A New Yorker's Stories (6 page)

A WAR STORY: PART 5

My wife's life was marked by one traumatic event: her escape from the German occupation of France. She was raised to love her country and to believe that France was the best possible of all countries with the best of language, of tradition, of food, of climate and so on; the idea of having to leave France to survive was appalling. There were moments of grave danger when she took the train from Paris to Vichy France in the south. She was given several bars of chocolate hidden in her traveling bag. When the German inspectors came to her compartment they found the chocolate, took them as expected and let her go on. She was fourteen when she joined her mother and father for the crossing of the frontier into Spain on foot. They were caught and arrested and put into prison but the Spaniards were not insensitive to the plight of the fleeing Jews. Eventually the family made their way to Portugal and America by different turns and paths.

My wife loved to recount this history and did so on every possible occasion; it was the story of her life. I must've heard one version or another a hundred times, and her audiences were always fascinated by her telling. Eventually, with the advent of the computer, she was able to put her story into print, at first as an e-book and later as a paperback edition. I could write in my wife's New York Times obituary of August 12, 2007 that she had four careers, as an artist, a teacher (of French), a folk singer, and as an author.

CLOSURE: PART 6

Yesterday my wife's ashes were, as the expression goes, strewn away. We were gathered on a walkway jetting into the Hudson River. My twin daughters were there as well as my second son and his whole family, wife and three children. The son of my first son, Cyrus did the honors by leaping over the low metal barrier to stand right on the edge of the water and letting the ashes from the plastic bag spill out into the tide driven stream. In an instant a long bloom of grey mist appeared in the water and then slowly faded away as the water moved out seaward. The ceremony was over without long laudatory speeches or maudlin recollections, just as my wife would have wanted. We stayed a bit longer to take the obligatory high tech photos with a tiny camera that has enormous capacity which will be translated into printed pictures of our motley crew.

My son drove me to the gym on 80th Street and Broadway just in time for me to join my senior citizen class in aerobics. And so went the day almost two years after my wife's death.

I had a strange dream that night. I must have been dreaming for I thought I heard the front door bell ring. I turned to my wife by my side and said, “There must be someone at the door.” Then I actually got up and walked down the hall to check the front door. Of course no one was there at four fifteen in the morning. After breakfast, as is my want, I went back to bed. When the night's sleep is broken I feel the need for additional rest the next morning. I must've fallen asleep quickly. I remember another dream of traveling in Egypt and of visiting an ancient Egyptian house. The house appeared clearly, vividly as a one-storied structure with a projecting forward room rising on slender, paired, squared off, wood posts, supporting an open architrave of wood. Just as I was about to walk toward the building to examine it close up my dream picture was broken by the ring of the telephone next to my bed: a recorded message from Verizon offering a fast internet service for a low introductory monthly fee. I replaced the telephone receiver as quickly as I could disconcerted by the silly commercial call; the picture of that old Egyptian house still strong in my mind's eye. (7/21/09)

CHAPTER IV: FOOD

WIDOWER'S LAMENT

Life without one's mate changes things a lot. The change that constitutes being daily reminded of the absence of the partner who did the cooking. Over the long course of marriage, fixing meals was never my concern. Oh, I could make bacon and eggs, which I was expected to do on some weekends or holidays, and I could tell just when the spaghetti was “al dente” on the evenings when we were improvising a supper. That was the extent of my culinary expertise. My wife carried the major responsibility of preparing meals and she was good at it. She was French and understood the burden of upholding a noble tradition. Even if she hated the time and energy that went into preparing every repast for the family, the task could not be evaded. And now do I ever appreciate that effort as I am thrown upon myself to cook up the meals. Well, I still can't do a good job at it. I would much rather find alternatives to starving. That's where ingenuity comes into play.

The name of the game is to find people who will take me to dinner, or to lunch, or to breakfast, for that matter. Fortunately I have a wide circle of friends who fill this bill. This weekend is a perfect illustration. Friday, Bob came to see me even though the worst snowstorm of the season was raging outside. We would have ordinarily gone to a local eatery but the weather precluded the search for a restaurant. I thought home delivery would be solution but Bob insisted on going out himself. We had a very nice Chinese lunch with two entrées and my brew of tea. Bob is happy to foot the bill. He believes it is in his interest to spend time with me and I am not about to dissuade him. He lost his job six months ago and is despairing of finding another similar position. The economy and his age are going against him, he realizes. He doesn't need to have another income. He wife is still working and he, in fact, is disenchanted with the commercial world. At mid life he would rather do something he likes even if volunteering is the only way. I must be something of a model for Bob. I am retired and still pursuing a lifestyle of collecting and studying works of art. By three o'clock the snowstorm had abated and Bob left.

Tomorrow is Saturday and another full day. Friends from Singapore will visit me between eleven and twelve in the morning. I have no idea if an invitation to lunch is in the works. We'll see. Saturday evening is co-opted by an invitation to a birthday dinner for an old classmate who is celebrating his eighty-five years. We've known each other since hanging out in Washington Square Park which was our campus at NYU. He gave up a law practice long ago in favor of writing poetry. He lost his wife a year ago and joins me now in the widower's club.

Sunday is usually a fun day because the flea markets are open; I like to make the rounds always hopeful to find a “sleeper,” that is, a treasure to me but not to the vendor.

The flea market excursion is a social activity, a chance to exchange a word here and a word there with the dealers and with fellow searchers. I return home by mid-afternoon, in time to take a nap, a necessary repose because I've been invited to dinner that evening at neighbors down the block. They are a couple of professionals who invite me whenever they have other guests whose conversational skills are not known. They count on me to keep the talk moving, in interesting directions, of course. The gentleman of the house fancies himself a gourmet chef. He is actually very good at putting together a meal in short notice with simple but exquisitely spiced food. He never fails and neither do I.

Monday is the day I go to the gym for aerobics so I don't eat lunch until after the exercise. This Monday I have been invited to a French bakery in the Chelsea area, a sort of hidden treasure where the most exquisite croissants and croissant sandwiches (farci) can be found. A late lunch of these delicacies is a treat. My hosts are French so we indulge ourselves in food and language.

I have other resources, like friends I can call upon at short notice for meetings and meals. Conversation is the coin of the realm or what passes as wisdom. I am not about to dissuade anyone and the exchange remains viable.

My friends from Singapore, did indeed, take me to lunch or rather they let me choose the restaurant which was a Thai establishment not far from home. The menu had lots of Oriental dishes, inexpensive but tastefully prepared. My friends felt completely at ease. They had their own agenda for the visit, as it turned out. I think they are fed up with trying to make a living in the Far East and prefer to try their chances in the United States. So they disclosed their purpose and asked for my help. I gave them the best advice I could about preparing a curriculum vitae and about checking the rules at the US consulate. They are relatively young and very enterprising so I may see more of my Singapore friends in the future.

The inescapable need to eat is treated in a new way now. Since fixing my own fare is not the best solution because meals need company, I ply my new strategy as cleverly as I can. It is another kind of pre-occupation, alas.

ROAST DUCK

I ordered roast duck for dinner last night and what a treat it was. Most of my life I regarded duck with a certain disdain. I couldn't see why such a fuss was made over roast duck. I thought the very little meat that accompanied each cut was hardly worth the effort. Skin and fat I never liked at all and managed to avoid so not much was left. But I watched many devotees of the dish indulge themselves with gusto and relish ending a meal of roast duck with such an air of satisfaction as though they had achieved a remarkable feat. I couldn't see it.

But last night was different: you might say I had an epiphany. The dish I ordered was roast duck served on a green leaf and accompanied by strips of a white vegetable that gave balance to the taste and texture of duck. This time I picked up each morsel with my chopsticks, attacked the crispy yet succulent skin still clinging to a layer of fat with anticipation of a gustatory reward. The skin has to be chewed and chewed in order to squeeze out the juice which delivers a remarkable and complex taste. Now I look forward to each mouthful of the skin and the release of that juicy elixir the chewing brings. I can hardly believe myself that I look forward to the eating of skin and fat, the meat of the roast duck is secondary but not negligible.

Why the change? Before my wife died I took meals for granted. Shopping and cooking and thinking up spices and other condiments to make food interesting was my wife's job. She liked eating, that's what motivated her, and I was just a beneficiary. I didn't invest any time or effort into the food production in our home. Oh, yes, I helped out, of course, in minor ways like setting the table or clearing the table afterwards. I was good at making the tea or coffee too. I thought I brought a special something to the end of the repast like making sure the hot water was hot enough, little touches of that nature. Since I have a sweet tooth I usually prepared a slice of cake or a bit of chocolate to top off the dinner.

Nowadays, in my widowerhood, I have the whole business of meals on my shoulders. I miss my departed wife for lots of reasons, but the responsibility of feeding myself ranks high on the list. I can prepare dinners at home from the stuff I buy at the supermarkets or at Rite-Aid. Too often, however, I am reduced to opening a can of soup, usually a last minute solution. I much prefer eating out with friends. As my son, Gregory, often reminds me “companion” means breaking bread with others. I need the company as much as the food and having them both at the same time is the best of all. So I've become uncannily clever about nudging my friends to meet me at restaurants where they seem happy, most of the time, to foot the bill; I don't protest too much. And we do enjoy each other's company. The roast duck dinner is in a category of its own for the manager of the Chinese restaurant where I so enjoyed roast duck is my “student.” I instruct him in the history of Chinese painting in exchange for meals at any time at his establishment. I'm not sure who has the better deal but neither one of us is raising that question. For the time being, at least, I have partially solved the problem of feeding myself in a socially comforting environment. Under these circumstances roast duck is particularly delicious. (2/14/09)

DINNER WITH JAKE

I had all but given up on Jake; by a quarter past the hour there was no telephone call and I could only think the worst. I began to prepare my own supper. I can always throw together things I have at home for an improvised meal. But the phone did ring and Jake said he was on his way. So I put the food I had laid out back in the refrigerator, put on my shoes, tied the laces, and waited for the downstairs buzzer to sound.

We had no particular place to go to for dinner. The stretch along Broadway between 116th Street and 108th Street has at least twenty eateries of every possible ethnic or regional taste you can think of. We decided to try one place, out of default to be frank because we could not come up with a choice that really outweighed the others. So, we entered the diner that had a certain allure with its low lights and little table candles flickering against the dark. We were given the three-page menu, not too easily read for lack of illumination. Finally, Jake decided on the hamburger special and I ordered the quiche and salad dish. Even though it was late and we were both famished we ordered rather meager dishes because it was hard to find something on the menu that sounded substantial and yet not too expensive. We settled on what you might call the lesser of the evils. But that did not solve our problems. I had a certain anticipation of the quiche I ordered. The quiche on my plate, when it arrived, was almost lost in the green salad that overwhelmed the offering. I eventually found the quiche under the greenery and dislodged a morsel with my fork but the taste did not resonate with my expectations. I tried a second bite and was still uncertain. Then it occurred to me that my quiche was not the quiche I had ordered. The menu called for a mushroom and cheese dish; what I got was a spinach and egg dish. After I made this discovery I called the waiter over to point out the discrepancy. The waiter quite openly declared that there were no more mushroom and cheese quiche and the cook made the substitution, hoping, I suppose, that I would not detect the difference. It was a case of pure deception. I asked to see the manager and I did, in no uncertain terms, voice my discontent and disappointment with such an unannounced switch. We left the restaurant with Jake's half-eaten hamburger still on his plate and my quiche still buried under a pile of green salad.

We were back on the street, looking anew for a place to have supper. We made our way down Broadway, past any number of restaurants until 108th Street where we sidled into a Thai place that I almost always find agreeable. The room is small and intimate and yet never very crowded. There is no din of chattering voices so conversation is possible in a normal manner. I am also familiar with the menu; I can order without much scrutiny. Jake agreed with my choices, a necessary condition because we were going to share whatever was ordered. We enjoyed our dishes and talked and talked until the waitress politely advised us that the restaurant was about to close. We were completely oblivious to the time which was indeed, by then, late at a quarter to midnight.

As late as it was the night was not over. Jake reminded me, as we walked past Rite Aid, that Rite Aid was open 24/7 and in a few minutes Monday would turn into Tuesday, the day Rite Aide offers discounts for seniors. We couldn't pass up that opportunity. We shopped, like lots of other late night shoppers, for things we could use or imagine we could use. At the stroke of twelve the check-out clerk rang up my purchases and off we went. Jake, as cavalier as usual, saw me back to the door of my apartment house.