Jewish World Review Dec. 3, 1999/ 24 Kislev, 5760
MUGGER
Necker Idyll Continues; The Babe for Man of the Century
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AS IS TRADITION this time of year in the Smith family, as in countless
other families, I’m sure, we try to guess Time’s “Man of the Year,”
although the twist this time was “Man of the Century.” Out of 16
participants, the guesses went like this: FDR, six; Churchill, three;
Hitler, two; Gandhi, four; and Reagan, one. I doff my cap to the fella
who picked the Great Communicator for the honor, but I don’t think he
quite finishes in the Top 3. In fact, while I’m sure Franklin Roosevelt
will be the boring choice—if you’re playing straight, come down on
Churchill’s side, not only for his enormous courage, brilliance and
charisma, but for that famous saying that’ll never be forgotten. I’m
paraphrasing now, but: Winston was in a row with a straightlaced lady
one night and she spat out that he was drunk. He shot back, Yes, ma’am,
but in the morning I’ll be sober and you’ll still be ugly. It’s
astonishing how much Churchill accomplished given all the booze he
consumed, at any time of the day.
Hitler’s out because he lost. Gandhi’s the Californian choice and
preempts Martin Luther King, but his legacy hasn’t left much of an
imprint. Teddy Roosevelt was bandied about, with his rugged
individualism, his internationalism and his goading the country into a
new age. But there is the matter of his trust-busting, and he’s really
too much of a 19th-century man for consideration. Myself, I choose the
fellow who invented air conditioning. Not a particularly original
thought, but think about it: If a.c. didn’t make life bearable in the
South and Sun Belt the entire infrastructure of the United States would
be different today. Houston, Atlanta, Miami, Phoenix, L.A., Las Vegas
and Dallas wouldn’t be vast population centers; power would still reside
in the Northeast.
I also think a cool choice would be Babe Ruth, for a couple of reasons.
One, it would aptly lampoon the entire idea of constant list-making, and
who better than Time, which started a lot of this nonsense, to make fun
of themselves? Also, the Babe was truly larger than life, not a snotty
braggart like, say, Donald Trump, but a man who had a bad start in life,
did a stint in reform school, hit it huge in an emerging sport and lived
every second of it: blasting home runs, eating and drinking and whoring
like it was his last day alive, the idol of every boy and of most men in
the country. Now there was an unadulterated American hero: he had
nothing to do with killing people or saving their lives; didn’t invent a
new medicine; wasn’t involved in statesmanship or politics; and wasn’t a
brilliant man. Just a strong kid who hit the lottery in life and made
the most of it.
The ages of our group spanned from oldest brother at 57 to five-year-old
MUGGER III. My boys hadn’t seen their California cousins, Xela and Kira,
in quite a while, though they’re old buddies with Quinn and Rhys. The
six youngest got along splendidly, with just a minimum of culture clash.
Quite a feat, since we’re talking San Luis Obispo, London and New York
City. As in years past, during most of the nights after dinner there
were songfests, and it was fortunate that we were the only guests on the
island, so that the staff, which is paid, were the only ones who had to
bear witness. An odd shift has taken place in the last five or six
years, with this vacation only more pronounced because we were together
for so long. After the original Smith Brothers faded out with songs from
the 50s and 60s, the next generation took over, due to stamina and the
ability to drink till the wee hours.
I’m biased of course, but look at the Bros. playlist, compare it to the
next generation’s and you decide. We started with some Ritchie Valens,
Buddy Holly, Del Shannon, Frankie Lymon, early Stones and Animals. When
Caleb belted out “Jeremiah was a bullfrog...” I felt like I was 100
years old. And it just got worse: Police hits, the Grateful Dead,
possibly Billy Joel, 90s tunes I simply don’t know and on and on. I took
a break with my brother Gary out by the pool and we just shook our heads
in disbelief, not only for the travesty inside, but for all the memories
we’ve shared.
The next night a local reggae band was shipped in but I was too bushed
from a day’s activities to participate in the rapping, game of limbo and
dancing. I read Junior a Dr. Seuss book as he went to sleep and I was
amazed he could drop off with all the racket; as for me, it took five
pages of another Kennedy book and the sound of Traie’s husband
impersonating Dr. Dre to do the trick.
The chefs at Necker are quite astounding. Every morning the main dining
room table was laden with croissants, English muffins, bagels, platters
of fruit with the best pineapple I’ve had in a year, star fruit, red and
purple grapes, mangoes, papaya and bowls of jams and cream cheese. The
heartiest among us had eggs and bacon with a side of sausage; I got my
oldest brother in the doghouse when I inadvertently told his wife his
white egg omelet had about a pound of cheese in it.
It was dinner when the kitchen really shined. One night it was kangaroo
in a blueberry sauce with bacon on top, with lamb or red snapper as a
next course; fresh mahimahi every day, conch, potato-leek soup, quail in
a lime/chili vinaigrette, tuna spring rolls, beef carpaccio, tempura
prawns, beef with asparagus and whipped potatoes and grilled grouper.
The kids didn’t do badly either, at least those who were adventurous:
one night delicious baby roasted chicken, the next a quiche that was
more like pizza, and then fajitas. Junior, on his usual Spartan diet,
stuck to Cap’n Crunch, fries and maybe three or four bites of hamburger
(not cheese, because once again, he’s lactose intolerant, except for
when it comes to ice cream), but MUGGER III more than made up for it
with his tomato and cheese scrambled eggs, hot dogs and fried chicken,
tastes of rack of lamb and the kangaroo or anything else with cheese in
it.
By Saturday night, some of the group had already departed—it was 15
hours to California and 19 to London—and so our group was a little more
reserved, tuckered out from so much sun, food, gab and sporting
activities. However, at lunchtime, three of my brothers and I told the
remaining kids about the dining habits of the Smith Family at 123 LaRue
Dr. in Huntington. Randy allowed how he’d never seen lettuce except in a
porcelain bowl in the kitchen. Jeff told a story about when he first
started dating his wife Mary: he went over for supper one night and Mrs.
Hilderman offered him some sour cream for a baked potato. Jeff, who was
so used to the sour milk that was in the home fridge (a laboratory unto
itself) politely declined, thinking, “Why would anyone want something
that’s sour on purpose?” Gary threw in the true story of how Mom’s idea
of a “snack” consisted of day-old bread and jelly; the only problem was
that you usually had to scrape off the crust inside the Welch’s jar. For
my own part, I remember how for about two years each of the five boys
was limited to one soda a week, and it was always a No-Cal, a precursor
to diet drinks. It was poisonous stuff, but we looked forward to them
just the same.
Then there was the time that Jeff, as chairman of some event at
Huntington High School, brought home over 200 sandwiches leftover from
the concession stand. Yellow wrapping was for tuna salad, pink for
ham—and straight into the garage freezer they went until the supply
dwindled down to the last dozen or so, about a year later. Now, tv
dinners were a staple of the 50s, as were canned peaches, pears and
vegetables, and we had plenty of this cool new convenience, especially
the fried chicken and turkey options. Trouble was, Mom would save the
tins and use them for her leftover meat loaf at any dreaded time.
Anyway, those are the old war stories that my brothers trot out each
time the family’s together, and the second generation is usually patient
in putting up with the dashes of hyperbole, although I swear most of
it’s true. I’m still not sure if Randy was exaggerating when he claimed
to write a letter of complaint to Alpo when the dog food he ate in his
penniless college days was too gritty, but it sounds pretty plausible to
me. We all raised toasts to the family’s fortune and how no one among
us, unless it’s their wish, has to eat canned fruit cocktail ever
again.
JWR contributor "Mugger" -- aka Russ Smith -- is the editor-in-chief and publisher of New York Press. Send your comments to him by clicking here.
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