HUNGRY GERALD

Alexander Lobrano, in HG’s opinion, is the ideal food writer. He writes knowledgeably and gracefully in his website “Hungry For Paris’.   His book, “Hungry For Paris,” is the essential, reliable guide to that city’s bistros and restaurants.  HG finds Lobrano very compatible because he likes the kind of food HG likes.  Moreover, Lobrano can really write.  His style has a civilized sparkle   Lobrano recognizes that dining is not confined solely to food and wine. Ambience and atmosphere are  important.   Chilly greetings, incompetent or condescending service, loud voices, vicious arguments emanating from an adjoining table….all can ruin a meal. But, most vital is the company you are keeping at the table.  Lobrano seems blessed with a host of stimulating friends…men and women from all parts of the world. It is not surprising that Lobrano has many friends. The man and his writing radiate joy. He not only makes you hungry for food; hungry for Paris….he makes you hungry for conversation, companionship and life.

Two of HG’ favorite food/restaurant books are “Between Meals, An Appetite For Paris” by A.J. Liebling and “Blue Trout and Black Truffles” by Joseph Wechsberg. Both authors are deceased. Their books are compilations of articles the writers did for the New Yorker Magazine. Wechsberg’s book is a bit dated but still rewarding in detailing a cream and butter based cuisine that has virtually disappeared.  Liebling will never be dated. He was a remarkable journalist who wrote about boxing, war, Paris, food, restaurants, colorful characters, Southern politics and Broadway low life. He never wrote an awkward sentence and everything he wrote had grace, humor and humanity. Some of the his books are, besides “Between Meals”: “The Sweet Science” (about boxing–Sports Illustrated hailed it as the best sports book ever written); “The Honest Rainmaker” (about the inimitable Col. John R. Stingo);  “Earl of Louisiana” (about Gov. Earl Long of Louisiana); “The Road Back To Paris” (World War Two); “The Second City” (Chicago); “The Telephone Booth Indian” (Broadway low life).  He also wrote, for the New Yorker, a continual series called  “The Wayward Press,” a brilliant critique of American journalism.  In all, he wrote 16 extraordinary books.

Liebling was the sourest, unhappiest looking man HG ever encountered.  Overweight, rumpled, wearing thick lensed glasses, Liebling was not a pleasing sight.  HG often saw  him at New York’s Algonquin Hotel in the company of other New Yorker writers and editors.  There was a lot of laughter but Liebling never smiled. HG once sighted Liebling at the bar of a Chinese restaurant.  HG gave a waiter a note for Liebling: “May I buy you a drink in recognition of the great pleasure your writing has given me?”  Liebling fixed HG with a truly nasty look and shook his  head emphatically signifying: “No.”  Born in 1904, he died in 1963.  Doctors had warned him that his overeating was killing him.  He ignored them. And died.

How to get Beautiful Sharon mad. Repeat the statement of Max Beerbohm, the English caricaturist, critic. essayist, novelist, wit and exquisite dandy: “Why do strawberries picked at dawn from a dew-kissed field never taste as good as those purchased from a greengrocer?” Belying her elegance, BS is a woman of the earth. She had her first garden at the age of 8. She remembers plucking a carrot from the earth, giving it a quick dusting and relishing it as a snack. A neighbor’s seckel pears were a treat. An expert tomato grower, BS scaled culinary heights when resident in New Jersey. Her home grown beefsteak Jersey tomatoes were paired with home grown basil, locavore mozzarella cheese and extra virgin Sicilian olive oil for the ultimate summer treat. BS has cultivated baby potatoes, heirloom lettuces and sweet radishes in a garden 9,000 feet up in the Rockies. She has successfully grown a multitude of herbs in the salt spray of Fire Island, Nantucket and Prince Edward Island.  Those herbs are still flourishing in New Mexico.  Fresh is her mantra. Home grown is her religion. Her family has reaped the meal time benefits.

While HG was being nurtured on chicken fat, Nova Scotia smoked salmon and locavore pastrami, Beautiful Sharon, reared in Canada and the Midwest, absorbed a radically different cuisine. After some searching interviews, HG is ready to divulge the culinary history of Beautiful Sharon’s formative years. You will learns it in upcoming posts. Know your breath is bated and your anticipation is at a fever pitch.

When Son Jeremy talks about restaurants, HG listens. That’s because he’s more than a chip off the old block. HG dines in his shadow. When Son Jeremy discusses Japanese food he is more than expert. He is definitive. Son Jeremy is married to a petite and pretty bundle of Japanese dynamite named Maiko. They have an enchanting four year old son, Haru. The trio thrive on Maiko’s ramen, gyoza, tempura and other building blocks of Japanese cuisine (Maiko gets fancier in the parties she caters for Brooklyn and Manhattan hipsters and Japanese financiers).  Son Jeremy, Petite and Pretty Maiko (and Enchanting Haru) rave about a Japanese noodle restaurant in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn. It has a silly name–Samurai Mama–but seriously great food.  Yum, says Son Jeremy.  Like Tokyo, echoes Maiko.  More, Says Haru.  So, get there immediately while you can still get a table. Nitty gritty info:  dating apps for out of country 205 Grand Street (between Bedford and Driggs), 718-599-6161).  Say SJ, PPM and EH sent you.

HG attended City College of New York  (the Harvard of the Proletariat) in the years 1946-1950. The College was intellectually elitist and demanding. In those years it was very overcrowded due to the influx of returning World War Two veterans. That meant being flunked out if your grades fell behind. No appeals. The atmosphere was Jewish left wing, the sons of immigrants and the sons of families economically bruised by the Depression. Women were a tiny minority (HG refers to the West Harlem campus of the College). Argument, violent argument, was the favorite pastime of the student body. This was no dispassionate search for consensus or truth but rather a take-no-prisoners, humiliate-your-enemy exercise in sheer hostility and aggression. This contentious activity served HG as good preparation for his long career as a New York press agent.  It has not served him well in family discourse. Oddly, his family tolerates his excesses. HG subsisted on one meal a day, two oranges and many cups of coffee. HG had a modest athletic career. He was in the backfield of an incompetent football team.  The Beavers (that was the unfortunate nickname) played and practiced on the rock hard, virtually grassless surface of Lewisohn Stadium (the Stadium’s prime function was to house summer classical concerts, a highlight of now forgotten New York).  The oranges were consumed before practice.  After practice HG needed additional fuel for his homework, part-time job and –very once in a while–romantic dalliance.  So, off he went to a West Harlem restaurant identified with a simple name: Bar-Bee-Cue. Yes, this was down home, soulful African-American cooking. HG was the only white customer but since he was there at least four times a week he soon became a familiar. The counterman knew HG played football for the College so he was usually greeted with a smiling comment: “Did’n do so good on Sar’day, didjoo? When you gonna win one?” “Just wait. We’ll surprise you guys.”
Big laughs. Then came the meal. Big (and HG means big) pork spareribs smothered in a hot, semi-sweet spicy sauce. Mashed yams with a chunk of melting margarine. Macaroni and cheese. Collard greens adorned with chunks of ham hock. Well filled basket of corn bread. HG must emphasize: These weren’t portions. These were mini-mountains. All washed down with sweet iced tea. As much as you could drink.  The cost: Something like 75 cents plus a quarter tip from big spender HG. Allegaroo, indeed.

When HG was a wee lad pro football players had tough guy names. For example: Bruiser Kinard, Bronco Nagurski, Bulldog Turner, Tuffy Leemans, Ace Parker). Even those without nicknames sounded tough. Here are some last names: Younce, Cuff, Blozis, Cope. Today’s quarterbacks have vaguely aristocratic names (Peyton, Brett, Drew).  African-American players have imaginative, exotic names (Marshawn, LaDainian,etc.).   HG doesn’t think yesteryear’s grid tough guys would do very well against today’s 325-pound behemoths and 235-pound speedsters. HG had these deep thoughts as he watched ten miuutes of TV football this weekend: the last five minutes of Seattle-New Orleans and the last five minutes of Colts-Jets. Wow. Talk about action. Marshawn Lynch sealed the Seattle win by running through New Orleans tacklers who performed like a bunch of lyric and symbolist poets. And, the Jets launched an improbable last-minute, come-from-behind win culminating in a final play field goal. To be snarky, it was appropriate that the foot figured in the win given the foot fetish porn rumors that have been (to carry the metaphor too far) tiptoeing around the Jets coach and his wife. The Jets remain HG’s favorite team. Neurotic. Exasperating. Surprising. Kinda like New York itself. HG’s football weekend culminated in a four star Filipino chicken dish called Chicken Adobo. Spicy and lush. Look up the recipe at nytimes.com. HG promises: This will be your “go to” dish.
More football tonight as Auburn and Oregon battle. Dinner in front of the TV. Spectacular take-out (menudo, green chile stew, pork posole) from the wonderful El Parasol. Since HG will be rooting for the Oregon Ducks, confit should be on the menu. However, HG resides in New Mexico. Not Paris. C’est la vie.

Jolly anniversary. This is the 100th post since HG launched Hungry Gerald upon an unsuspecting world in November.  Seems  timely to recall the late, great A.J. Liebling’s observation about a fine meal and amour. The gourmand and the lover receive a three fold pleasure. First: Eager anticipation. Two: Sublime fulfillment. Three: Delightful recollection. (Perhaps that’s why HG, who has shared a bedroom and dining room with Beautiful Sharon for approximately 48 years, has had such an enviable time on this strange, violent, fragile sphere we call The Earth).

HG first encountered this tasty, healthy, virtuous dessert in Chicago’s Greektown.   Simplicity itself.  Top some Greek yogurt (unsweetened and thick) with some walnuts.   Drizzle, according to your taste, with honey.  It used to be hard to find Greek yogurt but now it’s easily available from Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s.   HG also likes Greek yogurt sprinkled with smoked Spanish paprika as an accompaniment to lamb dishes. Also makes a nice companion to grilled or fried fish when mixed with finely chopped garlic, a bit of olive oil and lots of chopped, fresh dill.  Ompah!! (or whatever Greeks say when they break a bunch of dishes).

New York, for many decades, was much like Paris.  Life was lived in cafes and restaurants.  Before television became the dominant entertainment and news force,  New York gossip columnists (and, of course, Louella and Hedda in Hollywood), were important movers and shakers.  One of the class acts among the columnists was Leonard Lyons whose column, “The Lyons Den,” appeared in the New York Post and syndicated in 200 other newspapers  (today’s New York Post is just one big inferior gossip column leavened with right wing blather).  Lyons was literate, a CCNY graduate (like HG) and a lawyer.  His bitter competitor Walter Winchell left school after the sixth grade. There was plenty of show biz in “The Lyons Den” but also lots of good anecdotes about novelists, artists, political figures, etc. Hemingway was a particular LL favorite.  The column ran from 1934 to 1974.  LL called it quits on its 40th anniversary.  He died in 1976, age 70.  LL lunched daily in the Oak Room of the venerable Algonquin Hotel on W.44th.  His inevitable companion (and primary news and gossip source) was the celebrity lawyer (and author) Louis Nizer. Nizer represented (among many others) such marquee names as Johnny Carson, Charlie Chaplin, Mae West, Salvador Dali and the basketball star Dr. J—Julius Erving.  LL and Nizer were two short, intense men and their voices rarely rose above a whisper. They did not want to be overheard even though HG, an Oak Room regular, did his eavesdropping  best. HG always had a good table because he exercised with the hotel owner, Ben Bodne, at the same bleak health club.  (Before HG continues, Gentle Reader, a warning is issued not to confuse the  Algonquin Oak Room with the Plaza Hotel’s Oak Room and Bar, wondrous places that went downhill in the 70’s).  The Algonquin had a literary reputation  (the  famed Round Table–George S. Kaufman, Dorothy Parker, Alexander  Woolcott,etc.–met  there in the 1920’s).  Always lots of writers lunching with their editors in the Oak Room plus people from the New Yorker Magazine (located down the block). What did HG eat?  Four things were splendid: Roast beef and Yorkshire Pudding; seafood salad with lots of shrimp, lobster, scallops and crab meat–all first rate; the HG favorite of grilled sweetbreads atop Virginia ham, accompanied by perfect French fries and topped with sauce bearnaise. Dessert was a coconut snowball—vanilla ice cream rolled in freshly grated coconut and doused with bittersweet chocolate hot fudge. HG hasn’t visited the Algonquin in 25 years but in its day it  mimicked an aristocratic English country house with shabby carpets, gentle lighting,super-annuated waitpersons, comfortable chairs and lots of eccentricities.   For example: a mangy house cat was always pampered and had the run of the place. If a novelist presented an autographed copy of his (or her) just published novel, the novelist got a free room. A gracious bow to literature.