HUNGRY GERALD

Elaine Kaufman is gone. Never liked the restaurant. Never liked the food. But, I liked Elaine. A Bronx product like HG, Elaine, as you know, made her restaurant, Elaine’s, a show biz and writer hangout. Never cared about looking at celebs (Two exceptions: Cary Grant at the Plaza Oak Room personifying joie d’vivre and style; Jackie Onassis at the Four Seasons,a lady who knew how to dress and how to walk). Certainly never wanted to talk to writers (Rather read ’em than meet ’em). My favorite writer is Philip Roth (And is there no justice..why doesn’t he have a Nobel?). Whenever I saw him in New York (At the Barney Greengrass sturgeon emporium) he looked as if he was in the midst of a nervous breakdown). I had to go to Elaine’s in my capacity as PR man for various real estate biggies including the late Sam LeFrak. Elaine graduated from Evander Childs High School (my late brother Bernard was a football star there). I once greeted her: “Ah,the shapely Evander alumna.” She replied: “Too goddam much shape,if you ask me.” Last time I saw Elaine was early this year in New York. I had just finished a Saturday lunch at Le Veau d’Or with my favorite dining companion,son Jeremy. Veau d’Or is frozen in time. Nothing has changed in 40 years. Same little bar at the entrance. Same faux leather banquettes. Same host/owner, the oldest Frenchman in New York. Menu is a list of golden oldies. As Jeremy left to take care of business Elaine walked in. She looked awful but was still full of brassy life. I sat down at her table and drank cognac for a few hours as we deflated some reputations and lamented the loss of favorite restaurants.We agreed that Veau d’Or was symbolic of a New York that had just about disappeared and it was our duty to keep the flickering flame alive. Okay,Elaine, I’ll be in New York in a few weeks and I’ll raise a few glasses in your memory.

The Italians say (and I paraphrase): Life is short.Bitter. Disappointing. So, in the meantime, let’s have a great meal. In that spirit I strongly suggest you fry potatoes in duck fat. Duck fat used to be hard to get but is now carried online by Williams-Sonoma.Okay, all together boys and girls, let’s clog those arteries.

Irish cuisine has never been noted for its gourmet quality. Of course,with the Celtic Tiger growling, cuisine,I gather, reached some very attractive heights. Don’t know what has happened since the Tiger has become a sickly Pussycat dependent on the kindness of strangers. Which brings me to the New York Irish saloons I frequented during my 1950’s carer as a journalist. Every Irish saloon served robust food to its clientele (admittedly more interested in alcohol than victuals.)  The bill of fare consisted of hard boiled eggs,pickled pig knuckles and corned beef and cabbage (this was the signature dish that confirmed the gin joint’s reputation.) One saloon,however, did achieve distinction in the kitchen with one dish. Because of it Conolly’s on Third Avenue and 23rd Street was always filled with cops,firemen,transit workers,steamfitters,longshoremen and impecunious journalists like Hungry Gerald. The dish was a pot roast sandwich on rye. The tender,juicy slices of roast were soaked in a rich, brown gravy. A bowl of the gravy was provided for dipping. As a bow to healthy eating a vegetable–a sour dill pickle–was provided. Accompanied by a bottle of Ballantine’s India Pale Ale one was in Gaelic heaven. Fie upon those who have described a seven course Irish banquet as a six pack and a potato.

It seems the French subsist on more than foie gras and teeny,tiny birds. http://hungrygerald.com/easter-bank-holiday-dates/the esteemed French chef and cookbook author (he once collaborated with Julia Child of sainted memory) has written:”I find the taste of hominy addictive. I always keep a few cans in my pantry.” Pepin suggests a hominy and corn chowder. He sautes onion,garlic and scallions in olive oil. Adds a can of tomatoes, Some extra hot salsa, dried thyme,cumin,a bit of cinnamon.Pops in a can of hominy. Brings it to a boil and cooks for 18 minutes before finishing it with corn kernels qnd chopped cilantro. Here in Santa Fe County we call hominy posole and HG takes a more Mexican approach. Saute ground pork with garlic and chopped onion. Dust it with generous shakes of Goya Adobo seasoning. Add some canned mild and hot jalapeno peppers, a can of posole and chicken broth. Heat to your liking. Serve with sides of sliced avocado,chopped onion,chopped cilantro,lime wedges and dried Mexican oregano. Proper accompaniments include warm,buttered tortillas; 100% agave tequila and dark beer. Viva and L’Chajm !!

Sweet potatoes are good as fries and this has given them new stature in the kitchens of food obsessives. http://hungrygerald.com/gay-hiv-poz-dating/commented on HG’s recent post “Sweets and Mickeys.” Peter says Whole Foods in his Manhattan/West 97th and Broadway neighborhood now carries heirloom sweet potatoes. Virtuous Peter roasts them. Sometimes with a scrape of brown sugar or a pinch of cumin. No fat. He calls them the perfect winter food. A Hellman (no connection with the excellent mayonnaise) endorsement is big time. He is one of the country’s leading wine experts (wine columnist for the late lamented New York Sun and frequent contributor to Wine Spectator). He is just as discerning about food. However,drinking wine with Peter is a chore. He takes very tiny sips..rarely more than one or two. Essentially,it seems to me, he just likes to taste wine (albeit with a very refined palate). HG,on the other hand,like to drink wine. An understatement. HG likes to guzzle wine,swill wine,behave like Bacchus at an orgy. Somewhere there is a shining model of moderation. HG has never found it. (He has never looked too hard). Getting back to Peter: He is a remarkable writer/journalist,author of some eight books. What gives him particular distinction is his ability to write gracefully about human pleasures (like wine and music) while doing carefully researched and penetrating studies of some of the horrors of the 20th century. Witness his books “When Courage Was Stronger Than Fear” (moving and hopeful about the better angels of our nature) and “The  Auschwitz Album” (a look into man-made hell). Long may he write….and sip.

The best tamales in the world are being made at a counter in the Whole Foods Market,Cerillos Road,Santa Fe,NM. A Mexican family creates magical pork,turkey mole,chicken and vegetable tamales. If travels take you to The City Different pick up a dozen for your freezer.

The full name of the inventor of the Takee Cup was Tuck Yee Lee. The late Mr. Lee also ran a successful frozen chow mein and chop suey factory in Greenwich Village. He was not on the cutting edge of Chinese cuisine. Formulating the Takee Cup seemed to have exhausted his creativity.

Today was chilly in Santa Fe. Brought me back to my childhood and two cold weather street food treats we little guys enjoyed. Sweets and Mickeys. A sweet was a hot,baked sweet potato. They were sold every day by an old man who pushed a black metal coal burning stove through the streets of The Bronx. The sweet came with a rather generous hunk of butter and the treat cost 2 cents. The mickey was even cheaper. It was an Idaho potato stolen from the stand of a local greengrocer. We roasted them in a wood fire in an empty lot. This was classified as very bad behavior by our all-knowing mothers. Our clothes would be sniffed when we came home for dinner and if there was the odor of wood smoke about us we were in for punishment. In my home that mean a lot of shouting. Punishment was more physical for my little Irish and Italian buddies.

The Takee Cup was an ambulatory treat available decades ago on the boardwalk at Edgemere,a working class summer vacation neighborhood of Rockaway Beach,N.Y. The Takee Cup,oval in shape,was fashioned of fried chow mein noodles. It was filled with chow mein. A squirt of soy sauce. A dab of hot mustard. Plastic fork in hand you strolled the boardwalk and when finished with the interior you munched on the tasty,crispy noodle cup. I marveled at the aptness of the name—Takee. Redolent of the Orient (at least as interpreted by New Yorkers of a certain generation} and descriptive in terms of the snack’s mobility. Lately I learned the bitter truth. The snack was originally named The Tuckee Cup after its inventor,a Mr. Tuck Lee. A large sign proclaimed The Tuckee Cup. When the boardwalk shop closed for the winter, bad, bad boys changed the “T” in the sign to an “F.” An indecency was created. Every year the proprietor repainted “the sign. He got tired of it. Thus,”Takee” was born. By the way,it cost 15 cents and it was mighty tasty.

The great German/Jewish poet and man of letters Heinrich Heine (1797-1856) said, after demolishing a platter of stuffed cabbage at a Jewish restaurant in Vienna: “What a noble religion we have.” The prescient Heine, on a darker note, said: “Where they have burned books they will end by burning people.” Sidebar: There is a just-restored white marble monument to Heine, “Lorelei,” on a plaza opposite the art deco Bronx County Courthouse (the Courthouse is featured in Tom Wolfe’s novel “Bonfire of the Vanities.”)