush whipped cream. Toward the end of our visit, we came upon a very chic Chinese restaurant run by Germans: CZINKY.  it attracted the city’s fashionistas and the cuisine reminded HG of
Brooklyn circa 1950. Quite good. We also went to the city’s ultimate gourmet heaven, a restaurant specializing in roast duck. It was in an unspeakably ugly structure built by the Communists (and this in a city of fairy tale buildings). The restaurant was vast, virtually unpopulated, tacky, dirty. Our slovenly waiter spent much of his time trying to seduce some local frump. After much shouting, the surly guy brought our duck (admittedly, rather good).  It summed up life under the Communists.  Waiting for our train to Berlin, HG visited the pay men’s toilet guarded by a stolid lady at a desk. “Pee-Pee? Kah-Kah?”, she inquired. The price varied, it seemed. A few years later son Jeremy spent his post college graduation year in Prague.  Between reggae DJ stints on radio (Vaclav Havel was a fan), Jeremy was a steady customer at a bar where he liked the Pilsener and beef roasted in “the Jewish style.” He suggested to the proprietor,  since there were many American and English tourists,  that the menu be translated into English. And, so Jeremy’s favorite dish soon appeared: ROAST JEW.

HG and Beautiful Sharon will be in Paris for a few weeks early in 2011. So, why Paris for the umpteenth time rather than Copenhagen or Hong Kong or Vienna or other great destinations? Sure, there’s great art (but not better than New York or Madrid). Great architecture (but not better than Barcelona). Great street life )but not better than Venice). Great cafes (but not better than Buenos Aires). Good looking women (certainly not better than the beaches of Rio de Janeiro). Is it the food? Well, to be truthful you eat better in New York. And, Steven Lemon, the chef at “O”–The Eating House (five minutes from HG’s New Mexico home), makes a better duck confit than you’ll find in Paris and better pizzas than in Rome). So, once more, why Paris? The answer is attitude and ambience. The Parisian attitude is that dining is a delightful, but serious, ritual. A meal, whether a tartine at a bar or a gala dinner, demands attention. It is a collaboration between the waiter, the chef and the diner. At a restaurant gastronomique there is the sommelier to consider. Judgments have to be made. Does the menu (the fixed price meal) have some good choices or should one delve into the more expensive carte? Modest dishes and an expensive wine or vice versa? Cheese platter or dessert or both? A gourmand is not a glutton. Rich must be balanced by relatively austere. And, the entire meal (lengthy or brief) must have a pleasant rhythm…allowing for conversation and laughter with friends, intimacies with lovers and fond recollections with life partners. That’s why the Paris waiter serves a drink (almost never strongly alcoholic) and allows the diner ample time to evolve the appropriate gastronomic and vinuous strategy. HG mentioned ambience. In a Parisian restaurant you are a guest not a mere customer. Everyone in a good establishment takes pride in performance. At HG’s favorite brasserie, Le Stella, the chef lauds the expertise of the men in charge of the outdoor bank of oysters and shellfish; the waiter tells you the Ile Flottante is prepared in house and is the best in Paris; the maitre d’ summons a captain expert in choosing modestly priced but very drinkable wines…and so on. Since the diner is a guest there is the question of good manners. Whether a grand restaurant or a modest bistro, there is a pleasant buzz but voices are kept low. Though the trend is toward the casual, diners are well dressed.  The Parisienne in nicely fitting (not skin tight)  jeans, sweater or shirt and a creatively tied scarf, is a very pleasant sight. And, that goes for young women and ladies of a certain age. How can HG sum up the special essence of Paris? Okay. One incident. HG enters Cave de Abbesses (the funky backroom bar of a wine shop where oysters are being served at a bargain one Euro each). HG orders a dozen and a carafe of chilled muscadet. They are presented. The oysters glisten. There is the fragrance of the sea.  HG says to the waiter: “Say prayers. I have died and am in oyster heaven.” The waiter translates for the crowded bar. Hilarity. Glasses are raised. HG is recognized as a member in good standing of the international tribe of gourmands. Ah,Paree!!

Murray Bernthal (1911-2010) is gone. The Syracuse,N.Y. music/theater impressario and music educator died a few days ago. Age 99. His daughter, Bobbi Schlesinger,  is HG’s long time friend and a former colleague and collaborator in the nefarious business of public relations, so HG met Murray a number of times.  A remarkable, fortunate guy.  He married well.  Rose,who predeceased him, was a beautiful, stylish elegant, super-smart woman.  A shapely dynamo adorned with bravura false eyelashes, she lit up any room she entered. Their children were Ricky, a very successful lawyer and Bobbi, publicist extraordinaire. Murray left behind a host of accomplished grandchildren and cute great-grandchildren. My favorite of the brood is his grandson, Adam Schlesinger, Academy Award nominee, Broadway composer, member of the “Fountains of Wayne” rock group. Funny and generous (Adam and wife gave me some great couture ties for my last birthday).  Murray was steeped in nachis (the Yiddish word meaning pride in the accomplishments of your family). His professional career was distinguished. He was a prominent member of the Syracuse University music department. In addition, he could also be termed The Impressario of Syracuse. For many decades, as a private entrepreneur, Murray brought to that city the great musicians of our time for concerts. He also attracted the best touring companies of Broadway dramas and musicals. There were many doubters. As if you didn’t know, Syracuse isn’t exactly Paris. Also, weather’s a factor. The city is in the middle of the New York State snow belt and, for many months of the year, it’s worth your life to venture out for the morning mail let alone go to play or a concert. But, Murray (aided by Rose,of course) made it work and year after year brought (at a profit, surprisingly) music, art and enlightenment to Syracusans. No subsidies. No grants. Pure private enterprise. He was recognized and appreciated by his audiences. Murray was an athlete (a talented tennis player, he only stopped playing doubles a few years ago) and a proper gentleman. As young marrieds, Murray and Rose were pals with Bud Wilkinson and wife. Bud was the Syracuse football coach and later achieved great fame as the coach of the invincible Oklahoma Sooners and as an Oklahoma political figure. Murray, recalled with admiration, that Bud, a tough and demanding guy, never sullied his lips with a dirty or profane word. HG did not point out to Murray that his daughter, Bobbi, could use some mighty salty language when circumstances warranted it. So, what has all of this to do with food, HG’s primary interest (obsession) ? Be patient. The Bernthal/Schlesinger clan has some food oddities. Despite her protests, HG knows that Bobbi could live very happily on candy bars, cigarettes and Coca-Cola. As for Murray, he would eat anything but insisted the food be smothered in ketchup. No exceptions. Okay, maybe breakfast cereal and ice cream. There’s a family legend about how a famous chef tried to brain Murray after he covered one of his creations with ketchup. HG has contemplated Murray’s passing at such an old age. Could it be true? Is ketchup the key to longevity? Murray, a remarkable man, will be missed by many. Not, least by the Board Chairman of the H.J. Heinz Company.

Why does looking at great art make me so hungry? In Madrid, there’s a great art walk along Paseo del Prado. There’s El Prado, of course, with scores of master works by Velasquez, Goya and El Greco. The Reina Sofia has Picasso’s Guernica and outstanding examples of Italian Futurism.The Thyssen-Bornemisza has good examples of everything from Rembrandt to Braque. Now there’s a new place along the Paseo, the Caixa Forum. Completed after my last visit, this former power house renovated by the Swiss Team of Herzog and De Meuron (the duo who did the Tate Modern) features one of the world’s largest vertical gardens, a spectacular staircase and a collection of contemporaries. Enough to give HG a raging appetite.  During his last visit these museums forced HG to eat sumptuous amounts of pulpo al gallego (tender chunks of stewed octopus in a smoked paprika sauce) and pimientos del padron (lauded in a previous post).  In Paris,  after a good helping of Legers and Picassos at Centre Pompidou and Degas at Gare d’Orsay,  HG’s cry is:”Shuck those oysters!! Sizzle that duck confit!!  And, please,  encore those pommes frites.”

Shishito peppers are a standard Japanese nosh, done tempura style and washed down with beer or sake. In Spain, pimientos del padron are consumed by the zillions in tapas bars (with dry sherry) or as part of a casual meal (with sangria).  In the United States: Virtually unknown.  Let HG enlighten you.   Shishitos are small green peppers (two to four inches long).  Pimientos del padron are a close cousin but often slightly smaller than the Shishitos.  Preparation is simple. Heat a pan until really hot.  A splash of olive oil.  Stir fry until slightly charred, adding some finely chopped garlic at last moment so it doesn’t burn.  Plate. Give it a hit of sea salt and a pinch of cayenne, if you like.  Kumpai !! Ole!! Ole!! But wait, HG has a warning: These are sweet peppers but every ten peppers or so there’s a rebel, a really hot, blazing guy.  Zap!!  Don’t say HG didn’t warn you.

I’m talking about kasha (formal name is buckwheat groats). This excellent food (cereal? grain?) is a staple of the East European diet but rarely appears on American tables. Pity. It’s good stuff with a unique nutty and toasty flavor. Try it as an accompaniment to a beef stew or brisket (one with lots of sauce). Toss ladlefuls into some steaming chicken broth. Use the pepper mill generously. Instant lunch. Better than any packaged ramen. Try a bowl topped with some Greek yogurt (HG likes to put Greek yogurt on almost anything but oysters). Kasha’s good with sauteed onions and mushrooms. Where to buy it? In the bulk section of Whole Foods or boxed in many supermarkets (the brand is Wolf’s, I believe). How to cook? Add a cup of kasha to a heated pan. Beat one egg. Add beaten egg to the pan.   Stir, under reasonably high heat, until the egg is absorbed and the grains of kasha are coated and dry.  Add 2 to 2- and -a- half cups of boiling chicken broth, salt, pepper and a bit of butter (my Mom, the health addict, would give it a big hit of chicken fat). Cover. Lower the heat and cook until the kasha gets soft (but not mushy). Give a few stirs during the cooking process. Eat like a Slav.