After Mama and all the rest of us got back from Europe, everyone sat around waiting for the war to end in six months. And in 1941 I suppose a lot of people still thought it would.
But Mama wasn't one to sit around reading the novels of Robert Chambers (the Louis Bromfield of his day) or knitting headgear for the British troops. She did knit… gay fearful little hoods that never seemed fit for normal heads. Gramp came in one day to find her holding up her newest knitted horror for all to see. Gramp shook his head.
“Damn me for a pump handle, Sara, but who ever told you the British were putting two-headed soldiers into battle!”
“It's not a hat,” said Mama. “It's a sweater.”
“Well,” said Gramp, maybe they have three-armed soldiers. …”
But Mama's mind wasn't on her knitting. Mama's mind was on The Peace to Come (sure, they talked that way in those days, too).
“Gramp,” said Mama, “some day there will be a peace.”
“And the horrors of war and knitting will be done with.”
Mama said, “I am holding a mass meeting tonight. I want you there.”
Gramp winked at me and bit the head off one of his huge cigars. “I mass badly.”
“This meeting will organize for the peace to come. We need names…big names…important people.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“That's what Lord Belka said.”
Gramp inhaled cigar smoke and exhaled it, and looked at me and then at Mama. “Lord Belka?”.
“Lord Belka will address us tonight.”
“On what?”
“Peace. What to do with the Germans.”
Gramp snorted. “Nothing will be done with them except to beat them…nothing is ever done.”
“This time,” said Mama, “we hope to do something.”
“But we're not at war yet.”
“We will be soon,” said Mama. “Will you come?”
“Lord Belka, hah!” said Gramp, with a sound as if someone had put bitters into his best Port (I know an actor who drinks it that way…but then…).
“I'll be there,” said Gramp. “Where are we dining?”
“At the Beurre Fondu.”
“Well, I hope 'Arry has some interesting dishes tonight.”
At that time the Beurre Fondu, known to many who didn't dare try out their high school French as the Butter Ball, was a small, well-hidden French cating place in the 23rd Street neighborhood. The owner and chef was called 'Arry (never Harry). He was Hungarian. The waiters were all Austrian, the bus boys Dutch, and the fat lady with the perfect bottom (it was good deportment for all old customers to pinch it) and the bright green eyes and the red hair was from Madried, and was rumored to be both a British and a Turkish agent. She never did much to prove this untrue…except to drink her very white wine and sing “Bien hablar no cuesta nada. …”
There was not one Frenchman on the staff, yet the knowing ones called it the best French eating place to be found in New York.
'Arry himself met us that night. Papa was away on a business tour (Gramp figured with a war boom on even Papa couldn't lose more than ten thousand dollars that year). I went along to escort Mama and also because I had an evening habit of sliding down the stair rail into all the other little children in the house, howling that I was a British plane and they were “lousy Huns. …”
Anyway, 'Arry himself came to greet us at the door of the coal cellar he had made into the Melted Butter. He had a calf's eye, a cocktail mustache, and a mouth like a slack bag-opening, but he could put dashes of things on crackers and hand them around so fast, that you had finished your first course before you knew it.
'Arry said, “Bienvenue.”
“Never mind the French,” said Gramp. “What's to eat?”
“To be seated…so, please…such fine brusquerie, M. Longrue.”
We went to our table, and Gramp bowed to The Bottom, but skipped the ritual pinch because Mama frowned on such things in public. The Bottom winked at Gramp, smiled at me, and dipped her red hair to Mama. All international rules of greeting being finished, we sat down to eat.
“Well, 'Arry,” said Gramp.
“En alerte,” snapped 'Arry to the waiters, and he bowed over us. “What to eat?”
Mama said, “I think you do well with fish. Wasn't there a dish called' ‘Arry's’ ‘orror?’”
“I am pleased,” said 'Arry. “You mean 'Arry's 'addock. But this year we use not the'addock, but the shad.”
Still, in Mama's travel journal it's listed as “'Arry's 'orror.” Take a four-pound shad, and split it along the back. Rub the fish down with a mixture of salt, pepper, a ground clove, and a clove of garlic. Make a dressing of a half-cup of melted butter, two ounces of mixed lime and lemon juice, and two small fresh red peppers ground up. Now bake the fish in a hot oven of about 400° F. for half an hour and keep basting the fish with the dressing. Then remove the fish to a plate, and pour the rest of the dressing over it. If spring onions, cumin seeds, and citronella leaf-stalks are still to be had, garnish the fish with them.
'Arry himself served the dish to us, and I remember we did well by his “'orror,” and only the peace meeting kept us from sitting there a little longer while the customers came in to pinch and order and eat and sit drinking their wine, and while there tired lovers of seasoned violins played something that Gramp called “Schlampersi” and that Mama called “Strauss waltzes in exile.”
I called for another order of three-colored ice cream. And got it.
“Everything is all right?” asked 'Arry.
“Everything,” said Mama. “How do you feel about peace, “Arry?”
'Arry bowed. “I am polite to it.”
“That,” said Mama, “is about the nicest thing a head-waiter could say about anything in this world…even if he is supposed to be his own chef, too.”
Mama, after her cheese and dry bread, led us to the peace-to-come meeting in the next block. There were not too many people in the old loft, but those that were there were all earnest thinkers. They had brows going back baldly to behind their ears, they wore earrings of solid stone that made them a little round-shouldered, and they polished their eyeglasses with an honest, earnest firmness that showed Mama was in the right place…they really wanted to finish off the Germans this time.
On the platform sat a lot of fat legs and thin shanks, and among them was Lord Belka himself…his neat little beared trimmed like a fine lawn, his tiny medals in a row across his fine-fitting evening clothes, and his white tie two shades whiter than any white ever seen before.
“It's a fine face,” said Mama.
“He never uses it much,” said Gramp. “Must be saving it to get buried in.”
Lord Belka kissed Mama's hand. “Candor dat virbus, alas.” I remember that line, because the lord and I must have had the same Latin teachers. I had had trouble with it earlier in the week.
Mama said, “Good of you to come. …”
And a fat little lady draped in pearls almost big enough to look like the skull-necklaces savages wore, got up and said something about Belka, and the lord spoke for two hours. I don't remember what he said, but it doesn't matter, since nothing was done about Germans after that war, except business as usual. …
Gramp and Mama carried me to a cab (I had fallen asleep on a sweet stranger's shoulder and dreamed of Mama leading an army into battle).
When we got home, I remember Gramp's saying, “Lord Belka is a fraud. …”
“That's easy to say,” said Mama… and the next thing I knew it was noon, and I had missed a half-a-day by sleeping late.
Lunch was being served, and I went down and Gramp was reading the newspapers. “Damn it, and pump Hell dry, they don't make war the right way any more.”
Fiona, the daughter-in-law who never knew when to remain silent, said, “Not as right as when you and that foul Mr. Grant were fighting in Virginia, I'm sure.”
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).
Boil and simmer everything together until it's thick again. Add salt, pepper, and the blood of one lime. Pour this over white squares of cooked lobster meat…and may the memory of George Corey never be forgotten!
“Well?” said George, as we did justice to our filled plates.
“Fine…has my son Mike been in?”
George looked down at his beer rag. “I'm not saying yea or no…for it was him here this morning…and yet not himself…if you know what I mean.”
“Starched?” said Gramp.
“Would you be caring for another toss of the curry, suh? “The condition of the gentleman is hard to place. But your son Mike was…what I might call… yeas, suh, he was starched…right to the ears!”
From Corey's we went east to the river bank. Non one had heard of anyone's falling in. Uncle Mike wasn't a river jumper anyway. He was always at his best when well starched. …“Polite as hell,” he used to say, tipping his hat to any lady and collecting, sometimes, a black eye for the attention.
We were crossing 23rd Street, when suddenly Gramp gripped my arm so hard I almost dropped the ice cream cone I was torturing to a wet end.
“Look—Sara!”
“Mama?”
Gramp pointed his cane…sure enough, there was Mama walking along as if she had lost a kite and was hunting for it…which was silly, since Mama never flew a kite. She was following someone, and being very small, she would stop every now and then to stand on tip-toe to peek at her prey, somewhere in the mob ahead.
“It's Lord Belka,” said Gramp.
And sure enough, about twenty feet ahead was Lord Belka under a square derby, hurrying along with a very guilty look over his beard. We caught up with Mama…and Gramp took her arm, so quickly she almost, as she said later, “jumped our of her shoes.”
“Oh…you!”
“Who else?” said Gramp.
“I'm following someone.”
Gramp winked at me. “No! At your age, Sara?”
Mama said, “It's Lord Belka.”
“I hear he's married and has six daughters…all ugly.”
“I'm following him because I don't trust him.”
“Why?” asked Gramp.
Mama shook her head. “It's very strange. I was crossing the street when I saw him…and I'm sure he saw me…and then suddenly he acted as if he hadn't and he pulled his hat down over his eyes and ran away from me.”
“I would, too,” said Gramp, “if I wore a hat like that.”
“Now I've lost him.”
“I can still see him,” said Gramp. “What do you suspect him of?”
“I don't think he's a real Win-the-Peace man.”
“Oh, come now, Sara…don't be part of the spy hunt mob.”
“Once I saw a spy,” I said.
“What was he doing?” asked Mama.
“Watching the cook take a bath.”
“Yes,” said Gramp, changing the subject very quickly. “But to get back to Lord Belka.”
“He's gone,” said Mama.
“No,” saod Gramp, “he's just gone into 'Arry's place.”
“The Melted Butter at this time! It's hours before dinner.”
“He'll ruin his dinner,” I said.
“Let's see, Sara, what he's there for.”
There was nobody braver than Mama. “Let's go.”
The eating place was doing a dull business to a few flies who had become dope fiends in the sugar bowls. The Bottom was reading a paper-backed novel with the title in French Condamnée. 'Arry had his jacked off and was punching holes in a racing form trying to pick a good thing at Belmont. The waiters, or bus boys, were nowhere in sight.
'Arry leaped to his feet (bare of shoes and with a hole in his right big stocking toe) and hunted for his footwear. “Concombre that I am…I forget to latch the door!”
Mama said, “Where is Lord Belka?”
The Bottom rolled her green eyes and sucked her cheeks in with a clicking sound. “'Oo, you ask?”
“Lord Belka,” said Mama.
“A great man,” said 'Arry. “I adore him con abbabdono as a lover of people. …But he is not here today. Later, maybe, over cocktails?”
“We saw him come in here.”
The Bottom sighed. “By the right eye of my father-in-law…no!”
Gramp beat his cane on a dusty chair. “We saw him, 'Arry…better talk.”
'Arry held out his hands, palms up, shrugged his shoulders, and got into his shoes at last. He picked up his jacket, and carefully folded his racing form and put it away in a pocket.
“You 'ave me with the goods…this way, I act as concierge.”
“Shall we?” asked Mama.
“Too late to turn back…Lead on, 'Arry…and no tricks.”
“Tricks?” said 'Arry.
“Tricks!” snorted The Bottom. “All my life everyone is too full of tricks!”
We followed 'Arry behind a screen and up a small flight of stairs on which kittens had grown to girlhood, then along a hall…and suddenly a door opened and we went in, and there was Lord Belka with his coat off, and I was as shocked as if he had removed his beard.
“I am sorry,” he said to Mama.
“Are you?” said Mama. “How could you!”
“I did my best,” said Lord Belka, and he stepped aside, and there on a sofa was Uncle Mike as starched as could be, sleeping the sleep of the innocent and the well-starched. Lord Belka bowed.
“As a friend of the family, what else could I do? I found him in this… this happy condition in the street… but a little too loud-spoken, and I felt that 'Arry, knowing the family, would understand.”
“It was good of you,” said Mama.
“He'll be all right,” said Gramp, testing Uncle Mike, as if he were a pie baking, with his cane. “Tomorrow he'll be hung over, but that's all.”
“I used to,” said Lord Belka, “be young myself.”
'Arry nodded. “Who wasn't…heh, Stevie?”
Mama said to me, “Poor Uncle Mike.
He must have been taken sick suddenly.”
“Yes,” I said, wondering whether I should tell Mama the truth.…
“Well, let him sleep,” said Gramp. “Lord Belka, I hope you understand how we feel about your doing this for us…most kind. Sara thinks the world of you.
“A world for peace,” said Lord Belka. “But first we must beat the damn Germans!”
“That's what I like,” said Gramp. “Let's have some drinks below and perhaps an early dinner, and you can tell us how the peace is to be won.”
So we left Uncle Mike sleeping like an innocent baby, smelling of the best brandy, and downstairs Mama and Lord Belka explained how the peace was to be won. It doesn't matter now…since nobody asked Mama and Lord Belka about the peace, anyway, when it came. …I remember better what we had for dinner. Sometimes I think it would have been a better world if I had remembered the talk and not the food. Maybe if all the world had heard the talk a lot of heartache would have been spared us. But then, 'Arry's never could seat more than twenty people.