It’s Not Easy Being Green
It was May 1985 and I was just finishing up my Bachelor’s Degree in Journalism from the University of Nebraska. I didn’t have a “real” job or specific plans for the summer, so when serendipity presented me with the opportunity to spend the summer in The Hamptons on Long Island, New York working as a “mother’s helper”, I impulsively took the offer. I would live with Stuart and Mona in their beach house and help with caring for their 3-year-old daughter, JoJo. I loved children and was up for an adventure, so I figured, why not? That one impetuous decision would not only change the entire trajectory of my life, but it would also open my mind, heart, and stomach to a whole new world.
I was feeling fairly confident, if not just a little arrogant, about stepping away from my comfort zone and embarking into the unknown. I thought of myself as fairly well-traveled in that I had been to every state west of the Mississippi and to six Canadian provinces. How many 22-year-olds can say that? I also thought I was a pretty good cook as I experimented in the kitchen, throwing things together to make up some kind of edible concoction. Even the Jucy Lucy which claims to have been invented in Minneapolis – you know, the burger with the cheese in the middle rather than on the top? Nope! That was mine; I invented it in high school in Nebraska. Yeah, I was the next Julia Child for sure!
But, sometimes, we think we know everything, just to find out rather quickly that we really know nothing. My early days in the Hamptons and New York City have left an indelible mark in my hypothalamus and it was those days that caused my arrogance to be dialed back about 20 notches. I received quite an education and ate more than my share of humble pie along the way.
Tuna
“Here we are!” Mona said as we turned into the long, tree-lined driveway leading up to the contemporary architecture of an enormous gray shingled home with white-trimmed picture windows and a wrap-around veranda. After a long drive from the airport, it felt good to step out of the van. I stepped in front of the house and looked straight through the solid glass entry doors all the way to the back of the house where the blue waters of Noyack Bay met seamlessly with the azure blue sky. I closed my eyes for just a moment – enough time to take in the smell of the fresh ocean breeze juxtaposed with the all too familiar smell of charcoal on the grill.
Stuart stepped out of the house, greeted me with the air kisses that I was still trying to get accustomed to, and helped me with my luggage.
“I hope you like tuna steaks. I’ll be grilling them tonight for dinner,” Stuart announced.
Grilling tuna? How do you grill tuna? Wouldn’t the flaky fish from the can just fall through the grates? Maybe he means tuna cakes. Yes, that must be it. My mom made those occasionally.
“Oh, yes, I love grilled tuna! My mom would make them sometimes, but we didn’t have a grill, so she would fry them in a skillet on the stove. They make great sandwiches when you add a little mayonnaise and mustard and a slice of tomato,” I replied.
He tilted his head, looked at me inquisitively, and said, “Well, that’s an interesting way to eat grilled tuna. I’ll never figure out you Midwesterners!” Stuart said with a chuckle.
Lesson #1 – steaks do not have to come from a cow.
Lesson #2 – Tuna doesn’t always come from a can.
Mussels
I love all kinds of seafood – fresh, frozen, from a can, fried, with a shell, without a shell. On the rare occasion that I would go to a nice restaurant during my early years, I always looked at the seafood selections first. I even tried sushi once when I was in Miam visiting my brother in college. Yes, I was definitely a seafood expert – or so I thought.
After being in the Hamptons for a few days, Mona, Stuart, JoJo, and I went to a lovely restaurant in Sag Harbor.
“I know how much you enjoyed the grilled tuna steak, so you’ll love the seafood items here. Try the mixed shellfish pasta. It’s amazing!” Stuart suggested.
I looked at the description – linguini with lemon and olive oil, topped with scallops, prawns, clams, and mussels. I had no idea what mussels were, but I could not be disappointed or embarrassed because I knew about all kinds of shellfish – or so I thought.
JoJo ordered chicken strips and French fries, which, apparently, by law is one of the only thing a 3-year-old can eat in a restaurant. Mona ordered lasagna and Stuart ordered a steak. I felt so sophisticated as I ordered the only unusual dish.
Shortly after ordering, the server set down a small plate, a warm bowl of water, a bowl of broth, and a small, fork-like utensil next to me. Is the bowl for some kind of cleansing ritual that only I needed to partake in? Why didn’t anyone else receive all of these extra accouterments? All I ordered was pasta and seafood. Maybe I should have ordered the lasagna.
When our meals arrived, blood rushed to my face and a wrench took hold of my stomach. The server placed a large bowl topped with dark brown, elongated shells in front of me. The linguini that they rested on was doing its best to peek out from underneath. These must be the mysterious mussels, but how do I eat these? Is it polite to pick them up? How do I get to the meat? These and other questions raced through my mind. Then a clever idea popped in my head.
“We have a custom at home when eating at a restaurant. Everyone shares the first bite with the person on his or her left,” I lied. “Is it okay if we do that?”
“I like that idea and how lucky am I to be on your left?” Stuart said. He then picked up a mussel with his hands, carefully pried open the shell, then used his salad fork to release the flesh. Finally, he dipped it into the broth and ate the tiny morsel, and placed the empty shell on the extra plate.
“So good!” he exclaimed as he dipped his fingers into the warm water and wiped his hand on his napkin.
Whew! I was so proud of my devious trick in order to avoid yet another embarrassment! And, it turned out to be a win-win for everyone.
I continued with my meal, enjoying the tender, yet chewy consistency of the salty mussels before diving into remainder of my meal. The rest should be easy. Of course, I know how to eat the shelled seafood and linguini – or so I thought.
The server came by again set down a large spoon next to me.
“Please accept my apologies for forgetting to bring this spoon for your linguini,” she said.
Who eats linguini with a spoon? I’ve been eating spaghetti with just a fork all my life! As my heart pounded faster, I took a sip from my glass of Chardonnay to stall, as well as to calm my nerves. I used that opportunity to glance around the other patrons. Bingo! A man was holding the large spoon in his left hand while pressing and twirling his linguini filled fork into it. Crisis averted!
At last, we were all finished with our entrees.
“Dessert anyone?” Mona asked.
JoJo immediately screamed, “I want ice cream!”
“In that case, we should go down the street to get ice cream in a waffle cone,” suggested Stuart.
Waffles and ice cream cones? Strange combination, but I can figure that out – or so I thought.
Rosh Hashanah
Virtually everyone I encountered during my first few months in New York were Jewish – the family I lived with, their friends and family, my co-workers. I had heard of the term kosher referred to often, but knew very little about the rituals and strict laws associated with it in the Jewish faith. Let’s just say I received my education via “baptism by fire” (pardon the Christian reference).
On a lovely September day, I traveled across the Hudson with Stuart, Mona, and JoJo to Stuart’s parents’ house to celebrate Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year.
Eleanor and Jack had set out a bountiful feast of brisket, challah, apples and honey, potatoes, carrots, and gefilte fish. The food was being passed around with lively conversation, that is, until I made the gravest of errors.
“Could someone please pass the butter?” I asked.
Silence. Forks and knives were suspended in mid-air as everyone looked at each other. I turned to Eleanor whose jaw visibly dropped and whose eyes looked like they were going to pop out of her skull. What did I say that was so offensive?
“She wants buddah,” Jack said with a cracked voice.
“Jack, come into the kitchen with me! She wants buddah! Help me find some buddah!”
“If you don’t have any butter, that’s fine,” I said.
Mona leaned over to me and whispered, “They keep kosher. You can’t mix dairy and meat in the same meal.”
Eleanor and Jack jumped out of their seats and head to the kitchen, mumbling about buddah. I got up and followed them.
“Please don’t go to any trouble! I don’t need butter. I didn’t know it was forbidden,” I pleaded.
“You’re our guest, Julie. If you want buddah, you get buddah. I have margarine on the table, but you said you wanted buddah. I know I have some in the freezer somewhere,” Eleanor said. Meanwhile, Jack was working on taking everything out of the freezer.
“Found it!” declared Jack as he held up the cube of butter like a trophy. “I’ll pop it in the micro and it will be thawed in no time.”
When we returned to the table, I apologized again for my blunder. They all just smiled and laughed.
“Don’t worry about it! It’s great to have our Shiksa here for Rosh Hashana!” Jack said as he raised his glass of Manischewitz. “Shanah Tovah!”
Yes, it was going to be a good year!
The Bagel Nazi
One of Seinfeld’s most well-known episodes centered on “The Soup Nazi”. I assume the writers of the sitcom meant it to be a hyperbolic parody of New York crassness, but when I first saw that episode, I was immediately reminded of my experience with The Bagel Nazi.
When I first moved to New York City, I had a few days to myself before starting work. One of the first things I wanted to do was to find a good bagel place. I walked down Third Avenue and stepped inside the first bagel place I came across. I stood in front of the counter, barely able to see over the top, looking for a menu.
“What are you havin’?” asked the tall, imposing man behind the counter as he wiped his hands on his soiled white apron.
“Give me a minute, please. Do you have a menu?” I asked.
“No menu! Do you want a bagel or what?” he snapped.
“Sure,” I replied.
“Well, what kind? I don’t have all day, lady!” he barked.
I instinctively turned around and saw that a line had formed behind me.
“Uh, sesame, or maybe poppy…” I stammered.
The man grabs a bagel and I could see by the motion of his arms that he was apparently slicing it. I guess he made the decision for me.
“Ya want eggncheezwidat?” he murmured.
“I beg your pardon. What did you say?”
He repeats himself and I still can’t understand his gibberish.
I felt a firm tap on my shoulder. I turn around to the angry face of a very impatient man.
“Come on, just order your damn bagel!”
I turn around and say, “Sure!” I step aside to my left. Step together, step, until I am in front of the cash register.
Another man behind the counter asks, “Cawfee with ya bagel?”
“Yes, please,” I reply.
“Reglah?” he asks?
“Yeah, sure.”
I reached into my purse for some cash while he turned around to pour my coffee. Later, I will regret not watching him prepare it.
I had no idea how much any of this cost and I don’t even know what was put on my bagel, so I handed the coffee guy a $10 bill, hoping that would cover it. He practically threw my bagel and my change at me and slammed my coffee on the counter. No “Thank you!”, “Come Again!” or even “Have a Nice Day!” Geez! Why is everyone so cranky? I am definitely not in Nebraska anymore.
I step out onto the crowded sidewalk with everyone going about their business, heads down or listening to their Sony Walkmans, paying no attention to anyone else. I leaned up next to the building in order to safely sip my coffee that I was so looking forward to.
“Ugh!” I shouted as I took my first gulp.
I must have shouted a bit too loudly because several people turned in my direction, not missing a beat, except for one elderly woman.
“What’s wrong, dear? Are you okay?” she asked.
“That jerk in the bagel shop put cream and sugar in my coffee! I asked for regular.” I explained.
She burst out in laughter. Now what idiotic thing did I say?
“Don’t you know that regular coffee means cream and sugah? Next time ask for black cawfee,” she said. “Welcome to New York, honey”
“Thanks,” I said as I felt my eyes fill with tears. “Here, you can have my coffee.” She accepted it with a smile and a nod and went on her way.
Well, at least I have my bagel. I found a stone wall in front of an office building and sat down to eat. I opened up my bagel sandwich to find a dense, scrambled egg topped with melted, gooey cheese. So that’s what the guy kept asking me!
In the Seinfeld episode, Jerry, Elaine, Kramer, and George kept going back to the soup place despite the treatment by the “Soup Nazi” – the soup was just that good! And, just like the Seinfeld characters, I kept going back to that same bagel shop every day on my way to work and put up with the rude “Bagel Nazi”. The bagels with the “eggncheez” were that good!