HUNGRY GERALD

Following yesterday’s posting, Hungry Gerald followers have expressed curiosity about the cuisine in the tiny, cramped, non-air conditioned Rockaway rooming house occupied by HG’s family during the steamy summers of the Great Depression. Sour cream (smetenya, HG’s Mom called it, harking back to her Belorussian roots), was the basic foodstuff. Big spoonfuls were mixed into Mom’s cold and flavorful beet borscht and sorrel soup (schav). Main dish at many dinners was simply a bowl of boiled potatoes with sour cream. The family also ate bowls of sour cream with chopped radishes, scallions and cucumbers. Sour cream adorned Mom’s blintzes (crepes stuffed with pot cheese or peppery mashed potatoes). Sour cream was served with kasha varneshkes (buckwheat groats and butterfly pasta). Best of all were bowls of strawberries, raspberries, blueberries and blackberries adorned with sour cream. Meat didn’t play a big role in the Rockaway diet (except for salami and eggs in a pancake style). Lots of fried flounder. Mom dipped the fish in beaten egg and rolled them in bread crumbs before popping them into an pan of sizzling Crisco. This was served with Mueller’s Spaghetti and Mom’s very rudimentary tomato sauce (HG loved it). Tuna and sardine salads were basics. A truck manned by a Long Island farmer pulled up on the Rockaway block daily loaded with fresh tomatoes, lettuce and seasonal vegetables. Fortunately, he always had a load of just picked corn and HG managed to eat a ton of it dripping with butter. The drink was always beer fetched at the beginning of dinner from Reidy’s Saloon on the corner (in later years, HG had an Abie’s Irish Rose romance with the proprietor’s lovely daughter). Yes, HG (at the age of six) drank beer with his elders. It was considered a healthy drink unlike the sugary sodas that were not allowed on the HG table. HG had a joyous errand at the end of dinner. It was his job to get a quart of ice cream (35 cents) at Barney’s Ice Cream Parlor. This was hand churned deliciousness that Barney scooped into a container. HG had to race back home with the ice cream before it melted. Anticipation gave the little fellow winged feet.

HG’s beloved Giants rose to the occasion 0n Sunday and trounced the Packers in the chill of Lambeau Field. HG had a big bag of Turkish pistachios (a Christmas gift from SJ) and a bottle of 100% Agave Tequila for sustenance during the game. A pleasant fire flaming away in the fireplace. Then, a celebratory dinner of pork chops, beans, corn and okra. Southwestern chow with jalapeno, chopped onion, sliced avocado, fiery salsa toppings. Lots of very cold Samuel Adams beer. The day before, Tom Brady, the decidedly secular quarterback of the Patriots, dissected the Denver Broncos. Some 25 years of residence in Colorado have made HG a Broncs fan (it was inevitable). However, the deification of young Tim Tebow, a strange hybrid of a running back/passer, has disturbed HG. Tebow seems like a nice young man but he has been on his way to becoming the poster boy (a virgin poster boy, by his admission) of the Christian right. He starred in an anti-abortion commercial last year. There was a smarmy religious commercial during the broadcast of Saturday’s Bronc disaster. So, HG took some very grim satisfaction at the triumph of secular New England football.

When HG was a working journalist headquartered on New York’s East 45th Street, post deadline thirst often directed HG and companions to the nearby Old Seidelberg Bar (alas, long gone) on Third Avenue. Lots of dark oak. Dimly lit, but not gloomy. Very professional bartenders who kept heavy tankards chilled and knew how to tap beer in the right proportion of body and foam.

Ahh, the beer. Many excellent German brews on tap plus the best from New York’s local breweries. Liederkranz cheese, raw onions, pumpernickel bread, pickled pig’s knuckles comprised the hearty accompaniment. The Seidelberg was contemplative bar, HG and his contentious companions learned to moderate their tones. Curiously, it was a favorite watering hole for the great Phil Cavaretta and his Chicago Cubs. The ball players did not encourage conversation, preferring to think about sliders, knuckle balls and breaking curves while gazing into the depths of Old Seidelberg’s tankards.