Thanksgiving Breeds Some Food for Thought

As is her wont, Gilda crafted a most delicious Thanksgiving meal: turkey, of course, accompanied by stuffing, mashed potatoes, butternut squash and Brussels sprouts. She even baked a pumpkin pie. 

But let’s get back to the side dishes served with the main course, specifically, the Brussels sprouts. The fact that I eat and enjoy Brussels sprouts is quite amazing given my antipathy (a mild word) towards them while growing up. 

As my father was a basic meat and potatoes with a side of rye bread kind of guy, my mother didn’t serve too many green vegetables. Those she did try to slip onto our dinner plates were often overcooked. Her asparagus, for example, came out limper than a deflated balloon. 

Not that I was a gourmand growing up (nor now).  My poor eating habits drove my mother back to full time work, she used to say. I rejected green peas as an infant, using them as projectiles cast far away from my high chair.

Today, peas are among my favorite vegetables. 

I overcame my distaste for asparagus quite by accident.  During a TWA flight to Los Angeles in first class, thanks to a frequent flyer upgrade some 30 plus years ago, the flight attendant didn’t ask. She simply placed an appetizer dish of cold asparagus before me. Like Mikey in the Life cereal TV commercial of yore, I tried them and liked them. 

On a trip to Dusseldorf, Germany, in 1990 I tried for the first time thick white asparagus, said to be a specialty of the region. They were right. They were extraordinary, a taste I have never had duplicated in America. 

At one of my favorite New York City restaurants, Chez Josephine, I am partial to the sautéed liver. Liver was to be avoided at all costs as a child. 

Gilda and I often eat sardines. My father enjoyed brisling sardines. I thought they were revolting. 

No doubt, each of you today consume foods you ran away from as children. Not to leave you wondering if there were any foods I actually liked back then, let me assure you I have retained an appreciation for stuffed cabbage, sautéed sweetbreads, homemade gefilte fish and matzo ball soup. And chocolate pudding topped off with a hefty dollop or two or three of whipped cream. My mother used to make My*T-*Fine pudding on the stove. As an added treat she would let me savor what was left inside the pot by sweeping my index finger on the streaked remains. I’m okay with today’s off-the-shelf, ready-to-eat version. As long as I have plenty of whipped cream. 

A Tribute to Jean-Claude Baker of Chez Josephine

I religiously read obituaries in The New York Times, not, as the saying goes, to find out if I’m still alive. Friday night I was startled to read about the passing of Jean-Claude Baker, apparently by his own hand. He was found Thursday in his car at his East Hampton, NY, home.

I doubt most of you knew Jean-Claude. I can’t say I had more than a passing awareness of him, either, until about a year ago. I didn’t know him as a friend. Rather, he was the co-owner and maitre d of Chez Josephine, a French bistro on West 42nd Street off 9th Avenue in Manhattan, a few doors down from Playwrights Horizon, a theatre group Gilda and I and our friends Jane and Ken have been members of for more than 10 years, enjoying four to six plays a year, several of which have gone on to win Pulitzer prizes.  

We used to attend weekend matinees then visit a museum before dining at restaurants all over the city. A few years ago we switched to evening productions with dinner at nearby restaurants, including Chez Josephine. In truth we dined there at first because of its proximity to the theatre. We kept going back because the food, the service, the piano-bar ambiance, the decor and the convenience made each meal memorable and delectable. If you’re anything like me, you grew up hating liver. But the pan-seared calf’s liver at Chez Josephine is to die for. And its shrimp cocktail is among the plumpest I’ve enjoyed.

Jean-Claude often would be standing directly inside the front door, cheerfully dressed in a high collared tunic. About a year ago when Ken and Jane had to miss our night at the theatre, Linda and Jacob took their places. Intrigued by all the pictures of Josephine Baker, the American chanteuse Parisians adored, decorating the walls, Linda asked Jean-Claude about them.

He enthusiastically joined our table recounting a quick summary of his life while bringing over a copy of a book he had written about Josephine, the woman who had taken him in as a struggling teenager in Paris and for all intents and purposes adopted him, one of about a dozen waifs she mothered in the City of Lights.

The last time we ate in Chez Josephine was in early December. Jean-Claude was not in his usual spot greeting patrons. I asked if he was in but was told he was taking some time off at his East Hampton home. Reports of his death said he had been depressed for several years. How sad that a man who had given so much joy to friends and strangers would succumb to demons inside his mind (http://www.nytimes.com/2015/01/16/nyregion/jean-claude-baker-a-restaurateur-dies-at-71.html?ref=obituaries).