HUNGRY GERALD

In HG’s Bronx youth basketball ruled. Sure, there were plenty of softball games, rough and tough sandlot football battles, bleacher seats at Yankee Stadium (to watch the Yanks) and at the Polo Grounds (to watch the football Giants). But, the game that captured the hearts and minds of Bronx guys was basketball. Every Sunday, HG played three-man ball on the asphalt courts of Public School 86 (on Reservoir Avenue) or the Williamsbridge Oval (near Mosholu Parkway). Winning threesome kept the court. Losers left and another trio took their place. First team to score 16 points won. HG was no star. Just a very competitive and fearless journeyman. After games were over, the hungry young men shared huge, greasy pizzas at Joe’s Pizzeria on Jerome Avenue or numerous hot dogs with sauerkraut and mustard at nearby delicatessens. Saturday night was reserved for college games at Madison Square Garden. St. John’s, N.Y.U., C.C.N.Y., Manhattan, L.I.U. all had powerhouse teams and legions of manic fans. Apres game it was off to the Blue Ribbon, a German restaurant, for huge apple pancakes and beer. Currently, HG is watching the NBA playoffs. The players, in HG’s opinion, are the greatest athletes in the world. They combine size, strength, coordination, speed, grace, endurance and a fiery will to win. In recent days HG has seen ferocious, brilliant games culminating in last second heroics by Derrick Rose, Chris Paul, Paul Pierce and Lebron James. Yes, Europeans call soccer “the beautiful game” and Canadians are nuts about hockey…Fuhgeddabout it!! The game that’s got everything is NBA play-off hoops. And, depleted after vigorous TV watching, HG sits down to sumptuous eats prepared by BSK. Beats the hell out of pizza and hot dogs.

After a basketball game, hockey or boxing match at the old Madison Square Garden (50th Street and 8th Avenue in New York) HG and pals would often go to a long departed German restaurant, Blue Ribbon, located on West 45th. They would devour a huge apple pancake and wash it down with dark beer. The apple pancake was almost 18 inches in diameter and rich with cinnamon, sugar and melted butter. It was thin as a pizza and served on a similar hot, round metal platter. The dish has disappeared. HG hasn’t encountered on a menu for more than 30 years.

The same goes for smoked kippers and eggs, a true breakfast treat that was found in even the most basic New York coffee shop. Gone. Chicken livers seem to have disappeared as well. In New York, the Schrafft’s chain used to serve sauteed livers on buttered toast; French bistros would top salads with them and they were a staple of many pasta sauces in Italian restaurants.

Lamb chops accompanied by grilled kidneys. This was a common pairing (like calf’s liver and bacon). Sure, lamb chops still thrive; but now they’re a solo act – the kidney having been cruelly cast aside.

Bickford’s was a chain of plain spoken, very inexpensive New York eateries that stayed open late and advertised: “Breakfast Anytime.” There were 48 in 1960; 42 in 1970; two in 1980. The last one closed in 1982. Should they be mourned? Yes. Somehow their bleak decor and the loneliness of the customers encouraged literature. The 42nd Street Bickford’s was the hangout of the Beat novelists, poets, musicians and critics. Jack Kerouac, William S. Burroughs and Alan Ginsberg all wrote there, aided by many cups of good Bickford’s coffee. In fact Bickford’s is mentioned in both Burrough’s Junky and in Ginsberg’s seminal poem, Howl. William Styron mentions Bickford’s in his work. So does Woody Allen. It was Andy Warhol’s favorite for takeout coffee. HG was fond of Bickford’s apple pancakes, rice pudding and cheesecake. In a wistful late night mood, HG wrote some very bad proletarian poetry at the Bickford’s on the northeast corner of 45th and Lexington. HG also spent a Thanksgiving there which was almost as depressing as the fictional Thanksgiving scene in Woody Allen’s Broadway Danny Rose.

New York doesn’t honor its writers and artists the way Paris does. Sartre and de Beauvoir are identified with Cafe Flor. Hemingway and scores of painters made the brasseries and cafes in Montparnasse their second home. And, this is acknowledged by those circular blue Paris signs. But, there’s no literary marker on W. 42nd Street. And like those missing markers, HG’s poetry has not survived (Thankfully!).