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Authors: Mark Kurlansky
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soy oil as a snack along with the herring for Friday night kiddushes. Litvak's mofongo was also perfect for the rabbi's Sunday morning breakfasts, which by tradition emphasized fats and carbohydrates. Every Sunday morning, a handful of aging followers sat with the rabbi and debated on Jewish writings and the events of the day while being served Scotch, bourbon, noodle kugel, Yankel Fink's knishes—arguably the densest material ever made by man—and the rabbi's kosher mofongo. Sometimes Eli Rab-binowitz would come, and then he would contribute blintzes laid out in disposable aluminum pans that got misshapened as Litvak's followers hungrily grabbed for them because Rabbinowitz never brought enough, and the polite and the slow would be left with mofongo. Thank God for the noodle kugel. Thank God for the bourbon.
With the shooting of Rabbinowitz, there would be no more blintzes for the rabbi's breakfast. From a gastronomic point of view, they would have preferred that Yankel Fink had been shot.
When Joey Parma arrived at the casita, his linen wilted in mid-morning heat, he admired the neat rows of struggling crops, pastel flowering peas, drooping tomato vines with small, misshapen yellow fruit, and lush weed patches. Chow Mein was standing in front of a four-foot fruitless banana plant, stroking a broad, limp leaf. He had gained almost one hundred pounds since the boogaloo days, and with his often incomprehensible pronouncements and his rounding size, he was becoming more suggestive of Buddha than boogaloo. The banana bush looked very small next to him.
"Joey, did you ever see a banana grow?"
"I'm Italian."
"Me either. I'm Puerto Rican. I should be able to grow bananas. I wonder how they do it," Chow Mein said, thoughtfully stroking his gnarled and stumpy ponytail, which was not doing much better than the bananas.
"Well, I'm Italian and I cannot make a good espresso. Not like they make in Italy. Some say it's the water. But there are Italian restaurants here that do it. What are you going to do with the bananas? Did you see the article in the Times? Enrico Petruchi uses them with sea bass and endive."
Chow Mein was silent for a minute. He was not going to give this white guy the satisfaction of showing that he didn't know who Enrique Petuque was. "I just want to see them grow. A casita should have bananas," he finally said.
"Were you here last night?"
"The Hamptons are so crowded this time of year."
Joey showed no sign of appreciating the joke.
"Is it true you couldn't find his head?"
"We got his head. We even got the angle of the firing, so we know the height of the killer."
"Unless he shoots from a weird angle," said Chow Mein, knowing that the cops had already decided that whatever height they came up with was the height of Latino people. He stood up, as though daring Joey to make a note of his height, and said, "You know we shouldn't talk here. Cops in a casita is a very bad gestalt, tu sabe'."
"Let's go eat something."
Chow Mein knew he would say that. He tried to cooperate with the police because he, too, had loved drugs in the sixties but hated them in the eighties. He had lost too many friends. Also he liked to eat with Joey Parma, because if you ate with Joey, it was always "on the house."
"You know," said Chow Mein, "I'd like to go to Rabbinowitz's. I loved his blintzes. With the sour cream." He snapped his fingers.
"Well, closed today."
"It was the last good blintzes in the neighborhood. What are we going to do?"
"There's a new little French place."
"If I can't have blintzes," said Chow Mein, gently dusting some kind of white powder off Joey Parma's linen jacket, "let's go cuchifrito."
As they walked around the corner to the cuchifrito, Chow Mein nodded thoughtfully while Joey explained what he had just learned: how to use talcum powder to remove a grease stain. They stood at a counter and ate fried bananas and beans and fat slices of pork roasted with garlic and coriander seeds, served with a
With the shooting of Rabbinowitz, there would be no more blintzes for the rabbi's breakfast. From a gastronomic point of view, they would have preferred that Yankel Fink had been shot.
When Joey Parma arrived at the casita, his linen wilted in mid-morning heat, he admired the neat rows of struggling crops, pastel flowering peas, drooping tomato vines with small, misshapen yellow fruit, and lush weed patches. Chow Mein was standing in front of a four-foot fruitless banana plant, stroking a broad, limp leaf. He had gained almost one hundred pounds since the boogaloo days, and with his often incomprehensible pronouncements and his rounding size, he was becoming more suggestive of Buddha than boogaloo. The banana bush looked very small next to him.
"Joey, did you ever see a banana grow?"
"I'm Italian."
"Me either. I'm Puerto Rican. I should be able to grow bananas. I wonder how they do it," Chow Mein said, thoughtfully stroking his gnarled and stumpy ponytail, which was not doing much better than the bananas.
"Well, I'm Italian and I cannot make a good espresso. Not like they make in Italy. Some say it's the water. But there are Italian restaurants here that do it. What are you going to do with the bananas? Did you see the article in the Times? Enrico Petruchi uses them with sea bass and endive."
Chow Mein was silent for a minute. He was not going to give this white guy the satisfaction of showing that he didn't know who Enrique Petuque was. "I just want to see them grow. A casita should have bananas," he finally said.
"Were you here last night?"
"The Hamptons are so crowded this time of year."
Joey showed no sign of appreciating the joke.
"Is it true you couldn't find his head?"
"We got his head. We even got the angle of the firing, so we know the height of the killer."
"Unless he shoots from a weird angle," said Chow Mein, knowing that the cops had already decided that whatever height they came up with was the height of Latino people. He stood up, as though daring Joey to make a note of his height, and said, "You know we shouldn't talk here. Cops in a casita is a very bad gestalt, tu sabe'."
"Let's go eat something."
Chow Mein knew he would say that. He tried to cooperate with the police because he, too, had loved drugs in the sixties but hated them in the eighties. He had lost too many friends. Also he liked to eat with Joey Parma, because if you ate with Joey, it was always "on the house."
"You know," said Chow Mein, "I'd like to go to Rabbinowitz's. I loved his blintzes. With the sour cream." He snapped his fingers.
"Well, closed today."
"It was the last good blintzes in the neighborhood. What are we going to do?"
"There's a new little French place."
"If I can't have blintzes," said Chow Mein, gently dusting some kind of white powder off Joey Parma's linen jacket, "let's go cuchifrito."
As they walked around the corner to the cuchifrito, Chow Mein nodded thoughtfully while Joey explained what he had just learned: how to use talcum powder to remove a grease stain. They stood at a counter and ate fried bananas and beans and fat slices of pork roasted with garlic and coriander seeds, served with a
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