Divorced, I’m Not The Father And They Know My Voice

And so, Swintbn finished school in Philadelphia and we moved to her home state of New Jersey. I’ve married real honest to goodness ‘Jersey Girls’ twice. I’m batting .500 – more than 20 years with Bonnie, she’s a keeper and I am damn lucky to have her love.

I had managed to land a good architecture job in Princeton and, having been raised in the ‘burbs’, I was always more of a ‘burb’ boy than a city boy. I wanted to get back to my ‘roots’, as shallow and suburban as they might be. We were lucky in that we found a small house that we could afford to rent in the Borough. How cool, room for both a garden and a grill. Swintbn was thrilled that I would no longer be hanging the grill from a second floor window.

Life proceeded in a not too happy state as far as the marriage went, unhappy enough that we did get divorced. It was not fun but it certainly was necessary and for the best. The irony is that we lived together without benefit of marriage license longer than we were actually married.

The sturm and drang of divorce found me, initially, with little inclination to do any cooking. This was during the whole ‘woe is me period’ and before the ‘hey why don’t we go out tonight and come back to my place later for a late dinner’ – I had remembered that lesson. So I was depressed enough so that I didn’t want to cook, but still had to eat. The solution – Conte’s Pizza, Princeton. They make an absolutely superb pizza; the crust is thin but not too thin, and crispy, but still chewy – perfect. Couple the crust with a good tomato sauce, good cheese in the proper amount and homemade sausage and I’m in heaven. Oh, did I forget to mention beer and wine? Not only is the pizza perfect, but the venue is perfect too. A good sized room with a looooong bar on one side, glass behind the bar of course, Formica topped tables and chrome edged dinette chairs with red vinyl upholstery, columns in the room are covered with tiny mirrors – good Lord it’s the 1950’s, the perfect 1950’s and it’s real – no Disney Land. It’s good enough to go out of your way for and to wait in the long lines. It was close to where I was living so I availed myself of this wonder on more than one occasion.

One night at Conte’s several of my friends and I were sitting at a table having, of course, pizza and beers. I removed my face from my beer mug to see a pregnant woman at a table near ours fling herself from her chair to get on her feet. A woman so pregnant that I’m wondering how many seconds from now will she give birth pregnant. She begins to waddle (sorry moms, no other way to describe it) in the general direction of our table, no, wait, she’s waddling right towards our table, Sweet Jesus she’s waddling right up to me and saying, “Are you Dave Grunwald?” Here’s this woman: pregnant, looks around my age, certainly attractive enough that I would have been happy to assist her in getting pregnant, I had been tom-catting around as they say to some degree at that time, in the grief of my divorce I did at times drink to the point where I didn’t remember EVERYTHING and she’s asking me to confirm who I am. Me, a father? That didn’t mesh at all with the motorcycle that I was thinking of buying. And I refuse to do diapers – I gag. My friends were of no help. Not a one of them threw her to the floor, yelled fire to empty the place or said that they were me – nothing to help me escape. They sure as hell wanted to see if I was going to be a daddy. For my part, I could have said ‘no’ in a foreign language (if I knew one) or simply run out the door, but I figured – what the hell, let’s see what life has blasted me with this time. So I said, “Yes, I’m Dave Grunwald”. I was ready to immediately cover my eyes with my arms and hands so that when she threw acid in my face I wouldn’t be blinded, just horribly burned and scarred forever. Her response to my admission: “HI! I’m Belle Star (the name has been changed to protect her innocence); we went to high school together in Connecticut. I was just in town seeing some friends, and I can’t believe that I ran into you here!” All that worry about nothing, silly boy! I was more careful after that encounter. More careful in that before I entered Conte’s I would sneak up to the door and peer inside to see if any pregnant women lay in wait.

The frequency or which I was availing myself of Conte’s perfect pizza was driven home with the force of a sledge hammer one night. The evening that found me sitting at a table inside Conte’s and encountering Belle Star wasn’t the norm. As I was still a bit on the morose side about my life and the divorce I usually phoned my order in, picked it up and went home to eat.

That night when I phoned my order in the conversation was somewhat different from the usual.

Me, “Hi, I’d like to order a pizza to go – medium with sausage and mushrooms.”
Contes, “Will there be anything else?”
Me, “Nope, that’s it.”
Contes, “That will be ready to pickup in about 20 minutes.”
AND I COULD SENSE THEM HANGING UP THE PHONE
Me, “Wait! I screamed into the phone. Don’t you want my name!?”
Contes, “Don’t need it Mr. Grunwald – we all recognize your voice.”

Was it time to cut back on the frequency of my pizza orders?
Is it a good thing or a bad thing when everyone at the local pizza emporium
Recognizes your voice when you phone in your order?
It’s a wonderful thing – I consider it personalized service.
And I am grateful.

Peach Daiquiris And Raving Idiots

There is something about putting a Grunwald in a restaurant that for, whatever reason, on occasion, sends things a little out of kilter and creates incidents and situations. Some of these incidents are funny to everybody including the Grunwalds while many of the incidents are funny to you because you’re not a Grunwald As I’ve related, as I child I was taken by my parents to restaurants more often than I expect that many children were. You’d think that I had learned the consequences of bad behavior, the possibility of the ‘Grunwald Restaurant Surprise’, the fact that alcohol does indeed loosen the inhibitions giving way to behavior and words that may be embarrassing in the next days light of sobriety. You’d think that I would have learned to bolt for the door, throwing dollar bills behind me to slow the mob, that I’d have learned not to order the duck a l’orange in ‘Bob’s Beef Hut’. You’d have thought that with my cumulative restaurant experiences, including cooking in one (for however short a time) that I’d have restaurants and me down cold. Don’t I wish that I did.

Parents get really interesting when the fruit of their loins is going through a divorce. There is absolutely no attempt to hide the fact that, in my case, they were 110% in their progeny’s corner, vilifying the ex-spouse Swintbn to a degree that would make the accusers of the Salem Witch Trials blush. And so it was with my parents. My mother was particularly rabid as she was protecting her first born.

I forget what summer celebration brought us to what is a superb restaurant located on a farm in the quiet corner of northeastern Connecticut. I know that it was the early 1980’s because Swintbn and I had just bid each other adios. With Mom and Dad, individually with our own families and with friends’ families we have enjoyed many meals at this venue. Superb and inventive food, cocktails before dinner, peach daiquiris as I recall, sipped (OK, gulped, “May I have another please?”) while sitting on the elevated deck of the dining barn overlooking a tranquil pond with Great Blue Herons stalking the shallows as the sun lazily drifted down towards the fading horizon of farm fields, New England stone walls and rolling hills. That night it was the Grunwald family and, for those of you who may be speculating, yes, it was, shall I say, eventful. Behavior that was out of place in such a genteel setting manifested itself. The food that night was as wonderful as we recalled from the last visit. Even in memories that are peach daiquiri faded and blurred I recall my delight at being here and enjoying this food. Do I remember the specifics of the menu? No. Do I remember Dad holding the empty bread basket above his head? No, but he probably did. Do I remember that the divorce had recently been finalized – you betcha. I remember that in my eyes, at that moment in time, I was a failure. I couldn’t hold a marriage/love together. I would never be loved by anyone ever, ever again and, for that split second, I thought that the divorce was my fault (OK, perhaps I was wallowing a bit). My mother’s timing was impeccable, worthy of an Academy Award, for at the precise instant that I felt responsible for the marriage going south and certain that I would never again be loved by anyone as wonderful as Swintbn, Mom said, “She was never good enough for you, you should have never married her, and she’s a horrible person. I’m glad that she’s gone.” Timing is everything. How could she say that, my Witch was absolutely wonderful – the failed marriage was my entire fault (Of course that’s not true, I was wallowing).

I EXPLODED at Mom, “how dare you say that!” In truth, my drunken defense of the Swintbn was much greater in length and more vociferous than that, but you get the idea. In this genteel setting, uncaring of the other patrons’ comfort or my parents’ love, I did not keep my voice down during my tirade.

Poor Mom, she was only protecting me. Poor other diners, though I’d guess that such a scene had played before mine and will be played again you, the audience, are never really comfortable nor do you absolutely relish it (well, maybe a little) – unless it’s short and sweet or you watch Jerry Springer regularly. Yeah, it’s kind of interesting, like the proverbial auto wreck you can’t look away from as you drive past. You’re trying to be nonchalant, peering at it from the corner of your eye and whispering to your companion, “Wow! Look at the drunken idiot at the side table. What the hell is he screaming at his mother for?” The ranting of the idiot (Me) came and went quickly. I made a very sincere apology to my family, they graciously accepted and the evening returned to normal, more or less.

In the 'Quiet Corner' of Connecticut

The farm restaurant featured sing-along hayrides and I still remember the guitar playing and the dark haired beauty that lead the songfest. We are talking an honest to goodness hayride; hay wagon, sitting on the hay, horses pulling, star filled sky and everybody singing. I know, it sounds corny. Believe me, it was not. My tirade now just a (bad) memory, my brothers and I climbed on board and heartily joined in, singing along to James Taylor and The Eagles. We do three part harmony very well. I tried to get a date with the dark-haired beauty.
How could I not as she was cute as hell and I was now single. Normalcy had truly returned and the heavens breathed easy.

And yes, we’ve returned to the restaurant after this using our real names to make the reservation and have been welcomed back. As the bard says, “All’s well that ends well”.


Please Don’t Tell The Chef That I Cook

By now, you all know that my father often took the family out for dinner. We didn’t go to restaurants every other night, or even once a week, but go we did – obviously, it’s a very strong memory for me. He liked being able to take his family to restaurants because he liked to see us enjoying the experience, he was able to do something to make us happy, and because it served as verification that he had achieved a financial position where he was able to do so, something that his own father could not or would not. He took us to a range of restaurants – Patricia Murphy’s, Avon Old Farms and the local pizza and hoagie joint. Dad ate out often with his business cronies and seemed to be familiar with the whole dining out procedure. Because of that I was always surprised in that he seemed to become a bit uncomfortable, even nervous, when we walked through that entrance door. When I say that he was uncomfortable and nervous I mean that his behavior was the kind that makes a child cringe, to greater or lesser degrees, depending upon the child’s understanding or empathy for the parent. I took a long time for me to mature and gain any empathy (some say that I’ve still got a ways to go) for Dads restaurant persona. As he would wildly wave an empty bread basket above his head while shouting to the room, “Garçon! Garçon! More Bread”, my feelings were conflicted. Here’s this guy who loves his family enough to take us out to dinner and here’s this guy that doesn’t care, or have a clue, that he’s embarrassing the bejeezuz out of his ingrate son. My brothers and I and our wives and girlfriends would discuss upcoming restaurant ventures. Our discussion theme being, “What do you think that he’s going to do this time?” At various times during our restaurant adventures, our family might be found trying to hide under the table or run to the restrooms. I am certain that, at times, the wait staff was running, decorously running, but running nonetheless, from him. Dealing in our own ways with a man who always said, “Don’t fill up on the cheap stuff”. Dealing with a man who loved us – and wanted more bread.

As I started to do more and more cooking, my Dad introduced a new restaurant torture for me. Dad took his Roman Catholic upbringing to heart and he would have been right at home during the inquisition; my nightmares found him dressed in a monk’s dark and shadowy robe, the hood up and covering his face, the long inquisitors table, the too few flickering candles in a dark stone room casting no ray of hope, me naked and hung from ropes that are tied to my wrists and drawn tight to the ceiling beams so that my feet barely touch the cold, blood slick floor. It’s cold and I’m scared to death and I’m embarrassed, because there’s a great deal of shrinkage resulting from all that, the voice of my father screaming at me, “So, Witnesses have professed that you have said that you like to cook. That you have admitted to wanting to be a ………..CHEF! Cast this CHEF in the pit!” In truth my parents were delighted that all of their sons liked to cook. But, Dad had no idea that what he was going to do would make me want to run and hide.

Upon being seated in a restaurant my father would ask to speak with the chef and when the chef would arrive at our table, looking absolutely thrilled that he had had to leave a busy kitchen to deal with yet another nut customer, my father would say to him, “My son is a CHEF too! He’s really good!” Chefy asks, “What restaurant do you cook in?” I mumble my reply, “I cook at home.” The chefs would eye me and get a look their face that I interpreted as meaning, “So you’re a CHEF, an At-Home CHEF! Wowee!” Poor chefy, dragged out of his domain for this. During chefy’s exchange with us the pastry chef has taken chefy’s place on the line and is overcooking the pan-sautéed red snapper, it will have to be redone and Table 4 will not be happy, because the rest of the dishes will be cold by the time the snapper is done again. Chefy will blame us for Table 4’s unhappiness. The chef is looking at me and I know what he’s thinking, “A Real Freakin’ At-Home Chef! Well how about that?! Well, how about I just gouge one of your eyes out and eat it while you watch with your remaining eye! How about you just come into MY kitchen and I’ll brand the side of your face on the griddle! How about that Mr. At-Home Chef!” It’s torture, I’m wishing with all my heart that I were absolutely anyplace but where I am.

I’m not this chef’s equal – he does it for a living, do or die. I do it for fun, do or die too, but I don’t have to show a profit or get four different entrée selections to the table at the same time. The homicidal glaze of the chef’s eyes clearly made a statement, but his parting words were always unintelligible as he would go back to the kitchen. After such an event I would always give close scrutiny to the remaining dishes coming from the kitchen before partaking.


All You Can Eat For $5 And Modesty Flees The Scene

When Dad announced that he was taking the family out to dinner we could never guess where that particular dinner would fall in the range of gastronomic possibilities. Often quantity would win out over quality. Dad was a true yo-yo dieter, often losing and then re-gaining 50 to 100 pounds. He drove his doctors and his family crazy with this behavior. He stated that his philosophy of eating was, “Eat to live, don’t live to eat.” This was running concurrently with, “Don’t fill up on the cheap stuff” and, “I could make a meal out of bread”. What he wanted was to be able to control his eating so that when he opened a bag of cookies, he wasn’t compelled to eat the entire bag in one sitting. He never got to the point where he could do that for any meaningful period of time. So, despite the fact that he enjoyed many restaurants that did not advertise ‘All You Can Eat For $5’, we sometimes found ourselves paying $5 per person.

One night Dad’s philosophy of more, rather than better, for $5 per person bit him, and all of us, on our collective asses.

Three brothers, one wife and one girlfriend were taken out to dinner by my parents, Dad choosing the venue, to a restaurant that was so obviously dirty that it made all of us except Dad want to run out the door as soon as we entered the place. I swear that the soles of our shoes stuck to the floor and the air was hazy, visibility ten feet, with atomized grease. You could feel pimples developing on your face in real time and you knew that you’d have to wash your hair at least three times to get the grease out of it. Of course the restaurant served tremendous quantities of food for a very low price. As soon as we walked in the door Dad began enlightening the owner, whom Dad said was a ‘great friend’ of his, with the story of Dad’s life and accomplishments, while simultaneously saying to the owner things that owners, servers and chefs love to hear; “Please take this back and bring me something else - Bring me more of this - There’s not enough here, bring extra - I didn’t order this – I want more bread” Nonstop and it was becoming obvious to all of us except Dad that the owner was reaching his limit with the antics of his ‘great friend’.

Dad was salesman. When he got wound up there was no stopping him, no off switch, ya just had to let the spring run all the way out. Even though the flavors of one dish were nearly indistinguishable from another dish at one point during the evening a dish tasted a ‘little off’. We had found, and passed, the limits of Dad’s ‘great friend’ and the seven of us returned home to my parent’s house to find out what comes with pissing off the proprietor of the ‘All You Can Eat For $5’ restaurant.

Faint tremors of bodily discomfort flirted with us on the drive home, but we hoped against hope that they would leave unrealized. Cold sweat on our foreheads. Stomachs beginning to ride a roller coaster. I forgot who got sick first, probably Dad, because he commandeered the one and only bathroom, but in very short order all of us became really, violently, sick. Dad would not relinquish his domain in the single bathroom, some host. That left the remaining six of us in self-designated areas in the backyard. Outside, in the dark, each of us in our little dark world of pain, modesty had fled soon after this started (hell, anything in its right mind would have fled that scene), each of us clutching a roll of toilet paper. I didn’t have the nerve to look at the backyard the next morning. You should never, ever, wonder why all of us brothers, wives, girlfriends and Mom always felt a tremor of fear when Dad would say, “Hey! Why don’t I take all of us out to dinner tonight?”


Dessert

Yes, I’ve changed the title of the last entry in the posting. An amuse bouche is most easily described as a bite size morsel that better restaurants will serve, gratis (and well it should be considering that it is quite literally one small bite), soon after you are seated. A little something to welcome you and show off the chefs skill. Though my amuse bouche is a bite size morsel I have been placing it at the end rather than the beginning. Hence, I’m changing the title of this section to ‘Dessert’.

DESSERT: A new, and successful, recipe; Pumpkin Flan

You should know that my addled brain has often written desert when I meant dessert and visa versa. The early readers of the manuscript (much thanks to Alison, Brooke, Mary Carol, Maggie and of course Bonnie) have taught me that DESERT is the dry, sandy, place and that DESSERT is the fun course following the main meal. I won’t make that mistake again.

I recently had the opportunity to whip up a spread for an appetizer course. It’s tasty and so easy that I hesitate to call it ‘cooking’.
WHITE BEAN SPREAD
Ingredients:
3 Slices Bacon
2 Shallots
1 Garlic Clove
1 Pound Cooked Cannelloni Beans; cooked dry beans or canned
Olive Oil as needed
Salt and Black Pepper to taste
1 ¼ Teaspoons Smoked Paprika – more if you like it as much as I do. Just don’t add so much that it’s the only flavor that you taste. If you make this spread with plain old paprika (which is fine for many other dishes), rather than the smoked paprika, the flavors of this will be lacking.
Preparation:
1. Coarsely dice the bacon. Fry over medium high heat until crispy. Remove the bacon from the pan reserving about a tablespoon of the bacon fat.
2. Coarsely dice the shallots (or onions) and garlic, sautéing them in the reserved bacon fat until translucent (the garlic browns quickly, add it after the shallots have cooked a bit).
3. Place the beans, shallots, garlic and remaining bacon fat in a food processor. Process the ingredients, adding olive oil as needed, until the spread is, no surprise here, a spreadable consistency. Don’t process so much that it turns into an ugly paste.
4. Remove the spread from the processor, place in a bowl and stir in the bacon, salt, black pepper and smoked paprika until incorporated. Taste and adjust flavorings as necessary.
5. Spread it on a piece of baguette or cracker and eat. Actually, it tastes better if it sits in the fridge for a few hours so that the flavors can marry.
6. This should keep in the fridge for at least a couple days.
7. A few shifts with the seasonings and this recipe will takeoff in a hundred different directions. Experiment and have fun.


Next Week: The First Dinner Diary and You F***ing Bastard and yet more Dinner Diaries

You might want to keep the kiddies away from this posting. Adult language and situations.

Swintbn And Martinis

While in Providence I met a woman that I loved enough to marry. She decided to finish her schooling in Philadelphia, so the late 1970’s found us leaving Providence. It was tough to leave. I’d done so much growing there, so much had happened, I’d learned things, made mistakes and learned not to make them as often and cooking had begun to be so very important to me.

It didn’t take long to see that the marriage was a mistake. I should have taken her mother’s advice. When we told her parents that we were getting married her mother broke into tears, telling me that it would be a mistake for anyone to marry her daughter. Hey, what did I know, I was in love. Her parents always treated me wonderfully and truly made me feel a part of their family and I loved them both. For the purpose of relating this tale I shall call their daughter, my ex, ‘She Who Is Not To Be Named’ – Swintbn for short.
However bad the marriage was it is to Swintbn’s father that I owe a great debt of gratitude. This gentleman was absolutely down to earth, kind, with a great sense of humor and an appreciation for the finer things. It is to this paragon that I owe my eternal thanks for many kindnesses and teachings and for introducing me to - the martini.

Ah, the wonder that is this drink; gin, not vodka, it strikes one as impossible that it could look so crystal clear, the gin kept in the refrigerator, maybe the freezer, pouring not like a thin liquid but with substance, like a smooth polished crystal cord that you could almost pick it up with your fingers, the fragrance of the juniper berries and other botanicals, the ‘just there’ scent of a cedar forest in sunlight dusted with winter snow, the true basic color of the lemon twist or the olive and the vermouth with its delicate fragrance of spring herbs taking just a bit of the edge off the razor sharp gin. Wow! The taste: substantial in texture, for a split second it bites then pulls back and caresses (kind of like love!), the tempered taste of the juniper and the undercurrent of vermouth herbs full in your head. Watch yourself because you will want more.

When I’m talking martini I am not talking about some bastardized, pretender to the throne, vodka thing that has no taste. I am not talking about anything that’s made in a Martini Bar. Martini Bars should all be sent to Cancun; they’re appropriate in that venue. I am not talking about a Green Apple Martini’ or a Chocolate Martini. Who the hell drinks those abominations? I’ll tell you who – 20 year old girls who don’t like the taste of liquor, but want an excuse to allow their loins to be tickled. And, if you’re a guy ordering a martini that’s made of anything other than gin, vermouth, and an olive or a twist of lemon, you should make an appointment with your doctor to have your chromosomes checked. Really, a man ordering a Chocolate Martini what are you? Whatever you are, you should be embarrassed.

The ex-father-in-law knew well the wonder of this drink – not to excess. This velvet smooth, no kidding around, mellow out here, elixir that has calmed me and put the world in perspective and on the other hand has gotten control of me on occasion. In my early martini years I was one of those who merely waved the bottle of vermouth in front of the glass of gin so as to impart the thought of vermouth to the gin. However, with the passage of the years I have come to appreciate, and find necessary, the flavor of the vermouth (always Tribuno for me) to complete the wonder of it all. Not the ten to one ratio that the original recipe calls for, but enough to make it taste “right”. What kind of gin? Entirely up to you – it just damn well better be gin and not something else. I prefer the London style gins, Coates Plymouth Gin, Bombay Sapphire, Tanqueray, Hendrick’s and Gordon’s (my vin-ordinaire). Does a list containing several gins indicate an indiscriminate palette? No way, each has its own nuances and should be appreciated on its own.

Some of the newer gins are way too over the top for my tastes – where’d the gin taste go? Thank you ex-father-in-law. Your place is preserved in my heart of hearts – and not only for the martini.

It is time to pay homage to the only diet book that has ever worked for me: “Martinis & Whipped Cream: The New Carbo-Cal Way to Lose Weight and Stay Slim”. By Sidney Petrie in association with Robert B. Stone, Parker Publishing Company, copyright 1966.

The Grape, The Garbage Disposal And The Hibachi

The late 1970’s and early 1980’s found Swintbn and me living in a floor of a Philly row house. She was in school; I was working as an architect and doing all the cooking, which suited me perfectly. I loved the cooking, but had yet to be hit with the desire to start the Dinner Diaries. So, while various food adventures that I experienced in Philly are lost, there were some pretty interesting incidents that will never be forgotten. Never to be forgotten be me, and I’m certain never to be forgotten by the innocents that also came to be involved.

One of these less than perfect moments found me attempting to make Sole Veronique. This is a pretty damn nice fish dish. As the Master Craig Claiborne says of the dish, “The name Veronique in French indicates that white seedless grapes are used in preparing the dish”. The sole poached in a wonderful broth and served warm with a delicate cream sauce and white grapes – wonderful, clean, flavors and several textures. The singular taste of sole melting in your mouth with a ‘just there’ texture, the sauce countering and complimenting the burst of flavor from the sweet grape, the grape juice creating a new sauce wrapping itself around the flavor of the Sole. What a wonderful imagination someone had to create such a dish. What possessed me to try the recipe; easy, the recipe struck me as elegant and tasteful. And because it’s relatively simple, it’s a challenge to do well.

At the time I was living in Philly every corner had a produce and flower stand manned by an Asian. I walked, or rode a bicycle, to and from work and it was really a joy to be able to go to the Italian Market at lunch for the evening’s entrée and pick up the accompaniments from the corner stands on the way home.

So, I picked up the sole at noon and kept it in the office fridge, nice and cool, until I headed home. Actually remembering to take the fish with me when I left work I stopped at the first corner produce and flower stand. I asked for white seedless grapes and was told, “Just green grapes with seeds, no seedless white grapes”. No problem, I’ll just go to another corner. Second stand – same response as the first. Third stand – same response as the first and second.

At this point those little tingles of nervousness start. I mean, I could make some other dish with the sole but, by this time the thought of making Sole Veronique had become a battle cry in my mind. By God, we’re having Sole Veronique for dinner or, by my decree, heads will roll! One more corner stand – one more negative response. I am willing to do whatever it takes to accomplish whatever I become obsessed with. If the goal requires that I give no quarter and take no prisoners than by God that is the way that it is going to be. So – I bought the green grapes with seeds. I figured what the hell – I’ll just remove the seeds.

I got home and began making the dish. The grapes? I cut them in half and did in fact remove the seeds with my handy little paring knife. Is that extreme? Not in my book kiddo. Sure, some of the grapes no longer looked pristine and perfect and we probably had a late dinner, but it was done and it was a triumph. No, I haven’t made it lately, but I will. Keep it real, but sometimes ya do what ya gotta do. Genius is being able to correctly determine what ya gotta do.

Living in Philly was interesting for a whole lot of reasons. Most importantly the up and coming restaurant scene but also for: the guy that died in the brownstone across the alley from us whose summertime death wasn’t discovered until it became olfactorily apparent; the guy that attacked people with an axe on the bus that I sometimes took (I did not take it that particular day); the Philadelphia Museum of Art; the efforts of the fledgling torturers at Penn’s dental school; Beato’s pizza; the Italian Market; Mummers; many wonderful things. It was also the first time that I had the use of a garbage disposal. You know, one of those things in the sink drain that supposedly will grind up ANYTHING and send it on its merry way. The dreaded garbage grinder into which, from a distance of three feet away, you toss the dinner leftovers into its screaming maw – any closer and it will reach up and seize your fingers and arms. I was enjoying the use of the disposal as it really did send many food items on their way that would have otherwise stayed in the house longer than they should. However, I found out that it would not accept everything.

The fateful dinner that night included – fresh, whole artichokes. I remember that the artichokes were very much enjoyed and after dinner I did the cleanup. What to do with the artichoke leaves? Why, send them down the garbage disposal. I mean there are caution stickers all over this thing saying that it will eat your fingers and hand alive, pulverizing the bone, so how hard could artichoke leaves be to get down? They would be – impossible. Start the water running, turn the disposal on and start feeding the leaves down the drain. Going fine for about 15 seconds and then, sounds from the disposal began to scream my name as if a knife had been plunged into its nether regions, the entire sink and kitchen counter was shaking as if Philly was having an earthquake and the water, ah yes the water, rising higher and higher in the sink. The artichoke leaves? They just sat there, actually they were jammed into a solid mass the consistency of concrete in the opening of the disposal. In retrospect all of this took place in the time span of a very few minutes before I shut off the disposal switch and the water. In those few moments the laws of physics deserted my portion of the universe, with the exception of the water rising higher and higher in the sink time and motion were frozen. It took the rest of a long night to remove all of the leaves to the point where the disposal would run without making death throe sounds. As it is said, “a man’s got to know his limitations”, as do garbage disposals.

Using a charcoal grill also got pretty interesting while in Philly. We were renting the second floor of a three story brownstone. I love to grill, despite my initial experience with hamburgers, and figured that I’d just keep grilling as I had in the past – except that I would hang the grill from the second floor window rather than have it on the ground. How hard or illegal could this be? I rigged up a neat little 50 pound frame from rigid metal conduit and hung this, holding the 75 pound cast iron hibachi, out the second floor back window. This would be great! It was la beautiful late spring evening and I wouldn’t have to miss the pleasure of charcoal grilled burgers for another second. I filled the grill with briquettes, doused it with charcoal lighter (which I stored a gallon container of in a closet in the apartment – cooking and idiocy trumping safety and common sense) and applied a lit match.

Things – unexpected, but I should have anticipated these types of things - got interesting pretty quickly. To begin with, everyone in the building was home – this would make sense as it was dinner time which was in fact why I was cooking at this moment.
Then, the initial 10 foot high Moses In The Desert Wrath of God pillar of orange and yellow flames (later calming down to a moderate 4 to 6 feet,) accompanied by boiling smoke as black as squid ink, got the attention of the third floor tenant pretty quickly; one could say that it immediately got her attention. Her window above the grill was open and she later said, which may have been true, that she could, in fact, see the flames, the smoke was pouring into her apartment and consequently she was somewhat concerned that – THE BUILDING WAS ON FIRE!

She was quite animated and vocal as she expressed this concern to me after I opened our door in response to her pounding upon it and screaming, “Fire! Fire! The Building’s On Fire! Everybody Get Out!!!” Now there’s a good neighbor. When I explained that I was simply grilling dinner she screamed other phrases at me too. The new phrases she screamed did not, as her original exhortations had, evidence any concern for my well being.

By this time I’m beginning to be concerned that I am ‘losing the heat of the coals’.

The first floor tenant had, God knows how, heard this commotion and ran into the courtyard at the rear of the building to see what the situation was. Believe it or not, he was somewhat concerned when he looked up to see a brazier full of red hot coals suspended directly above his head, with flames and smoke erupting from them, held there by my contraption. Little did he realize that I was, in fact, a registered architect and perfectly competent in my ability to design and construct, such a contraption. He too said things to me that I did not entirely deserve to have said to me. Something about removing my head and using my neck for an unintended purpose if I did not remove the ‘contraption’ containing the red hot coals. The literal and figurative fires both died down leaving me without the pleasures of the grill as long as I lived in that apartment. Suggestions to Swintbn that we move to a place where I could grill without attracting the attention of our neighbors were met with a murderous glare. Couldn’t I have seen the divorce coming? Her priorities were all wrong!

The Italian Market And Four Star Hotels

In addition to presenting adventures in grilling there were other wonders to be experienced in Philadelphia by those who worship the culinary arts. The Italian Market. My enjoyment and thrill at going to this market has endured beyond the time of Swintbn; there have been periods when Bonnie and I go there regularly. The market is a wonderful series of main streets and side alleys, all of them packed with people, the streets and alleys narrowed by the bins and tables showcasing the stores wares. None of the shops is too large, some are tiny carrying every available staple and delicacy – if you’ve seen ‘Rocky’, you’ve seen it – but you haven’t experienced it. Spices, coffees, cheeses (Oh my God, the wonderful cheese!), shellfish, fish, meats – there aren’t too many places on the east coast that you can find sheep’s heads and goats heads in the shop window displays, goats/sheep/lambs hanging from hooks in front of the shops (not as much nowadays as they used to), scungili (I make a mean scungili salad), earthy mushrooms, spring green lettuce, baking breads, octopus and rabbits. The song of the Italian Market is loud, turbulent: the duet of vendor and buyer, the stacking of wooden crates, knife edge on sharpening steel, the rolling of the meat hooks on their iron tracks and the paper grocery bags being shot open. The fragrance in the air is like nothing else, most of the time it’s exotic, every once in a while….. well, exotic isn’t the right word. The fragrance is a mixture of the streets, blood, seawater, earth, produce, spices, coffee, hard working men and women, bustle, and dreams of wonderful meals to come.

Not if, but when, you go to Philly you absolutely have to go to the Italian Market on Saturday morning. Even if you’re staying at that four star hotel on the Parkway, buy a small lamb from the market butcher shop for your grill at home. If the Manager at the front desk gives you trouble about it when he sees you carrying it up to your room, or if the other guests on the elevator with you gag as those drops of blood fall to the floor and then run to snitch on you, or if the chambermaid is surprised when she finds it hung in the shower to age, tell them all to talk to the chef. The chef will fully understand why you had to buy a lamb from the Italian Market. I wish that I could be standing at your side to help you when management says that it’s against the hotel’s policy to have a dead animal carcass in your room (little do they know how often this happens, I mean, look at some of these hotel guests and tell me if they don’t look like dead carcasses).

If management won’t bring the chef into the discussion, and I will not be there to help you, I suggest the following. Go ultra pro-active, remember this manager may look better than you, but on his salary, unlike you, he can’t afford to stay at any four star hotels.

Think Rocky Balboa. Play offense, loudly and angrily say, “I want my lamb carcass put in the dry aged beef case IMMEDIATELY and you had better make GOD DAMN CERTAIN that no one takes ANY of the meat from the cheeks!” I have NEVER had my lamb carcasses treated like this in ANY other hotel I’ve stayed in! When I get home I’m writing a letter to your headquarters informing them of exactly what’s gone on here and how poorly my lamb carcass and I have been treated! YOU RACIST! I certainly expected better from this four star hotel!” I’ve found that, usually, they’ll be stunned for a long enough period of time for you to be able to empty the mini-bar and flee with your lamb carcass.

By the way, my scungili salad is nice and simple: scungili (very coarse chop), olive oil, a little red wine vinegar, garlic, salt and pepper, a squirt of lemon juice, a little chopped red onion and parsley – that’s it.

Amuse Bouche

I received several emails from folks that weren’t familiar with the snack treat that I mentioned in the last posting, ‘Screaming Yellow Zonkers’. So here, courtesy of Wikipedia, is the story. Why do I still remember these? A crazy, at the time, snack food for a crazy time.

Screaming Yellow Zonkers





Screaming Yellow Zonkers was a snack food,
first produced by Lincoln Snacks in the USA in the 1960s. Screaming Yellow Zonkers are popcorn with a yellow sugary glaze, in a black box.
Lincoln Snacks asserts that they were the first food item to be packaged in black. The box contained humorous print, such as humorous suggestions about what to do with Screaming Yellow Zonkers, or that 8 oz. (226g) equals 1/4,409 of a metric ton. (This comic content was provided by Allan Katz and Howie Krakow who wrote the copy on the first several boxes, and the award-winning TV and radio campaigns.) Zonkers were geared towards those who enjoy sweetened popcorn without nuts, as opposed to products like Cracker Jack. Screaming Yellow Zonkers were kosher, but did contain dairy products.
While the front of the package was simple and understated, the rest of the Zonkers box was completely covered with absurdist copy, accompanied by illustrations, informing the reader everything from “how to wash Zonkers” to “how to mate them”. The bottom of the box explained how to determine if it were indeed the bottom. “Open the top, and turn the box upside down. If the Zonkers fall out this is the bottom. If they fall up, this is the top. If nothing happens, this box is empty.”

World class illustrators became a part of the Zonkers phenomenon. Airbrush artist Charlie White illustrated the front of the Circus box while Seymour Chwast's
work decorated the rest. White also illustrated a giant Zonkers circus poster, inspired by more of Katz’s copy. The poster was offered on the circus box for “$2.95 to include shipping, handling and profit.” The circus box ended up being displayed in the Louvre in Paris.
The product was discontinued after Con Agra acquired Lincoln Foods in 2007.
And know you know the rest of the story.


Next Week: Divorced, I’m Not The Father and They Know My Voice; Peach Daiquiris And Raving Idiots; Please Don’t Tell The Chef That I Cook; All You Can Eat For $5 And Modesty Flees The Scene

Deerflies and Dave’s Vegetarian Dinner

I wrote in the last posting that at one point in my life I was a vegetarian. At another point in my life I stopped being a vegetarian. So, why did I stop? I really missed hamburgers, I wasn’t certain of my commitment to the goals of vegetarianism in light of my consumption of ‘Snickers’ bars and Jack Daniels (not necessarily at different times) and I found that you could mix Red Zinger Herbal Tea with Yukon Jack for a truly comforting drink appropriate to three seasons of the year (yes, it could be stretched to four seasons).

I also used to backpack, rock climb and cross country ski. Looking at me now you would
never believe this. You would give more credence to my being a vegetarian. I along with friends and family backpacked a lot in the 1970’s. On these expeditions I discovered that I really hate deer flies. The northeast plague from God three seasons of the year. They swarm around you with this horrid buzzing sound. I recall that I would start to whimper when I heard that sound because I knew what was to follow. A gazillion flies would swoop and dive at my head from every direction, trying to distract me from the main attack. My hands would flail about my head but I was powerless from keeping them from attacking the back of my head where I couldn’t see them to swat them. They would land on the back of my head and one would take a huge freakin’ bleeding bite out of my scalp with a mouth that, when only slightly magnified, looks like a razor sharp pair of hedge shears. Then, after that one has bitten and started the blood flowing, several gazillion ADDITIONAL deer flies swarm into a feeding frenzy that makes a shark feeding frenzy look like Disney World. As I’m swarmed by fifty gazillion deer flies I find myself running, falling, stumbling blindly through the woods. My hands flailing around my head, child birth like screams issuing from my mouth. I run until I hit that tree trunk head on, fall to the ground and am eaten alive by the deer flies. Honest injun.

So, I did my backpacking in the late fall and winter, often going out for several days with my trusty Kelty D4 pack on my back, and my feet strapped onto a pair of Bonna 2000 wooden cross country skis. On one of these expeditions I drove from Providence, Rhode Island to the White Mountains of New Hampshire, got to the trailhead, strapped my skis on, got my pack on and headed into the mountains. It was full blown winter, with lots of nice snow on the ground and no deer flies.

I probably skied about seven miles in to a campsite by a river. It was getting late in the day, and dark. I set up my tent and started to prepare dinner. This was so long ago that most of the rivers and streams in the higher elevations of the White Mountains were safe to drink from without any water treatment. So, not wanting to waste time and stove fuel melting snow for water, I went to the river bank to get water to begin to prepare the vegetarian food fest that I was planning on having for dinner. Yep, still a practicing vegetarian at the time. At the river bank the ice extended a little ways out from the bank before you could get to flowing water.

Being cautious and woodly wise I got a fairly big branch and pounded the ice with the end of it to make absolutely certain that the ice would hold me as I reached for flowing water. Of course, when I stepped onto the ice I crashed through up to my knees in freezing water. This should surprise none of you readers, but it sure as HELL surprised me.

I was so surprised that I sprang to the top of the river bank in a single leap – that whole adrenalin thing. Shivering more than a little, I went for a dry pair of socks. None to be found. Dry long undies? None to be found. Didn’t I pack those? OK, at least we can have a nice vegan dinner. Dinner was to be reconstituted with boiling water, which was actually near boil before I knocked it over into the cold snow. OK, I can boil more water – and I did! I don’t remember exactly what dinner consisted of, probably: dried lotus root, dried onion, some dried seaweed, and maybe rice or buckwheat groats, LOTS of seasoning. And before too long, dinner was actually ready to eat.

This dinner tasted absolutely foul. I give this spawn of the devil an undeserved compliment by calling it dinner. Its taste was so foul that to this very day I have nightmares about it. In these nightmares executioners are holding on my back on a table. They keep promising to feed me canned peas and spam, things that taste good in comparison to what I had made. Just as they’re about to feed me the peas and spam, they whisk in the vegetarian mistake and put a shovel-sized serving in my mouth. That’s how bad the vegetarian dinner tasted – canned peas and spam taste better.

I wouldn’t have fed that mistake to my worst enemies (Yeah, I have a list). New Hampshire Fish and Wildlife would probably have fined me for leaving this foulness out for the wildlife to eat if the wildlife had dared to even approach it. So, I am wet, I’m cold, it’s dark and it’s the middle of winter, I’m stuck with food so incredibly bad that I wouldn’t eat it and I’m wondering what the hell I’m doing here. It was good weather, but it was winter in the mountains and a damn cold night was coming on.

I DON’T HAVE TO STAND FOR THIS! It was a beautiful full moon that lit up the mountains and the forest like the lights that they have on search helicopters when they’re hunting you down (not that I’d know anything about that). I packed up camp and headed back. It was a nice, gentle, downhill ski back to the car. I loaded everything in, started it, turned the heater to HIGH and in the dead of night drove four hours back to Providence. Several of the incidents that day were bad. But, none were as unforgivable and terminal as the bad vegetarian dinner.


When Snow Turns To Slush, Thoughts Turn To Food

In addition to the backpacking, my brothers and I, with our wives and girlfriends, spent a lot of time cross country skiing together in New England, in the 1970’s. Of course, as with all things Grunwald, what would the skiing be without food! For hot drinks we had a mulled red wine seasoned with Constant Comment tea; a Vino Caldo, which was perfect for the occasion, actually perfect for any hot mulled wine occasion. The Vino Caldo - Constant Comment Red Wine Punch became a staple for the Grunwald family in the North Country winter and to this day holds a place at out winter table. Of course, there were other libations; man cannot exist on mulled wine alone. The food? We stayed, as I remember, at relatively nice Inns and enjoyed their breakfasts and dinners. It was the outdoor lunch cuisine that was of ours to develop. We were skiing, physically exerting ourselves. The usual sitting in the grass listening to a concert menu would not suffice. The food had to sustain us in our winter skiing workout and, therefore, had to be appropriately hearty. In addition to the thermoses filled with the hot mulled wine there were ‘Bota Bags’ filled with wine or Jack Daniels, gorp (raisins, M&M’s and peanuts), hard sausages, pepperoni, Screaming Yellow Zonkers, cheeses and crackers, maybe some dips and spreads. I’m sure that brownies and baguettes were in there somewhere. We carried packs of substantial size. We knew that we absolutely needed this food to carry us through the heavy duty exertions of cross country skiing in the mountains and valleys of New England. We disdained, unless we were tired or hung over, the groomed trail. For us it was breaking trail through virgin snow! We had been schooled well in winter lore. We knew that without these large quantities of calorie laden food there was the distinct possibility of, dare we say it, death on the winter trail. I am certain that the Appalachian Mountain Club (AMC) will attest to this. It is a documented fact that in certain areas of the White Mountains of New Hampshire a full grown man can, in the winter, starve to death in twenty minutes. In the three hundred thirty five years that the AMC has been keeping records of winter deaths, no dead body has ever been found carrying a pack full of food and two or three ‘Bota Bags’.

THE CONSTANT COMMENT RED WINE PUNCH

In that pristine and Godly countryside evil found us when the weather changed for the worse. When blue skies, fluffy clouds and sun glittery snow gave way to pouring rain, sleet, ice and more pouring rain, we confined ourselves to the rooms at the Inn. I’m not skiing in the rain any sooner than I’d eat a bad vegetarian dinner. What to do, what to do? Turn on the 1970’s television that got two or three channels, bring out the board (could be spelled bored) games, break open a book, relax and enjoy the kinship?

Evil manifests itself to those souls imprisoned in this room by the unskiable weather. Oh, it initially showed itself in a guise of innocence, but start it did and it would not leave until it was done with the devils’ work. One of us would say, at about nine o’clock in the morning, fifteen minutes or so after breakfast, “Does anybody know which backpack the gorp is in, I think I’ll have just a little bit.” Ah, the beginning, so innocuous, so utterly normal. About three minutes later someone else would be infected by the evil and say, “Why don’t you just put the gorp in this bowl. I’m sure that everybody wants a little.” When evil was certain that it had, to greater or lesser degrees, touched all in that room, the true madness would begin with someone saying, at about ten o’clock in the morning, “What the hell, I’m going to crack open one of the thermoses of mulled wine.” The mulled wine was followed by the pepperoni, than the cheeses, then more mulled wine, then the Screaming Yellow Zonkers, the Jack Daniels and then it was noon and time for lunch.

At this point in the day we were all a little bleary eyed, the boards for the board games had been ripped in half so that we could ‘ride’ them down the mattresses that were piled against the wall to replicate a ski slope, the television was tilted on its side so that the picture was properly aligned with your head when you were lying on the floor and the toilet had stopped working. Evil, evil, evil.

The Bacchanal continued through the day. We were in fact eating all of the food and drink that we had planned on consuming if we were skiing and burning 1,000 calories an hour for the entire day rather than sitting on our butts in our nicely appointed room maybe, and I’m being optimistic on this thought, burning 10 calories an hour reading a book. OK, truth is that we were not burning ANY calories an hour. We were in fact gaining about 5 pounds an hour as we wolfed down all of the food and drink that we had meant to partake of to insure our survival while skiing. Evil had done its work and was ready to administer the coup de grace – always - the inevitable question, “What time do you guys want to go have dinner?”


And Sometimes Nothing Horrible Happens

Yes, we Grunwald boys do like to eat. If you’re wondering, one brother’s in great physical shape and the other brother and I are our own persons. Many of our family events, while not centering on food, have managed to include a goodly amount of food. I recall a day-long concert at Tanglewood in the Massachusetts Berkshires that featured Willie Nelson and Emmylou Harris. Great Freakin’ Concert! The family attendees: the three brothers and one brother’s wife. Beautiful weather, great music and, of course, enough food to sustain for the duration of the concert and into the next decade if necessary – be prepared.

You may be picturing in your mind the beautiful, genteel lawn dining of Tanglewood patrons during the Boston Pops Concerts: cloth tablecloths set on the green sward atop hand woven cashmere lawn blankets, perhaps two or three directors chairs for the older folks, cloth napkins, silverware, fine crystal and candelabras. It was a different scene at ‘Willie and Emmylou’s’.

A blanket on the ground (no lawn chairs, as we were still in our 20’s and our hip and knee joints were still flexible), paper napkins, paper plates and plastic cups. I’m quite certain that we smuggled in something alcoholic, had to have. Probably not a martini at that time in my life, but I sure hope that it wasn’t one of those ‘Midori Things’.

The usual menu of cheeses, crackers, dips, smoked oysters, nuts, pepperoni, meats, Screaming Yellow Zonkers (come on folks, some of you’ve got to remember those), sandwiches, chips, cookies, cake and candies. As it was summer, there was no hot mulled wine. We brought all of this in a full-size portable cooler, oh and backpacks too. The kind of cooler that you might put 3 or 4 days worth of food and drink in. Some people were outright staring at us as we commenced our bacchanal. Staring at us? These folks just didn’t understand the finer points of picnicking. The finer points of picnicking being that it required food. We assumed that they staring at us because they were jealous of the bounty we had brought – in comparison to the meager amounts of food they had brought. So what finally happened? Who got caught skinny dipping in front of 1,000 concertgoers? No one. Neither Kev nor Mitch, not Shawn and not me.

Nothing out of the ordinary happened except for my trying to pass myself off as the photographer for the RISD student paper so that I could take photos of Emmylou and Willie (my press credentials – my college ID card - were not found to be acceptable). We had a great time, lots of food, beautiful weather, a gorgeous venue and the music of Emmylou and Willie. The Grunwald Event Disaster that usually hovers over us did not make an appearance the beautiful day. And, dare I say it? Food may not have been the prime factor that day – but it sure wouldn’t have been the same without it.

TANGLEWOOD: Beauty and the Beasts


Amuse Bouche
A few weeks ago four of us had the pleasure of being invited to dinner at the home of a couple who are mutual friends of us four. The circumstances of how the four of us met the other couple bear telling. K., J., Bonnie and I were slowly meandering our way back to K. and J.’s for a glass of wine after a town fest on a spring soft late afternoon when we happened to fall in step with R. and A.. K. is one of the most outgoing and vibrant people I’ve met and she easily engaged R. and A., folks that we had never met before, in conversation, inviting them to join us. And they did.

I probably wouldn’t want to invite folks that I’d never met before into my home. I admire K. for being able to do so; to be so willing to engage with the unknown. I sometimes wonder what I’ve missed by not being particularly spontaneous.

The upshot of all of this is that R. and A. have become friends and A. did serve of us a spectacular dinner; opening their home and themselves to us. Again, it gets back to my pet theme. That theme being that life is best when we all sit down around the table to share both the food and who we are with others. I'm thrilled when a friend invites me to their home for dinner. I would like to think that A. enjoyed preparing the dinner as much as I do. As long as you want to do it you just can’t help but enjoy it. The menu:

- Empanadas stuffed with confit of duck, corn relish and butternut squash puree (courtesy of Dave)
- Heirloom tomato tart (courtesy of K.)
- Spicy seared scallops on a bed of wilted spinach.
- Butternut squash soup.
- Homemade fettuccini with garlic, basil and cheeses.
- Pork tenderloin with baby red onions.
- Chocolate cake with strawberries.
THANK YOU R. AND A.!


Next Week: Swintbn and Martinis; The Grape, The Garbage Disposal and the Hibachi; and The Italian Market and Four Star Hotels