Ring

In my mother’s house, I came across an object I hadn’t  given a thought during my adult life, but which I instantly recognized as my old Cub Scout ring. It bears the image of a wolf’s head, underneath which is blazoned, “Cubs BSA.” Inside is the numeral 6, which I take to be the size and below that the word “sterling.”

In economics there are varying theories of value.  Marx believed that the value of a good was the labor that went into making it.  There is a utilitarian theory.  If you are freezing for lack of a fire, a book of matches you picked up for free may have enormous worth.  Then, of course, there’s market value.  The ring may be desirable to collectors of Boy Scout memorabilia, but it’s nothing that would cause gasps on “Antiques Roadshow.”

For me none of these theories shed light on my feeling for the little ring.  It has no utilitarian value whatever. I won’t wear it or earn prestige from possessing it.  To others it would be a mere curiosity and not much of a one at that.  I can’t even claim it’s beautiful.  When I saw it, my feelings seemed to precede my thoughts as though the little silver ring had a magical effect upon my heart. 

As a child I wore the totem of the wolf’s head on a ring.  There was a Halloween party in a cottage on Micajah Pond.  We wore blue uniform shirts, gold neckerchiefs and Jeans.  No one sprung for the blue pants with the gold piping on the seams.  We bobbed for apples and ate donuts hung from strings without touching them with our hands.  We cracked wise.  Blindfolded we touched peeled grapes that were dead men’s eyes.  No party today could be so much fun.  We were cubs playing in a den, but we didn’t grow into wolves. 

Sakimura

I am not usually a patron of Japanese steak houses. I went to Benihana when it was all the rage, and It’s a show I’ve seen, but I was in Meriden, Connecticut to celebrate the birthday of the daughter of a friend.  The guest of honor selected a restaurant called Sakimura, so who was I to complain? 

The major feature of the décor at Sakimura is two full size plastic trees. One has green leaves as though it were summer. The other had orange leaves with autumn sunshine streamed through them from a spotlight attached to the ceiling.

I was ready for a drink, and when the young waiter came to take my order, I reeled it off.  The waiter said, “More slowly, please.” Enunciating clearly, said, “I’ll have a Tanqueray martini, straight up with an olive.”

He said, “Only drinks on menu.” 

“You mean you can’t give me a classic martini,” I said incredulously.

“Only drinks on menu.”

“I drink what I drink,” I declared importantly.

“Only drinks on menu.”

I hadn’t looked at the drink menu, but remembered hearing that Sakimura is noted for its scorpion bowl. “I want to talk to the bartender,” I demanded.

“Bartender not here.”

“How are you going to serve us drinks if you don’t have a bartender?"

“Shhhh,” said Annette. In my exasperation, I had permitted myself an increase in the volume of my voice. Heads were turning in my direction. 

I rose from my seat and headed for the bar.  There was a kid there.  It seemed that everyone who worked at Sakimura was a kid, but as I get older I seem to find that’s often true.  “Are you the bartender?” I asked.  He said he was.

“Do you have Tanqueray gin?”  I asked. “I see you do,” I added, pointing to the bottle behind the bar.  He got it down. 

“Do you have vermouth?”  He looked confused.

I glanced sideways at the autumn tree, wondering what rabbit hole I’d fallen down.  “Vermouth,” I said slowly.

A look of understanding came over his face, and he produced a bottle of Martini & Rossi dry vermouth.

“Good,” I said, “Please make me a Tanqueray martini. Do you have olives?”

 He nodded.

I returned to my seat.  In a moment the waiter approached, sheepish with loss of face and carrying the drink. I sipped. It was perfect. Annette, who had ordered  a mai tai, visibly relaxed. In a far corner of the restaurant our waiter was talking to a waitress and pointing at me.  I hadn’t made a friend.

 

 

When he returned, I ordered an appetizer called a Treasure Island.  It turned out to be an atoll of thinly sliced avocado surrounding a lagoon of mango puree filled with pieces of raw tuna.  It was beautiful and delicious. I passed it around

We were seated at a teppanyaki table with a grill surface in the center. Our chef arrived in a flurry and began juggling his knife and spatula.  Annette leaned toward me and whispered, “Go with the flow.” I nodded. The martini was working its magic, and I’d already decided I would. The chef performed his flashy routine that included an impressive blaze on his grill surface.  The food was heavy on carbs – lots of rice and noodles, but it was filling and tasty. 

Allysa, my friend’s seven-year-old granddaughter asked the chef.  “Are you from China?”  He said he was.  Her mother explained that Allysa was learning about China in school.

“What part?” the chef wanted to know.

“The great wall, “Allysa said, “They built that to keep out enemies who wanted to kill China.” 

“It is very old,” the chef said.

I believe the whole staff of Sakimura may be Chinese, and possibly the ownership as well.  Many Chinese know the restaurant business, and Japanese food is an area in Asian cuisine that is not oversaturated.  I saw that my early problems were caused by linguistic difficulties and not incompetence with the job.  It was a good restaurant all in all.

When I got home I visited my mother in the nursing home and sat with her while she ate her dinner.  One of her tablemates asked for a cup of coffee, and when it came she said it was cold. The waitress added some more from the same pot. “It’s still cold,” the woman complained.

 The waitress said she’d done all she could.  I suggested she take the cup to the kitchen and stick it in the microwave. 

“We’re not allowed to heat things up,” she said, “Someone might get burned.”

I can see that going with the flow is a virtue a fogy needs to cultivate. I’ll work on it.

 

Ted’s

Boiled beef is sought after by gourmets all over the world.  Tafelspit, the famous Viennese version, is made from special cuts and is reputed to be sublime.  If I ever get to the famous Plachutta Wollzeile in that city, I’ll report on it, but for now my topic is the steamed cheeseburger.

To truly appreciate a steamed cheeseburger, you have to put aside all your preconceived ideas about hamburger.  Forget the sweet, crunchy caramelization produced by contact with the heat of the grill.  Forget medium rare. Then you have to travel to a small area in central Connecticut where steamed cheeseburgers are a local delicacy. 

I was visiting our friend Ina in Meriden when I set out to investigate this phenomenon.  I went to Ted’s Restaurant at 1046 Main Street in that fair city, but there are other eateries in town where you can expand you r culinary horizons and sample the treat. Another restaurant I visited on my stay had to install a steamer to satisfy popular demand. 

The burgers are formed in molds and then steamed.  The moist heat keeps them juicy.  The waitress at Ted’s told me the steamed cheeseburger was invented there.  Pinning down food origins is tricky, and there are other claims.  My internet research suggests Jack’s Lunch, a defunct diner in nearby Middletown, CT, was the point of origin, but Ted’s has been making steamed burgers for fifty years.  I learned in my research that the steamed burger was first introduced as a healthy alternative to fried meat. 

Ted’s wouldn’t draw you in from its appearance.  It has a weathered wood façade with white framed windows.  Inside is a counter with the kind of stools you can twirl on.  We chose a booth.  The workers wear black tee shirts that say, “Still steaming after fifty years.” 

When my burger came, I tasted the meat and ventured the opinion that the flavor resembled pot roast.  Annette didn’t think so.  Ina satisfied herself with a diet Pepsi, and based her scorn on intuition alone.

 

 

My attitude was more positive.  I knew that many residents of this part of the Nutmeg State seek out steamed cheese burgers and enjoy them a great deal.  If they can, why not I?  I found the taste a little bland.  I tried adding salt, which helped.  The cheese is supposed to be Vermont cheddar.  It’s blander than the finest examples of that estimable cheese, but it melts beautifully and is gloppy when hot and slightly chewy as it cools. 

 

Annette had a Southwest cheeseburger, which had bacon and deep fried onion strings.  I observed that the bland, tender meat made a good vehicle for the condiments. Free add-ons include lettuce, tomato, onion, sautéed mushrooms, pickles, jalapenos, ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, barbecue sauce, relish, spicy mustard, hot sauce, Buffalo sauce, and ranch dressing.  “So, bring your own burger,” Ina said. 

The home fries, which are the only potatoes Ted’s serves, were also a little bland, but the condiments improved them as well. I dosed mine with habanero Tabasco, which improved them greatly.  They’re available with a combination of cheese, chili, bacon, and jalapenos, which ought to overwhelm the blandness of your socks.  

 

I think I was beginning to get it, but I have to admit Ina had a point, and I doubt I’ll wake up in the night with an unappeasable craving for a steamed cheeseburger.  Perhaps you have to grow up on them to really appreciate their appeal.  I told Ina we needed an upscale version, and suggested we invent Filet mignon haché à la vapeur avec fromage , which I translated as steamed chopped filet mignon with cheese.  We could offer a choice of melted Roquefort or brie and offer it on a brioche for $29.95.  True gourmets aren’t going to sit on a twirly stool and eat a cheeseburger that sells for $5.25.

New England Spring

It certainly was lovely last year when everything bloomed at once.  We had crocuses, daffodils, and tulips all at the same time, and forsythia and azaleas to boot.  It was so warm on the day of the Boston Marathon, the heat was a danger to the runners.  We enjoyed it, but there was eeriness about it as though something wasn’t right. 

Today I took my walk outdoors.  On dry days there’s no more need to go around and around the supermarket. The sun was shining, but the wind was blustery and blew some of the grit the sanders left on the pavement into my face.  This is New England, and when we got all those lovely blossoms everywhere, we knew in our hearts we’d have to pay for them. When the blizzard blew the lights out and the furnace off, we remembered that unnatural, almost torrid spring. 

It’s after five on a Sunday afternoon, and the April light is as it should be, but the sound of the wind is about the house.  It doesn’t howl like the blizzard, but it lets us know we aren’t being softened up.  A few daffodils bloom in the sunniest spots, and the tulips are budded tight.  The forsythia has an inkling its moment is approaching, but it’s biding its time.

The Upanishads

We’re getting a new carpet, and having to remove things from the room so it can be installed forced us to decide which ones we’ll put back. Annette remarked, “When you get to be seventy, you’ve got to start reducing yourself to your essence, because it’s all you’ve got energy for and space for.”

I no longer have space for the Upanishads.  There was a time in the sixties when this seminal Indian philosophy was thought to have a message for the sensitive American soul. You could say things like,

The Self is in the ear of the ear,
The eye of the eye, the mind of the mind,
The word of words, and the life of life.

It would impress chicks.  The trouble was I really didn’t know any chicks who’d buy the idea that I was hip to Eastern mysticism.  Annette would have just laughed, so I didn’t even try, but I did put the book on the shelf, where people would see it, and think I was deep.  Now it’s stiff and yellowed.  If you want it, it will be available for 50¢ at the book table of the Antiquarian Fair next summer.  You don’t even have to get there early.  I don’t expect it to be a hot item. 

I always thought I might quote the Upanishads in something I wrote, and now I have.  But I’m not pretending I read the book.  I never have, at least not all the way through, and I don’t care who knows it. 

What Annette meant about reducing ourselves to our essence was to get rid of clutter, but I’m wondering if, when I’ve rid myself of vain and useless possessions and stop pretending to be deeper than I am, I’ll have achieved my true self and be living the life of life.  I’ll meditate on this and let you know.