"A New York Treasure" --Village Voice
Category: 2: Past

Taster’s Cherce

Here’s a beautiful little essay by the great Jhumpa Lahiri.

From Food & Wine (April, 2000):

I am the daughter of former pirates, of a kind. Our loot included gold, silver, even a few precious gems. Mainly though, it was food, so much that throughout my childhood I was convinced my parents were running the modern equivalent of the ancient spice trade. They didn’t exactly plunder this food; they bought it in the bazaars of Calcutta, where my mother was born and to which we returned as a family every couple of years. The destination was Rhode Island, where we lived, and where, back in the Seventies, Indian groceries were next to impossible to come by.

Our treasure chest, something we called the Food Suitcase, was an elegant relic from the Fifties with white stitching and brass latches that fastened shut with satisfying clicks. The inside was lined in peach-colored satin, had shirred lingerie pockets on three sides and was large enough to house a wardrobe for a long journey. Leave it to my parents to convert a vintage portmanteau into a portable pantry. They bought it one Saturday morning at a yard sale in the neighborhood, and I think it’s safe to say that it had never been to India before.

[Photo Via: Cooking Weekends]

Quick in a Slow Way


So here’s an edit from Another Fine Mess for listeners who don’t vibe with rhyming and rapping but who dig comedy and old movies and hypnotic beats.

Feel the funk, baby.

Here’s the full mix:

Lost and Found

Over at Sports on Earth I have a piece about my college girlfriend, New York pizza and Joe Carter’s memorable home run:

It had been a long day but once we got home from the wedding and changed our clothes we were still hungry so we walked a few blocks to Little Italy to grab a slice. The only people in the joint were the guys working behind the counter. It was nearly midnight and the heat from the oven cut through the cool air from the outside. It smelled like tomatoes, garlic and charred dough, an aroma New Yorkers immediately recognize as something unalterably good.

My girlfriend told me to order for myself as she went to the rest room, so I did, then sat at a table away from the front door. I looked up at the TV hanging from the corner of the room and there was Rickey Henderson, the guy I’d patterned my swing after in high school. He was a Blue Jay now, playing against the Phillies in the 1993 World Series. It had been four years since he had been on the Yankees, but it felt like longer.

It took a moment to figure out the situation but when I did — bottom of the ninth, Jays down by a run in the sixth game of the Series — I was alert.


[Image Credit: Luis Andrei Munoz; Jorge Columbo]

The Wonderful One-Pitch Mo

From our pal Kevin Baker:

…with apologies to “The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table” by Oliver Wendell Holmes.

The Wonderful One-Pitch Mo

Have you heard of the Mar-i-ano,
Who such a wonderful pitch did throw
He ran up six hundred saves and then some,
And then of a sudden it — ah, but come,
I’ll tell you what happened without delay,
Tearing the Yankees into bits,
Frightening their fans out of their wits, –
Have you ever heard of that, I say?

Nineteen hundred and ninety-five.
Georgius Steinbrenner was still alive, –
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Seattle-town
Saved its team by beating us down,
And Black Jack McDowell was done so brown,
Left without his scalp to his crown.
It was during that terrible playoff round
That Mariano first came to town.

Now when it comes to closers, I tell you what,
There is always, always a weakest spot, –
They throw too hard or they throw too weak,
They throw too wild or they give up the gophers,
Fall asleep in the pen, those indolent loafers
Find their fault somewhere you must and will, –
In their arm or their head, or within or without, –
And that’s the reason, beyond a doubt,
That a closer breaks down, but doesn’t wear out.

But Steinbrenner swore (as Steinbrenners do,
With an “I dew vum,” or an “I tell yeou”)
He would find one closer to top the Sox
And the Orioles, too, and even the Jays;
And the Indians, and the Oakland A’s:
“Fer,” said Old George, “’t’s mighty plain
Thut the weakes’ pitch mus’ stan’ the strain;
‘n’ the way t’ fix it,’ he said with a hitch,
“Is to find a closer who throws just one pitch.”

So George he inquired down Panama way
Where he could find the toughest hombre,
That couldn’t be spooked nor rattled nor beaten,
Slim as a wraith with a boyish grin;
Who didn’t go for pills or gin;
A monkish halo upon his crown,
And one pitch that could put the toughest side down,
And make even Manny and Ortiz frown.

The pitch he had, well they called it a cutter,
It slipped out of his hand as easy as butter
And swerved and swooped around each batter,
It looked like a fastball, it bent like a curve,
And each one thrown with such vim and nerve,
That hitters were done before they got up,
Frazzled and razzled from helmet to cup.
Their bats were shattered and their confidence shaken,
They couldn’t believe they’d been so taken
And oh, how they would carry on so
To see the wonderful one-pitch Mo

“There!” said George S., “naow we’ll win!”
Win! I tell you, I rather guess
The lad was a wonder, and nothing less!
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Steinbrenner and Steinbrenneress dropped away,
Children and grandchildren — where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-pitch Rivera
As handsome and fabled as Ernesto Guevara.

Ninety-six! — they beat the Braves
Mo pitched two innings, always to raves.
Ninety-eight, and they set some marks;
Mo was the closer now, they filled all the parks.
Ninety-nine they won, and you can bet your testes,
In the year Two Thousand they hammered the Metsies.

Sure, there was a blip here or there,
Thanks to broken-bat singles and the occasional err’r.
That night in Boston, Joe went to sleep on the bench,
And the one in Phoenix when the grass was drenched.
An Alomar here who was all too Sandy,
And a juiced-up Mueller who was mighty handy.

But try as they might they still couldn’t maim him,
He believed in God and who could blame him?
With a pitch like that he sure looked blessed,
And all the hitters he undressed
They just shook their heads and even laughed,
When his cutter ran in and they looked daft.

Running in from the bullpen each night to Metallica,
Rousing the Bronx into high hysterica.
He didn’t take steroids, HGH, or any P-E-Ds
Though the men who he pitched to went through them like Wheaties.
That was all they could do to try to even the score,
As he went rolling on through Ought-Three and Ought-Four

The last 42, he’d become just sublime,
A tribute to Jackie, but all in Mo’s time.
On he went to three hundred
Saves, and then four,
Got his first RBI in the game he hit five,
Did the deed out in Queens where he always did thrive.
Another title that year though his side was killing him,
Finished off Philly in the brand-new Sta-di-um.

On to six hundred he soon did sail,
Passed Lee Smith and Hoffman, and that’s no tale.
Beat the Angels of Anaheim and of Los Angeles,
The Royals in Missoura and the Rangers in Texas.
Topped the Indians, Tigers, the Rays of some kind,
Baffled the Sox, both Pale and Carmine.
It seemed as if he’d go on forever,
His cutter slower but never cleverer
Punching them out and running up flags,
Surpassing the Goose, Sparky, and Rags.

Yet little of of all that we value here
Takes to the field in its forty-deuce year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there’s nothing that keeps its youth,
So far as I know, but Mo and the truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it. — You’re welcome. — No extra charge.)

Third of May dawned with barely a care,
There are traces of age in our closer’s gray hair
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing so bad, as one may say.
He’d outlasted Rodriguezes, Felix and Frankie,
And save for Jeter, each fellow Yankee.
Watched the Wagner who tried to steal his music,
Meet his own Gotterdammerung (boy, were the Mets sick!).
Saw Papelbon off to the seniors’ circuit,
And Gagne, that flash—well, just fergeddit!

He had one pitch, that’s all he needed,
And all our fears he scarcely heeded.
He was a man of faith and a man of God,
And even if his ears were odd,
He threw one pitch and he threw it better,
Than anyone else, lesser or gre’ter.
With a whip-like motion and a flick of the wrist
It just came to him one day as a gift,
And stayed with him through that night in KC
When he ran out there to entertain the hayseeds.
Run his laps and joke with the guys,
His same routine just shagging flies.

Third of May, Two Thousand and Twelve!
Into this fabled disaster we delve.
Nix on the Nix who stroked that ball,
Out past the grass and to the wall
And here comes the wonderful, one-pitch Mo,
He couldn’t back off, he couldn’t go slow.
Unable to shake his outfielder’s blood—
When down he went with an awful thud.

He lay on the ground, in pain but still grinning,
Just as he always did, losing or winning.
It wasn’t the pitch that had failed him at last,
He hadn’t lost faith, gone weak, or got vast.
He hadn’t been done in by ball or by bat
A ligament frayed, it snapped just like that.
Despite a heart that was ne’er less stout,
Mighty Mo hadn’t broken, he’d only worn out.

Have we come to the end of our incredible story?
Or is there waiting some last wondrous glory?
Either way we’ll sing his praises fore’er,
And go see him in Cooperstown, the unrivaled River’
He threw one pitch, and that was all—
It just happened to be the greatest of all.

And with apologies to Frank O’Hara, check out this poem by Glenn Stout.

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"This ain't football. We do this every day."
--Earl Weaver