HUNGRY GERALD

For a few years now, Rockaway, the proletarian beach peninsula that stretches off Brooklyn and Queens, has become one of the coolest spots in New York City. Peter Hellman, HG’s pal (Hellman is a brilliant journalist, wine expert and author of many books), was a pioneer in discovering it as a great surf spot. Now Rockaway is filled with surfers and scores of boards rest on the the boardwalk newly restored after the devastation of Hurricane Sandy. Lots of restaurants lure hipsters (NY Times recently did a story on Tacoway, an innovative Mexican joint). Rundown houses (sold at steep prices) are being renovated as second home retreats. SJ, the Jamaican music retailer/archivist/impressario/deejay, does a few reggae shows at a beach venue every summer. And, that’s HG’s definition of super-cool. The new Rockaway bears little resemblance to Depression-era Rockaway where HG and family escaped from the steamy Bronx from July 1 to the end of the Labor Day weekend. HG has written many posts about the primitive, cramped but joyous boarding house lodgings occupied by the family (rent was $35 for the summer). The boarding house was on B. 114th Street, a very Irish Catholic neighborhood. Nine-year-old HG, the only Jewish kid on the block, had a rude welcome. A dozen fights. Then, a grudging acceptance. HG was the unquestioned star of the tough football games played on the beach. HG captained the team when the 114th Street kids challenged the hated guys from 113th Street. HG’s pal, Jimmy Rourke, insisted HG wear a Catholic Miraculous Medal. Didn’t want HG to be the target of dirty play if a Jewish identity was revealed. HG complied. The 114th Streeters won. Many happy memories, Fireworks every Wednesday night. Concert (every two weeks) by the boys from the nearby Catholic orphanage. The orphans were shepherded for their ocean swimming by stern nuns. Little HG was beguiled by the head to toe voluminous bathing costumes worn by the swimming nuns. Reidy’s Bar and Grill was on the corner (it was where HG would fetch a pail of cold beer for the family dinner). HG had his first romance with the proprietor’s daughter, Peggy. The cute freckle-faced miss gave HG a first kiss. Unforgettable. Gave HG a lifelong predilection for freckles (witness BSK). During those Depression years folks managed to live without television and other electronic miracles. They made their own entertainment. A few times every summer boarding house tenants put on an amateur musical entertainment–a house party. HG recalls Gaelic step dancing, tap dancing, banjo and ukulele strumming. Lots of song. HG’s Mom got applause for a romantic song about the Isle of Capri. But, the big hit was older sister Beulah’s rendition of “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.” Little HG provided a moment of unconscious comedy (long a part of family legend). For some obscure reason, HG fancied himself a singer. HG entertained the crowd with an a Cappella version of “Paper Doll.” The totally off key version produced roars of laughter. HG was puzzled but accepting. End of musical career. Of course, the best thing about Rockaway was the sea. Little HG was in and out all day. Swimming. Body surfing. Splashing. The beach was crowded. Wall to wall people. Little HG found it festive. Fun by the sea has always been part of HG’s life. Fire Island, Nantucket. Vancouver. And, now, Prince Edward Island. As HG writes about these memories, HG looks out at sun shining on a serene, warm sea. Beautiful, empty beach dotted with the radiant bodies of HG’s grandchildren frolicking, BSK taking in the sun, EM paddling a kayak. Farewell memories. Time for a swim.

Yes, that was New York’s Rockaway Beach in the 30’s, 40’s and 50’s–The Irish Riviera. The area between Beach 116th Street and 98th Street (the site of the Playland amusement park) was the summer home of hordes of working class Irish-Americans fleeing the steaming streets of New York. The neighborhood was called Irishtown and its center was Beach 102nd Street (Seaside Avenue). This was a street lined with Irish bars.The favorite of teenage HG and his pals and girlfriends was O’Gara’s Sligo House. Spacious, loud, raucous. Beer was 10 cents a glass. Live entertainment. Step dancers, Irish tenors and delightful comics singing satirical songs poking fun at the Irish (HG remembers a song which noted that the Irish were Egyptians long ago and built the Pyramids “because no one but an Irishman could carry all those bricks”). Housing for the Irish consisted of flimsy bungalows and ramshackle boarding houses. Air conditioning was non-existent. There was similar housing in the Edgemere and Arverne neighborhoods which were densely packed with working class Jews from New York. An HG friend who summered in an Edgemere bungalow said he learned the facts of life at an early age because there was no privacy in those surroundings. Said he: “I went to sleep to the sound of lusty, sunburned ladies having orgasms.” As one would suspect, the food sold along the Boardwalk in those proletarian Jewish neighborhoods was superior to anything available in Irishtown. The Jewish boardwalk sold garlicky kosher hot dogs slathered in hot mustard and kraut, knishes, frozen custard, corned beef and pastrami sandwiches and the famed “Takee Cup”. The Irish side consisted of low grade hot dogs (no sauerkraut, only insipid mustard and sickly sweet bottled relish). Gristly burgers on soggy rolls and greasy French fries. That was it. The emphasis was on perfectly chilled and perfectly drawn tap beer. Despite the cliches abut the Irish, HG encountered little drunkenness. Just family guys who liked lots of brew. No gourmands. Of course, Rockaway is now becoming cool. Young Brooklyn hipsters have discovered Rockaway’s ocean joys and creative restaurants have opened. SJ has deejayed vintage reggae music at a number of Rockaway venues. HG’s pal Peter Hellman, the author/journalist/wine expert, has been a Rockaway pioneer for years. A dedicated surfer, Peter subwayed out to Rockaway’s waves for more than a decade before the Williamsburg young adventured into the surf.

HG has noted previously that BSK has cultivated a lush crop of sorrel. BSK makes very good sorrel soup in the French manner. Thickened and enriched with a touch of sweet cream, it is the perfect sauce for grilled or poached salmon. Vaudeville, the art deco Paris brasserie, served a very good version (before the brasserie went downhill under chain management). However, HG’s favorite use of sorrel is in “schav”, the ice cold, refreshingly sour sorrel soup as it was prepared by HG’s Mom and served in New York Jewish “dairy” restaurants (and Catskills resorts) in years gone by. Topped with some sour cream, this soup conquers summer heat. Accompanied by a boiled potato, this was often HG’s boyhood summer lunch in The Bronx and Rockaway. Weather has been hot and humid on PEI. HG”s palate cried out for schav. So, consulting the Jew and Carrot food blog, HG made a jar of schav. Very good. But, it lacked something, A bite of sourness. What was Mom’s secret? Memory was racked. The answer: Rokeach Sour Salt. Essentially citric acid, this is what Mom added to her schav, exemplary beet borscht, robust cabbage borscht and savory ground meat stuffed cabbage in sweet and sour sauce. Yes, Rokeach still provides sour salt and HG is waiting for a supply from Amazon.

In general, HG is not a big sandwich fan. Most of the time HG feels that most things that could be stuck between slices of bread are improved by eliminating the bread. However, there are exceptions and these days HG enjoys just a few classic sandwiches: A traditional bacon-lettuce-tomato (when tomatoes are in season — flavorful and juicy) with good, thick cut bacon and mayo on toasted wheat bread; a pastrami on Jewish rye (alas, now only available in all its splendor at Katz’s in New York, Schwartz’s in Montreal and Langer’s in L.A.); and finally, a corned beef Reuben, also on Jewish rye. The Croque Monsieurs and Croque Madames HG has enjoyed in Paris don’t really qualify as classic sandwiches. In the past HG was more adventurous in sandwich choices. On Nantucket Island, HG liked the specialty of a health food shop there: Sharp cheddar cheese, avocado, sprouts and chutney on whole grain bread. On the opposite health pole, HG relished the roast beef sandwiches consumed many years ago at Henrich’s Restaurant (long closed) on B. 116th Street, Rockaway Park, N.Y. These were constructed of thinly sliced rare roast beef, sliced raw onion and Jewish rye bread spread with (your choice) 1/8th or 1/4th of an inch of chicken fat. This was sprinkled with coarse salt and black pepper. Accompanied by a sour dill pickle. HG ate another unhealthy treat at the late Gitlitz Deli on New York’s Upper West Side. This was a combination of chopped liver and pastrami on rye with Russian dressing. The Gitlitz waiters, food conservatives, did not approve. At another long closed New York eatery, Belmont Cafeteria, the hangout for taxi drivers on Lexington Avenue, HG would accompany morning coffee with a heavily buttered onion roll enclosing muenster cheese and lettuce. In the past, BSK based her sandwich choices on peanut butter. No PB and J for BSK. Instead, the young woman ate peanut butter with lettuce and mayo sandwiches or peanut butter and sweet pickle slices sandwiches. While off on a hike with her Girl Scout troop, BSK carried “walking sandwiches” — peanut butter wrapped in cabbage leaves. Apparently these peanut buttery treats were the norm for BSK’s midwestern environ, but for HG, they sounded as exotic as the Zanzibar speciality Boku-Boku. Yes, many Italians love mixing Nutella with roasted peanuts on white bread and Elvis Presley mixed peanut butter with bacon and bananas but, for pure messy eccentricity, nothing beats the HG retro delight: The chow mein on a bun served at Nathan’s Famous on Coney Island.

Frozen custard. Tastiest of all summer treats. In HG’s youth, frozen custard stands dotted the boardwalks of New York’s plebeian beaches — Coney Island, Rockaway and Brighton. Similar to ice cream, frozen custard contains eggs in addition to milk and sugar. That “egginess” added a thickness, a richness of flavor and texture. HG spent his summers consuming more than his share.

Then it disappeared from the east coast beaches and was replaced with tasteless soft serve ice cream.

HG’s dear friend, the great jazz singer, Jackie Cain, said the best frozen custard was served in her home town of Milwaukee. People from St.Louis still line up nightly for Ted Drewe’s famous custard

Does anyone out there know of any other frozen custard sites? It is not really summer without that yummy cone of goodness.

Rockaway was the proletarian barrier beach (between the Atlantic Ocean and Jamaica Bay) where HG and millions of sweltering New Yorkers escaped the summer blaze in years gone by. During the 70s, 80s and 90s, drug violence and the proximity to some fairly dangerous public housing lessened its attractiveness. But, Rockaway has re-surfaced with a sudden cache of cool. It started with a movement of urban surfers, who did not care that Rockaway’s waves were not California size, they were NYC waves and that was cool enough. They carried their surf boards on the subway and soon Williamsburg hipsters and lots of other cool folks from Brooklyn and Manhattan wanted to see what was going on. (Rockaway is reached by a comparatively short subway ride).

And, where there are hipsters, there’s hip food and drink. The New York Times has been reporting on the opening of many good, casual ethnic dining spots along the Rockaway Boardwalk.

HG suggests it may be time to revive that great beach classic –The Takee Cup. HG wistfully recalled the tasty Takee Cup in a post a few months ago. Bring it back for the new cool generation.