It All Begins with Chicken Soup

12 October 2017

It was midafternoon when we got to Gura Humorului, Romania, after circumnavigating the painted monastery circuit near the Ukrainian border. (The monasteries’ exterior walls have painted religious-themed frescoes from the 15th and 16th centuries.) We were in search of money…a bank to change some dollars to local currency, the lei. All we found was a closed bank with an outdoor ATM, the kind that ingests your card and then regurgitates it, on a whim…or maybe not. But it was Romania, 5000 miles from home and I wasn’t taking the chance. I didn’t need those sweaty few seconds of “why did I do that” terror, waiting for a soulless machine to do the right thing and give my card back.

But Romania is good about taking plastic, especially in restaurants, so we decided that we could eat without money. And eating is a decent substitute for a bank…it always is. But Gura Humorului, like many Romanian towns has no “walk-around” areas, no plazas with shops, restaurants, cafes…and people. “Let’s walk downtown”…uh uh, not in Romania. Places are on their own. They’re “find them, if you can” places.

So we picked such a place from a computer web site…Hilde’s Restaurant…and Google Maps, bless its digital heart led us to it on a road out of town, up a driveway, around the back, through a fence and, et voila, a very nice redwood villa, tiled floors, picture windows, castle-heavy tables and chairs, standing ashtrays outside (Romanians smoke a lot, but not inside).

More amazing are Romanian menus, Hilde’s was no exception; pages and pages of soups, appetizers, salads, fish, pork, beef, poultry, desserts, coffees, wine, beer. Fortunately, below each was a decent English translation. Even though Romanian is a Romance language, it’s hard to figure out English words from it as we can in more familiar Romance languages; Spanish, French, Italian, etc.
So I was down to indulging my eastern European culinary roots, led by remembered whiffs from my grandmother’s kitchen. (She was from Radauti, ironically, the town we started from earlier that day on our monastery tour. My orthodox Jewish grandmother would not have minded.)

So we started where everything culinary begins…with chicken soup and then, I’m embarrassed to say, with stuffed cabbage, mamaliga, chicken schnitzel, pickled cucumbers and finally apple strudel. Mamaliga for the uninitiated is polenta with scoops of cottage cheese topped with sour cream. You’re in pacemaker territory with a steady diet of it.

We left Gura Humorului for Suceava and a night’s lodging there. Roberta, my fellow traveler, lost a jacket that she traced back to Hilde’s. It was a dickens of a trip having to go back the next day to retrieve the jacket…and have another meal.

Side-Curls Dancing with My Privacy

1 October 2017

We heathens trudged up from the subway’s depths. And there on the sidewalk above, celestially, was a minion of fresh-faced young Hasids backlit by the setting sun, smiling down at us, ready to throw breadcrumbs of righteousness at our feet, so we could find our way back to piety…their piety. (Hasids are members of an ultra-orthodox Jewish sect opposed to lax ritual.)

“You Jewish?”, a doughy-faced redhead, his face set off in a halo of side-curls, asks with a hint of a smile, knowing he’s being aggressive and making us uncomfortable. It’s the second night of Rosh Hashanah and we’re on the way to Brooklyn friends for dinner. I’m carrying two identifying loaves of challah, but they can’t see that. They’re in an unmarked plastic bag.

“You Jewish?” Why do they think it is okay to be that provocative, that boorish, to a stranger. Are we all…but for them…lost souls, needing redemption? My ethical governor thickens my tongue and prevents me from asking why he’s out on Rosh Hashanah, asking a stranger if he’s Jewish.

“You Jewish?” Here are young guys, settled into their lives, clothed the way they’ll be their whole lives, walking the same streets, denying the outside world, never knowing the agony of rooting for the Mets…Talmudic lives…lives of proscribed experience, telling us they’ve got it right and we don’t. Privacy, of course, in the internet age is as foreign as white-wall tires. Why should we complain about their meddling, when we’re asked to verify almost anything we do with the last four digits of our social security numbers. Shouldn’t everyone, then, be allowed to intrude on anyone else’s privacy?  It wasn’t always like this. I remember privacy…and I liked it.

I think back to my father-in-law, giving off unvarnished observations from western Pennsylvania. One day he answered the doorbell. And on the stoop were two Mormon young men, standing there twinkly-eyed and friendly. “Can we come in and pray a while with you?”, they asked. And Joe, who was not terribly accepting of ideas outside his area of practiced thought, said, “sure you can come in and tell me about your more supreme Supreme Being than my Supreme Being. But first you’re going to have to listen to me tell you about my religion. Won’t take long.””Well, thank you, sir”, they said, “maybe another day.” And off they went.

The lesson is that a little verbal dart at the right time gives a lot of satisfaction.

Out of the Blue, A Breath of Fresh Air

3 September 2017

A young woman with obvious Asian features was the fourth passenger in a ride-share cab along with three of us (friends) who were in the cab before her. She apologized as if she were intruding and settled into her cell phone.

A few minutes into the ride, the three of us, sotto voce, like we were talking in an elevator, trying not to interrupt someone else’s private thoughts, were discussing where in New York to get the best bagels. The new passenger, engrossed, as she seemed to be, in text messaging with a friend she was going to visit, looked up like she was part of the conversation all along and said, assuredly, it was Black Seed Bagels. It would have been the same as if I were in a cab with three Asians in Beijing, who were discussing where to get the freshest bok choi and I, looking distractedly out the cab window, threw out the name of a food market.

Roberta, my lady friend, demurred about the bagels. While admitting that Black Seed’s were good, especially at their downtown location, she thought Zabar’s were better. Our Asian companion, very personable and brightly articulate, who was working at her first job out of college at a Wall Street financial firm said, “just so you don’t think I’m blowing smoke out of my ass” (her words…evidently she was not one to bleep words just because older folks were nearby…bless her), I come by my bagel opinions honestly. My father is a New York Jew…born in Brooklyn.

Doubling down on her knowledge of New York Jewish cuisine, she tipped us off that Russ and Daughters was still the best place to get lox…better than Barney Greengrass. But their bagels are lousy, so you get the fish from them, but bagels elsewhere. We started to branch out into the town’s best pastrami, deciding that Katz’s, down the street from Russ and Daughters, was too fatty, but a call rang into her cell phone.

Her conversation, as intimate as if we were all in a phone booth together, was with her mother, whom she told, excitedly, that she had had a second interview with Facebook and they were now recruiting her. While trying to seem casual about it, her voice betrayed a young woman, pleased to be on such a fast-track, as she no doubt was. It was a big deal, being chased by Facebook. But before any more of her biography could be written in the cab, the cabbie pulled up to her stop and off she went, telling us it was such a fun ride.

The glories of pastrami would have to wait for another day.

Sunday in the Park with Comics

30 July 2017

Sunday was a gorgeous day in New York City…a day when you’d feel guilty for not taking advantage of the weather and doing something noteworthy. It was 11:30 when, scouring the Times, we found a comedy show at 2:00 in Central Park, on the grass, under shade trees, just north of the Sheep Meadow. The guilt melted away…we had something to do.

So, with a blanket in a tote with a bottle of water, we took the ‘1’ (a subway line) to Lincoln Center and walked to the Park and found “Mineral Springs”, where a grass stage with a microphone and a couple of standing amps had been set up with low vinyl barriers to define the backstage, where the talent bobbed and weaved their nerves away before the show.

There were five comics, surprisingly not a weak link among them. The last one, the headliner, ‘killed’ (comic-speak for getting laughs) for half an hour and then they all bantered with each other backstage to come down from their performance highs. Each hoped they’d do it again next year, said their goodbyes…and left. The ‘headliner, though, was asked to stay for a second to wait for a praetorian guard of three park employees to escort her, ceremoniously, to a break in the fence…a triumphal exit for the star of the show.

The guard, respectful, bid her farewell as she then became just one of the legion of Sunday strollers, bikers, joggers, pedicabbers, horse-drawn carriage riders, disappearing into the crowd, walking toward Central Park West on her way home…a headliner for the 300 or so in the audience on the grass at the show, dramatically clad in a breeze-blown, diaphanous, painted veil over jeans and a tee shirt. But now she just blended into the flow of humanity…from star and larger than life…to waiting for the ‘walk’ sign, crossing the street. Highs and lows, the fate of performers…a face in the crowd to one of the crowd in the blink of an eye. I followed her with my eyes to see if an entourage, a husband, a friend met her. None did. And no one, but me, knew how extraordinary she had been, just minutes before.

Wisconsin, Take Two

10 July 2017

Every place is interesting. Every place has its characters, its local traditions and idiosyncrasies. I was surely, as a New Yorker, “from away” in Appleton, Wisconsin and was taken by the sincere friendliness of the local population (with exceptions…Joe McCarthy came from Appleton) who are polite and willing to please as if it’s a genetic trait or the dictates of a local ordinance.

We were taken by friends to a neat, unpretentious town on Lake Michigan…Two Rivers, Wisconsin, Trivers as it’s called locally…to a closed factory that once made wood type for printing, before linotype and computer type setting upstaged it. It was in its last chapter…made into a museum to commemorate the things it once did. Everything was just as it was on its last productive day, as if the craftsmen were on a break away from their benches.

But it was a street scene after the museum visit that made it all the more memorable. While friends were in the storefront of a smokehouse, buying smoked delicacies, (a vertical operation in business parlance…they caught the fish,  smoked them and sold them). I stayed outside looking for photographs to take. Across a narrow channel from Lake Michigan was a panorama of churches on a far hillside. A woman of comparable vintage to her balloon-tired Schwinn, standing a few feet away, told me there used to be a factory between us and the hillside of churches. I smiled in recognition and she went on.

Used to be four Catholic churches in town and four Catholic schools, she said. Now there’s just one church and no schools. She said it with the resignation of someone who has known better times. I was Catholic back then, but now I’m a Methodist. After pausing a few seconds, she inquired, and what are you? Jewish, I said, disarmed by how easily she asked. Oh, she said, a noble religion. The last synagogue in a nearby town closed a while back. There’s a “For Sale” sign on the building. That’s the way it is everywhere, I said, holding up my end of the conversation. The kids leave for the big cities and there are fewer and fewer people going to church. I know, she said, but where are they going to learn morality?

It was a thought that would have to wait for another day. Her sister exited the smokehouse with her smoked purchase. She smiled, said a quick hello and goodbye and they both pedaled off.

Marching Through a Well-Tended Life

4 July 2017

I don’t want the tone of my surprise to come across as coastal arrogance…I assure you it’s not. I’ve been reminded many times that I have little to be arrogant about. But it was a surprise nonetheless. I just didn’t expect Tiffany-like opulence to pop up in the summer-lush farmland of central Wisconsin.

We were visiting friends in Appleton last week. And they took us an hour further into farmland America to meet a friend whose hobbies, they thought, we might find a bit intriguing. In the east I have passed any number of hardscrabble farms…weathered barns, rusting machinery as well as the sophisticated, far-as-the-eye-can-see farms with complex irrigation systems, shiny silos, etc. So we didn’t know what to expect.

What we got was a greeting by an updated Grant Wood farm couple in Vineyard Vines finery…but he, at 87, had the forearms of someone who knew farm work. The farm was as manicured as the outfield at Yankee Stadium, but with no outward signs that anything wondrous was near. Then we were ushered into their living room, a high-ceilinged, wood-paneled room that could have been home to a Steinway grand or two. But the centerpiece instead was an immaculately restored 1930s classic car…he’s a collector…in the midst of farm country in Wisconsin. But cars weren’t his only passion. Our now-gentleman farmer friend (his children run the farm) has an ear for early music-making machines, late 19th and early 20th century…bits of complexity and mechanical wizardry that are dotted around the living room…a violin-piano-playing machine, a Nickelodean piano that plays music rolls, a Wurlitzer jukebox, a Polyphon that plays large perforated metal discs, an early Victrola with a flower-bell speaker and more.

Across the road was another of their farm houses with a long low building next to it with a line of garage doors. The doors open up to a long room, housing, you guessed it, more elegant, classic cars…a collection cap-stoned by a breath-taking 1930 four-door Duesenberg convertible (from whence the expression, “it’s a Duesy” came). As it turns out, one of the largest classic car exhibitions in America takes place every July in Iola, Wisconsin, about 14 miles away. I felt like Charles Kuralt “On the Road” finding the stuff that happens outside the proverbial bubbles of the east and the west.

It no doubt is the lure of mechanical puzzles, trying to figure out how these machines work…farmers are undoubtedly tinkerers, keeping the John Deeres going. So cars and music makers…are probably an extension of that. There were several more music machines in the garage… a blaring organ-sounding carousel music-maker, an accordion-playing machine. When asked if all his “toys” work, he said, straight-ahead and mid-western, “now why would I buy something that doesn’t work”. He was on an existential journey, lucky enough to waken each morning, knowing where he wanted to go…and  then pleased that he got there.

I didn’t mention that in his earlier years he was a flight instructor and that he ran a successful logging machinery business. And that at 87 he still plays tuba in a marching band. Maybe it’s not too late to catch up.

Hey, Where’s Your Free Speech Pin?

4 May 2017

What if we had free speech, but only what we could afford to buy on a government free-speech exchange. What if freedom of speech was the same as health care…you can talk, but only about what you can afford. There could be several categories of free speech, starting at the top with a ‘concierge’ policy (Maximum Allowable Free Speech). It would allow virtually unfettered free speech. Or another policy level, allowing reasonably free speech and renewable as long as you have no citations for exceeding your policy limits. Or at the lowest rung, a Buttoned Lip policy, allowing you to answer questions, but not to initiate conversation, not even to complain about milk bought fresh, but sour when opened at home.

Of course, like health care, we’d be able to fashion your own free speech policy by opting for situational permits. So within reasonable limits we could speak freely as long as we bought the required permits. But without buying these situational permits from the government free-speech exchanges, we would lose the right to complain, to protest or even to praise that which we have no permit to talk about.

And what a money-maker and job creator it would be…a new department, perhaps the EFE (Enhanced Freedoms Enforcement) would issue and police the government free-speech policies…the free-speech police, so to speak.

To facilitate enforcement for the EFE, everyone would have to wear a pin, identifying his or her ‘free speech’ policies and  indicating the speech in which they can indulge. The Golden Megaphone lapel pin would signify a ‘concierge’ policy…no restrictions, but at a price only the top tenth of one percent could afford. The Open-Mouth with a Bar of Soap pin would signify a less expensive policy allowing most speech, but  with no swearing, no double entendres and no mention of California. The Red Circle pin with Pursed Lips and a red line across it shows that one could speak, but only if spoken to.

The Situational permits would also require a pin, too, showing on what subjects your free-speech tongue could wag: a Tattooed-Arm pin, allowing everyone to be a general manager and wax about sports; a Crossed-Crutches pin, allowing talk of your medical conditions, both real and hypochondriac; the Wings-on-a-Hamburger pin, allowing talk of fast food, as long as you go easy on talk of  salt, fat or mega-sized sugared sodas; the Flooded-Miami pin would allow talk of climate change, but with restraint about wet feet downtown at high tide; the Cannabis pin, allowing a wink, but no talk…a hybrid of free speech.

Of course, ‘free speech’ would be a misnomer and monetizing it might seem drastic, but we desperately need to tamp down on folks bent on talking off the top of their heads or the seat of their pants…wink, wink.

I Hate to be the Bearer of Glad Tidings…

22 April 2017

A few months ago, an irritation on my ear seemed to have taken up a happy residence without an indication of when it would say its farewells and disappear. So, more than aware of its barnacle aspirations, I took myself to a dermatologist to have the condition explained. Or, as they say in medicaleze, diagnosed, which carries with it more ominous possibilities. Well, she said, it doesn’t look like anything dangerous, but I’ll have it biopsied. So she numbed the ear, scraped the evidence and sent it off. Two days later, I got a call that everything was fine…it was pre-cancerous.

Well, to me, fine and pre-cancerous don’t go together. Ed McMahon, Johnny Carson’s sidekick, said, after an operation, that the greatest word in the English language was ‘benign’. Benign without doubt is better than being told that the expunged tumor from his anatomy was, thank the lord, pre-cancerous. Why bring up the ‘c’ word, if it doesn’t apply? As it turned out, the dermatologist scraped off all the offending material for the biopsy on my ear, so that I was left with an ear cleared of irritation.

So I started thinking about other conditions that could be caught up in pessimist-speak. Your car could have a condition known as pre-rust…it’s not rusted yet, but it might be. (Oddly, rust in a car was called ‘cancer’, at least in the old days, when cars were actually made of metal.) Now most rust in a car seems to be taken care of prophylactically by making as much as possible out of plastic. Or milk…it could be called, legitimately, ‘pre-sour’…wait long enough and it will turn, but won’t, if it is used up in time. Instead of ‘pre-sour’, it could be called ‘still nasally pleasant’.

Or your house paint, it could, when new, be called ‘pre-pealing’ because eventually wind, rain, cold and ice will cause it to require attention. Why not call pealing paint ‘post-attractive’, not the best condition, but not sinister either.

Not to belabor the point, but, if the males on your mother’s side of the family are bald, do we tell a boy in the genetic line that he is ‘pre-bald’? I’m sure we can let the lad enjoy his hair, while he can. We don’t have to make it sound like his hair is living on borrowed time. It doesn’t mean that every condition we are ‘pre’ of shouldn’t be concerning. It just means we might tread a bit lighter on the rhetoric of disaster.

Balboas in the Bag…My Mind Elsewhere

17 February 2016

I’m always interested in how ready I am for surprises and how quickly I react to them.

A few weeks ago I parked in town (Larchmont) and walked to a local restaurant that has, since the 1940s, made an iconic Larchmont sandwich (The Balboa…along with a gorgonzola salad). I had them pack some to take to New York on a visit to my daughter and granddaughter. Walking back to the car, my center of thought scattered, I vaguely heard a car alarm, coming from a short distance away. But not paying attention to car alarms…I dismissed it. I got back to what I thought was my  car, but said to myself, that can’t be it…because someone is sitting in it. So I walked past it to look at the license plate. Sure enough, it was my car.

I’m sure I should have been more en garde than I was, but walked around to the driver’s side door and rapped on the window. How innocence could trump suspicion  I don’t know…with constant media stories rife with bad endings. But, luckily, what might have been a hair-trigger carjacker turned out to be a slightly addled elderly lady, obviously confused by unfamiliar surroundings. She looked up at me as I opened the door, smiling, so as not to induce a coronary and informed her that she was sitting in my car. Oh, she said, that must be why the alarm went off.  Yup, I said. No wonder my key didn’t fit and why I couldn’t remember what was in this package on the seat. It was only afterward that I realized I might have been a tad nonchalant. Who knows, she might have been supplementing her Social Security check, boosting cars… the modern day incarnation of Ma Barker with a Luger in her lap. I swore I’d be more ice-water aware than rely on just good fortune. Somewhat later, I felt a pang of angst, when it occurred to me that she’s driving on the same roads that we are.

Final thought…any visitors to Larchmont I’ll happily treat to a Balboa at the Tavern.

A Sea of Folks…Full Speed Ahead

5 November 2015

Been to Times Square at night lately? A megawatt bleach of LED light has turned the ‘Great White Way’ into an operating theater. What was once a softer neon night has turned into the perpetual day of the Arctic Circle, only not a northern half-light, but a bright squinting light. And because of that illumination, we have a greater ‘getting to know you’ intimacy with our fellow citizens, more than any of us could ever have hoped for…an illuminated sea of bus-tour touts, handbag sellers, commuters pressing to get home and theater-goers, carried by a tide of tourists agawk at walls of digital billboards that makes the word ‘overkill’ seem bucolic.

And the crowds at 6:30 at night…ten abreast on sidewalks moving as slowly as if barefoot on a TSA security line at the airport. And more desperate than the walkers and gawkers, at the end of their patience, were cabs and cars jammed up by crowds crossing against the lights. In the city’s impresario’s spirit…if much is good, more is better…this human cavalcade was inflated by a pumpkin patch set in the midst of Broadway (it was two days before Halloween), where kids could frolic amongst the pumpkins set on hay on top of the asphalt with Parks Department folks in bib overalls lending a touch of farm authenticity.

Problem was, I had a small fortune invested in theater tickets to ‘Beautiful’ and we were two blocks from the theater with twenty minutes to show time. Molasses could run through an hourglass faster than the foot traffic to 43rd Street was moving, so it was going to be close. Fortunately, the southbound flow made a sudden left turn on 43rd Street, moving toward a group of costumed super heroes. It was just the break we needed. Once on 43rd Street the crowd fever broke and we ambled casually into the theater with five minutes to spare…calm as royalty… without a trace of fluster we felt just five minutes before.

The City is like a high-maintenance ‘love of your life’. It’s difficult, but the rewards are breathtaking. “Beautiful” was brilliant. Carol King’s songbook is already a part of the American songbook. And if you have any notion that America is faltering, as some suggest, flow with the tide to 43rd Street and have your spirit renewed.

Five nights later another foray into a different neighborhood of the City. And again, high-maintenance, it takes a little bit out of you to take advantage of it. This time a subway to 59th Street, change to a different line to Grand Street and a six-block walk to the Eldridge Street Synagogue, now a City Landmark, once in the heart of Jewish New York, but now a lone Jewish outpost in spreading Chinatown. Just the signage we couldn’t read a hundred years ago (Hebrew) has been replaced by signage we still can’t read (Chinese). The more things change… That night a group of three violinists and a dulcimerist(?) played klezmer in the sanctuary, joined after the concert by other klezmer musicians in the audience who “jammed” with them. But the show didn’t begin until everyone had a turn at the buffet table…no one should listen to a concert on an empty stomach.

There goes NYC again, winning our hearts, while giving us a bit of a hard time as well (a six block walk and two subways back).