“Hell and warm water,” said Gramp, “it's time we let the boat cast off….”
But of course, we couldn't leave until the Dutch cook (who was weeping at Gramp's leaving for a sea trip) had served Shad Roe Longstreet, a dish that she swore must be eaten before every sea trip… it was better than a charm. I don't know how true that was, but Gramp had eaten it every trip since the day he hired the cook, and had never had trouble with shipwreck, typhoon, or iceberg. “Damn it, I wish it were good luck at cards,” said Gramp. “The Old Bag (an old friend of his who played her cards better than Gramp on ocean liners) took six hundred dollars off me last trip. But I'll take her like the promoters took the peoples' oil wells this trip. Serve up your roe!”
And the cook did, and we ate it… one eye on the clock. It may help you on some sea trip; so here it is if you have the sea trip, the money for it, a world at peace, and shad roe….
Take a shad roe, and sauté it in two ounces of melted butter, making sure it's the proper Van Dyke brown on both sides. Move the roe to a good, hot plate, and dust with salt and pepper. To the melted butter resting in the pan add a pinch each of well-minced chive, shallot, chervil, and parsley. Cook and stir for just over a minute, and then pour the seasoned butter over the waiting shad roe.
Gramp would garnish the dish with slices of lemon and a very light dusting of nutmeg, and the cook would add some parsley just for the color scheme… it reminded her of the color of the sea. And we ate. Perhaps it was true that shad roe is good for sea travel. It was a tasty way to find out, anyway.
But even food could not keep us long. Gramp pulled out his turnip-sized watch, compared it with what he called “the sissy on the fireplace” (sometimes Aunt Fiona claimed it landed with the Mayflower mob in 1620). and said, “To the boat!”
It was a wild ride to the boat. The horsepower was not spared….
We no sooner saw the great vessel bathed in lights and the people packed like happy ants on her decks, than Aunt Fran felt seasick. Mama said it would be all right once she took her shoes off, and got to bed, and read a good book. Gramp let Mama kiss Papa and Fran kiss her young man, and then Uncle Willie and everyone else kissed Mama and Fran (including a stranger in a Vienna Habig hat and a striped silk shirt who was there to see a vaudeville act off… but got his parties mixed up).
We fought our way to the deck, and Gramp, as an old traveler, stood there smoking Dimitrinos and handing out bills to the stewards, who bowed very low and said, “Jawohl, Herr Longstrasse….”
And Mama in her excitement, as Papa's face grew sad below us, said “Schones Schwabenland” over and over again… having forgotten her German, and saying anything farewell she could think of.
Fran sank against the rail, the great siren broke up the night, and the ship stirred like something alive. A wide wedge of inky water appeared to grow between us and the land of my birth… and we were at sea!
“Zul bennah af hhhhhk!” said Aunt Fran.
Gramp said, “So she speaks German, too?”
“No,” said Mama, “she's going to cat.”
Gramp took my arm, and we walked away to the bar. “Women like to be alone at a time like this. I'll send down a stewardess to help them.”
The bar was padded in red leather, and a fringe of drunks was already wearing out its elbows on the walnut bar. A small drunk came over to Gramp and pumped his hand.
“Well, well, General, haven't seen you… haven't seen you since…?”
“That's right,” said Gramp.
“Must be about, about…?”
“All of that.”
“You, me, and, and, and…?”
“Yes, a great crowd.”
“What do you know! See you again. Small, small…?”
“Yes, it's a small world,” said Gramp, and he ordered some Veuve Cliquor sent down to the cabin and had a brandy himself, and watched the barman make a lemon crush for me.
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