The Catskill Chronicle

By Jude Waterston

Some years ago I had a boyfriend named Gene. He was an odd bird: tense, awkward, and ill-at-ease the entire time we dated. Before we officially met, I saw him virtually every day. He’d pass by the Kettle of Fish, the bar in which I bartended; turn his head as he passed the leaded windows; look straight at me and raise one hand in a wave. Perhaps he smiled slightly, I can’t recall. He was damn good looking; I know that. He once said, referring to his facial bone structure, “You could hang a picture from these cheek bones.”

One evening, out of the blue, he popped into the bar and slid onto a stool. Ordered a gin and tonic. Small, awkward smile. “Piece of lime?” I asked. “Yes, thank you,” he responded. Then, out of nowhere, “My Pop always said white liquor drinks were for sissies.” He took a swig of the drink and grimaced. “I make a pretty strong libation,” I said, smiling.

Later, when I got off from work and he was still there after I’d counted the day’s receipts, I took a seat next to him and we began to talk. I asked him why in all the years he’d passed by and waved, he’d never ventured in. Why tonight? His response was vague and made little sense, but he asked to walk me home later that night. At my door, he made no attempt to get invited up, nor did he try to kiss me. Very formally, he bade me good night and moved down the block slowly, and I thought, self-consciously.

After that first time, he came to the Kettle nightly. It was always a busy time for me from a little after five in the evening until I got off at eight, but he waited patiently. When it was slow, which was rare, we’d get to know each other in dribs and drabs across the bar, but mostly it was at the end of my shift when he’d walk me home that we’d talk, or rather I’d ask about him, and he’d cautiously open up. Sometimes I felt like I was interviewing my new boyfriend.

He was a hospital locksmith, on-call all the time, day and night. And he was divorced and angrily paying alimony to his ex-wife. He had two sons who he loved dearly. His dad was not only an alcoholic, but one of those bums you actually see staggering about or lying in a crumpled pile on the Bowery. Gene’s baggage was palpable, but I didn’t know that right away.

He did regularly bitch about his obligations to the “ex,” and money, in general, was a big issue. I actually felt he was cheap. I would, on occasion, buy him a book I thought he’d like. He was stunned and moved, too. He would never think of treating me to anything. Money (and anger surrounding it) was a constant in his life. But he could be solicitous and gentle. He sent me postcards with sweet words, although I noticed the front of the cards always carried disturbing images, often of people isolated or lonely-looking.

He had lived for many years in the East Village. Now, he had a tiny apartment two blocks from mine, near Washington Square Park. He often pined for the old neighborhood. One morning he suggested we stroll across town to have breakfast at his favorite restaurant. Under his direction, we actually did stroll, like a couple long married. He wasn’t a hand-holder. He tucked his arm under mine and held onto my forearm as though I was an old lady, unsteady on my feet. I found it bizarre, but felt there was such a frailty to him that I didn’t comment.

At 127 Second Avenue, between St. Mark’s Place and Seventh Street, Gene paused at the entrance to B & H Dairy and smiled his tight smile. “I hope you like it,” he said, leading me into the tiny, ancient hole-in-the-wall diner, one of the last vestiges of the theater district once known as the Jewish Broadway.

I took to it immediately. There was a long counter with a dozen wobbly swiveling, lumpy stools. Along the left-side length of the slim room were four little tables and a couple more that could seat foursomes. The aisle between the counter and the tables wasn’t quite two-feet wide. Everyone eating there looked like a seasoned regular. And quite a mish-mash of mankind they were. No one seemed to mind the cramped quarters one bit. There was no wait staff, so the counterman hollered out the food orders for those sitting at the tables, who then stood and leaned across the crowded counter to retrieve their vittles.

In the very back of the restaurant there was a miniscule tiled white kitchen the size of a bathroom. In it’s cramped, open quarters stood a young Hispanic man wearing a backward baseball cap on his clean-shaven head. He rubbed elbows with a stocky, amply bosomed older woman, obviously of Eastern European decent, wearing stretchy black netting over her short blonde hair. There were well-used, blackened caldrons on each burner of the stove, and the couple worked swiftly and easily together.

Hanging from every available space were laminated signs advertising the kosher dairy, meatless fare. “Overstuffed sandwiches” included chopped herring, tuna salad, vegetable cutlet, vegetarian chopped liver, and egg salad. The day’s soup selections were lentil, mushroom barley, vegetable, Yankee bean, tomato, split pea, cabbage, gazpacho, cream of cauliflower, and hot or cold borscht. Blintz choices were cheese, cherry, blueberry; apple, strawberry or spinach, and pierogies were available stuffed with sauerkraut, cheese or potato. It was a cornucopia of Eastern European food dating back a long way. The place was a real “throw-back” and I was enchanted.

Gene, with a pained, uptight expression, slid onto a seat at the counter. “I love it already, without even tasting the food,” I assured him. This seemed to loosen him up somewhat. The counterman, head swathed in a red and white paisley bandana, grinned broadly and handed us menus. Eggs any style served with home fries, the restaurant’s homemade challah bread, orange juice, and coffee or tea was an amazingly low $3.25, and omelets, served with the same accompaniments, ranged from $4.10 to a whopping $6.95 for one stuffed with lox and onions.

The counterman-cum-short-order cook executed my meal perfectly. Lox and eggs loosely scrambled; well-done, crispy potatoes flecked with bits of caramelized onions and sweet bell peppers; two thick, fluffy slices of buttered challah bread; a tiny plastic juice glass of orange juice; and a hot cup of coffee. Gene had cherry blintzes and three cups of coffee. He would have eaten in total, ill-at-ease silence, so I was forced to grill him on his childhood just to keep some form of conversation going. While he held forth about his miserable, grim upbringing, I wondered what on earth I was doing with him.

When we’d finished our meal, I thanked the chef for his fine food, and Gene nodded at him politely. My strange beau reached for my hand and we wended our way down the tight aisle and out the front door. “Don’t you think we should’ve paid?” I asked as the door swung shut behind us. Gene’s nervousness had gotten the better of him, and we’d walked right past the cashier without paying nary a cent. Suddenly, I felt tremendously sorry for him. I touched his cheek tenderly. “Wait here, this is my treat,” I said. “No, no, never!” he stammered, flustered, pushing past me. I waited on the sidewalk as he rushed to where we’d sat, snatched the bill still sitting there, and paid the woman stationed at the register.

I broke up with him soon afterwards. I think he was grateful. And I was grateful, too. I’d discovered a swell place to have breakfast. I returned there a couple of years later. There was a different counterman, equally efficient and pleasant, and a new prep guy, but Sylvia, the portly blond, was still chopping cabbage and stirring the soup pots in the kitchen. I had soft poached eggs nestled in a bed of crisped home fries, orange juice, buttered challah, and a cup of good, strong coffee. It still ran under five bucks. Before leaving (and paying my tab and tipping nicely), I sprung, on a whim, for a take-out order of cream of cauliflower soup to have for lunch later that day.

While I ate, I flipped through an old leather-bound photo album. I looked at pictures of Gene, with his unbelievably high cheekbones, and a few of the two of us together that friends had taken at the bar. His smile, as always, was small and tight.

I thought about our brief relationship and the abruptness of our break-up, which consisted mainly of my informing him that he’d never asked me a single thing about my life. I turned a few more pages, looking closely at Gene’s face, which now seemed so alien to me, and I thought to myself, I really do love a good bowl of soup.

Cream of Cauliflower (and Cheddar) Soup

Serves 4

1 head cauliflower (about 1 ¼ pound), cut into small florets

¼ cup (1/2 stick) unsalted butter

1 medium onion, chopped

1 leek (white and pale green part only), chopped

3 small celery stalks, chopped

¼ cup all purpose flour

4 cups chicken broth

¾ cup half & half

¼ cup Marsala or sherry

3 ounces sharp white cheddar cheese, shredded

Salt and freshly ground pepper

1 tablespoon snipped fresh chives (optional)

Bring the chicken broth to a boil in a medium saucepan. Blanch 1 ½ cups of the smallest cauliflower florets until just crisp-tender, about 2 – 4 minutes. Remove to a small bowl with a slotted spoon and set aside. Turn heat off under broth. Melt butter in a large saucepan or Dutch oven over medium heat. Add onion, leek, celery, and remaining cauliflower. Cover and cook until onion is tender but not brown, stirring occasionally, about 8 minutes. Add flour and stir 2 minutes. Gradually stir in chicken broth. Add half & half and Marsala or sherry. Bring mixture to a boil. Reduce heat. Cover partially and simmer until vegetables are tender and soup thickens slightly, stirring occasionally, about 20 minutes. Season soup with salt and pepper to taste. Using a hand-held emersion blender (or a traditional blender), puree soup until smooth. Bring soup back to a low simmer and gradually add cheddar, stirring until melted. Add reserved cooked cauliflower florets and stir to heat through. Ladle soup into bowls and serve. If desired, garnish with fresh chives.