Gramp rattled the newspaper into atoms. “General Grant to you, Fiona, and his personal habits are none of our affair. He won a great war, and he was a great man who united a nation so we can face the wolf teeth in the world today. Don't say Mister Grant in front of the children again.”
“Is it a dirty word?” I asked.
“It's worse…and now let us eat our daily bread.”
At which point the cook brought in the roast, aided by the butler.
But after lunch Gramp shook his head and threw away the remains of his newspaper. “I don't like it…this Lord Belka making more speeches.”
Mama sipped her coffee slowly. “He is for a proper kind of peace.”
“But Sara…we aren't in the war yet, and haven't lost a soldier, and it's silly for him to talk of peace now. What is he?”
“A great man,” said Mama, looking very meek.
“Who was his grandfather?”
“A great man.”
Gramp snorted. “Mine was a Dutch dockworker who smelled of Edam cheeses. …What are the Belkas?”
Mama sent stiff. “The[ILLEGIBLE TEXT] Belkas are related to the S[ILLEGIBLE TEXT] of England. …”Mama flushed. “Perhaps on the wrong side of the sheets…but true pretenders to the throne.”
“Hell and fish wool!” said Gramp.
“Every bum in England is related to the lost causes. Pretenders, my eye teeth… which I still have…there are no pretenders anymore. Your Lord Belka is a fraud.”
“Prove it,” said Mama.
Gramp and I went to the zoo to feed our pet hippo, and Mama went out to have some booklets printed, booklets that aimed to prove most people don't like war.
Gramp and I also bought a new picture of General Grant to hang in the hall over Fiona's door. We were hanging it when Fiona came home, and she just stood there a minute, and then said, “Another one?”
Gramp hit his best finger with the hammer and howled, “Blue salt and bat feathers…don't speak when I'm hammering!”
“That makes seven pictures of the General in the house.”
“It's still my house,” said Gramp with dignity, falling half-way down the ladder. “And I don't expect to die before Christmas!”
“Your son Mike has been seeing too much of the General's tonic again.” Fiona went into her room and slammed the door.
Uncle Mike was what we called “our drinking uncle.” We never made a secret of it…neither did Uncle Mike in his youth. But as time went on, he would hide out some place and proceed to get what he called “starched”…a process which consisted of taking on all drinks possible, no matter in what form they were.
Gramp put away his best hammer and got his cane and coat, and we went out to find Uncle Mile. Uncle Mike was clever. he left a trail so small an Indian would have been proud to have found it.
We tried George Corey's bar and Fine Grill first. It was on Third Anenue, and George, a fine broth of a lad, served a special free lunch.
Gramp only tool me there, as he said, to study the size and science of pretzels …while be tasted the daily free special, and preserved it in beer. George had a real old-fashioned kitchen behind the bar.
He stood by the steaming special, and Gramp sniffed and said, “What is it today?”
George, who had served in India, and had two wives and voted pure Tammany, said, “As if you didn't know suh…it's curry à l'Indienne Longstreet.”
Gramp took the great mug of beer and threw a pretzel at me that vanished into a high glass. “Last week it was curry Admiral Dewey, and next week it will probably be curry Teddy Roosevelt.”
Curry Longstreet (let's stick to facts, no matter what the dish is called today) is made by heating half a pint of olive oil in a pan and adding two ounces of the best curry powder and a crushed clove of garlic. Heat and stir, and add two grated onions, and boil until the mixture is thick.
Chop fine a half pound of the best beef, and add a pint of beef stock, a pint of tomato purée, a half ounce of Worcestershire, and a pint of Bengal chutney (which is still in stock in many places).
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