Goodbye, Mr. Chips

(Originally published 5/21/16)

I recently purchased a few Banquet brand frozen turkey dinners at a local supermarket. Nowadays, “TV dinners” are not typically on my shopping list for a whole host of reasons—the foremost being that they aren't particularly good. Once upon a time, my youthful palate appreciated their ultra-sodium contents—but no more. Still, they were on sale, and the packaging underscored the fact that there was now “fifty percent more” turkey in them.

If nothing else, consuming these frozen dinners amounted to a stroll down Memory Lane. And I will concede, they were curiously edible. However, if there was indeed fifty percent more turkey in the dinners, their predecessors must have been sorely lacking—unsatisfying for sparrows, let alone for the human masses. Fifty percent more turkey notwithstanding, I could have effortlessly eaten the three I bought in one sitting. If there was a downside to TV dinners during my wide-eyed and insatiably hungry boyhood, it was, without question, the portions. Even Swanson’s “Hungry Man” versions were somehow never enough.

Nevertheless, this frozen dinner experience got me thinking about other grocery store products from my youth, some that still exist and others that are in the compost heap of history. I ate a lot of pizza in my younger days—and in a variety of forms, too, including an instant toaster version manufactured by Buitoni. Sadly, they are no more, but I fondly recall their gooey, reddish-orange puree of cheese and tomato sauce interiors, which were invariably blistering hot and prone to burn the mouth. My “Whatever Became Of” Internet search on these peculiar pizzas from yesteryear led me far afield to past comfort foods like Borden’s “Ready to Drink” Frosted Shakes in their heavy aluminum cans. We added milk to them at our house. They were that thick. Regrettably, the Frosted Shake has gone the way of the Buitoni toaster pizza.

And the death knell did not end there. Sometime around 1970, Kellogg’s introduced toaster pastries called Danish Go-Rounds. I distinctly remember the TV commercials for them. They featured a catchy jingle that went something like this: “A new kind of pastry, frosting, and tasty. New Kellogg’s…Danish Go-Rounds.” They were tasty all right but disappeared while I was still eating them. I had no choice. It was back to Pop-Tarts.

This former fare retrospective of mine found me in the end in Fudgetown. These were my all-time favorite cookies from a company called Burry, which also made Girl Scout cookies back then, when they were actually good. I had not thought of Fudgetown in a long time, but I see that they, too, are only a memory now, along with Burry’s other boxed cookies: Gaucho and Mr. Chips, the latter with the mysterious silhouette of Mr. Chips on the box. They were quality cookies. And since I never got the chance when Burry discontinued the products, I would like to finally say it—better late than never—“Goodbye, Mr. Chips.”

Laugh and the Whole World Laughs with You

(Originally published 7/1/10)

Once upon a time, I had a high school history teacher. His name was Mr. Downes. He taught a freshman-year course called "Asian and African Cultural Studies." Mr. Downes was a congenial and entertaining fellow who frequently tickled the funny bones of his young students. Sadly, though, I fear that this educator’s keen sense of humor and wry wit would bomb on the contemporary school stage.

At some point in the school year—1976-1977—we were studying the Southeast Asian country of India and its independent founding in 1947. The nation’s first prime minister was a man named Jawaharlal Nehru, a Mahatma Gandhi disciple. He is perhaps more renowned for inspiring a western fashion trend: the Nehru jacket. Throughout Mr. Downes’ lectures on the subject matter—India’s fledgling democracy, not sartorial predilections—he would speak in his normal tone of voice, and at his normal pace, until he came to the polysyllabic Nehru's first name. Our teacher would then pause—drum roll, please—and roll his tongue with consummate comic timing. I wish I could spell what I heard, but since it is near impossible, I will not even try. After this unique and brilliant pronunciation of “Jawaharlal,” Mr. Downes would immediately return to his natural speaking pattern and quietly say “Nehru.” It was something akin to the late Victor Borge’s phonetic punctuation routine—conventionally reading aloud from a book but supplying things like periods, commas, and question marks with their own individual and expressive sounds.

If Mr. Downes did any such thing today, a young snitch would no doubt turn him in. Above all else, schoolkids are trained in this duplicitous art at a very young age. He would then be reprimanded by the overly sensitive and feckless powers-that-be for not respecting another culture or even be accused of more nefarious crimes against humanity. An investigation would then be launched.

Guess what? Jawaharlal is an unusual name from our vantage point in the Land of Tom, Dick, and Harry. Bet you cannot say Jawaharlal three times real fast. If teachers in India or anywhere else on the planet want to make fun of American surnames in their lectures, I say: More power to them! Laugh and the whole world laughs with you. Cry and you cry alone in your safe spaces!

(Photo number one from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Misadventures of Pizza Man

(Originally published 3/7/16)

He was oozing optimism when he first opened his pizza place’s doors. His little restaurant was poised and ready for what was certain to be a mad dash of salivating clientele. Initially, the shop was staffed like a bustling Midtown Manhattan pizzeria—its multiple employees festooned in matching logo-emblazoned red baseball caps and staff shirts. The upbeat new owner, who had succeeded an unsuccessful pizza peddler, who in turn had assumed the reins from still another failed pizza guy, had—it seemed—all his bases covered. This latest entrepreneurial endeavor was sure to prove—despite its cursed location—that a third time is a charm.

Long a pizza devotee and forever a Bronx denizen, the shortest distance from point A (home) to point B (a decent New York slice of pizza) mattered to me. Therefore, I would throw myself at the mercy of the new kid on the block and hope for the best. I was perfectly willing to tolerate all growing pains, including extraordinarily green employees, who did not, in the slightest, strive to be otherwise. So, I was not bothered when the two slices, plus a small fountain drink—the $5.00 lunch special—was not awarded me because I declined the free drink. (I didn't want to carry it home.) The clueless staff charged me $5.50, the individual cost of two slices, because I passed on the drink! And then there was the improperly wrapped pizza conundrum, where exceptionally oily slices saturated takeout bags beyond their capacity to function. On more than one occasion during this establishment’s fledgling days, my bag split open before I arrived home, splattering my clothes with mozzarella, tomato sauce, and scorching hot, orangey grease. I was nonetheless hopeful things would improve once the gang that couldn’t shoot straight got the hang of it. I would thus ignore the countless pizza slices that lost their tips when plucked out of the oven and when yanked out of the takeout bag. Call me naïve, but I was convinced the pizza man would soon appreciate that his pizza pies were usually too thin, often too crisp, and sometimes a deadly combination of both. I had been served pizza slices with burnt bottoms before in my fast-food culinary travels, but never this degree of burnt offerings.

This pizza shop in the Northwest Bronx began with both high hopes and a full showcase of every conceivable specialty pizza. Quickly, though, a conspicuous dearth of sales cut the pizza selections on display to a haphazard, mangy medley of slices. A portent of things to come occurred when the restaurant’s top pizza oven died and was not repaired for months. It was painful to behold the well-intentioned, formerly optimistic owner preparing his pizza pies in an oven that was practically on the floor. God knows the man tried. He inundated the surrounding neighborhood with fliers on several occasions. In fact, one of them heralded that the place would be open for breakfast. But—go figure—he never opened for breakfast. It would have been the opportunity of a lifetime—and a first for me—to sample “Mash Potato” on a roll to start my day.

When all was said and done, the pizza served was rather good—above average, in my opinion—even if the slice size and its mass fluctuated from one day to the next. My last takeout purchase of a couple of slices—with pepperoni on them—was weightless. It was as if I had bought them on the moon.

Unquestionably, there was a consistency issue. You could get the freshest, tastiest slice one day and a soggy muddle the next. Refrigerated pizza from the prior day is a definite no-no in this business. Pizza visuals matter! The place’s showcase was too often unsightly—empty with just a few petrified-looking options. Nevertheless, I genuinely liked the proprietor and hoped he would eventually turn water to wine. He never did. His almost two years of misadventures seemed like an eternity to me, a loyal customer. I can only imagine what it seemed like to him. And if this pizza man tries his luck someplace else—which is very possible—I pray his pizza slice tips stay put and if he advertises “open for breakfast” he does, in fact, open for breakfast!

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Beware of the Sponge

(Originally published on 7/11/11)

One of my fondest high school memories—or, quite possibly, my one and only fond memory—is the cafeteria. Cardinal Spellman in the Bronx served up some fine fare back in the day, including daily specials alongside a tasty, economical, always-available frankfurter. The school’s roast beef wedges, with their special cafeteria au jus, were otherworldly—better than anything Subway presently serves. On Wednesdays, the light-up menu board always read: “Roast Beef Wedge and Mashed Pot.” Potato was too long a word to fit.

I absolutely loved Friday’s special, which featured square slices of pizza with a unique consistency. All these years later, it is hard to describe, but I think a "soggy kind of savory" would do this pizza justice. Granted, I was a teenager with undeveloped taste buds. I am not certain my adult palate would so warmly embrace this pizza’s curious gooeyness, but memories of simpler times, I have found, are rarely simple.

Ah, but leave it to a fine Catholic institution of learning to cast a smothering pall over its five-star culinary hub, which is what the powers-that-were did—and with a pedestrian sponge no less. Yes, a sponge—a sopping, soiled, and bacteria-dripping one. In the waning moments of the school’s three lunch periods, a cursed lot of students were assigned either sponge duty or garbage pick-up from both the cafeteria tables and cafeteria floor. Student councilors would randomly select who would perform these messy tasks. On occasion, a general announcement might be made that any boys with red on their ties or girls with blonde hair—or some such thing—would have to clean up the spilled milk and splattered mustard with the dirty sponges supplied them after everyone else was dismissed.

Now, we weren't furnished rubber gloves for these tasks. Nor did we have time to wash our hands before returning to our next classes. In fact, some of us didn't even have the time to make it to the next class before the buzzer’s knell. And a few less than sympathetic teachers—the ones who no doubt hated kids and should have been in another profession—would send us to the dean’s office, where we would be given detention for being thirty seconds, or a minute, late because we were involuntarily cleaning messes off dirty lunch tables with grimy sponges or collecting refuse off tables and the floor.

I have since learned that sponge duty is a relic of the past at my alma mater. The more informed age in which we live puts a premium on both clean hands and clean thoughts—and it has cast asunder a vaunted tradition. And while I'm philosophically opposed to the nanny state of affairs, I'm not shedding any tears that the nasty sponge, and all that it wrought, has been retired for all time. In fact, I hope one has been bronzed and is on display in the school's Cardinal's Room, which celebrates the life and times of the less than savory man—so I have heard—for whom the school is named.

Are We Gonna Make It After All?

(Originally published 9/22/20)

Fifty years ago this month, The Mary Tyler Moore Show debuted. It lasted for seven seasons and went out on a high note—on Mary’s terms. Arguably not the best season—with the iconic characters not yet fully in character—the first, which originally aired in 1970-71, is nevertheless a classic. I distinctly recall watching the show in its infancy in my grandmother’s living room—just a flight of stairs away—on her color TV, a hulking Zenith with legs, a light-up channel dial, and a picture that did not appear until the set sufficiently “warmed up.”

I own the first season of The Mary Tyler Moore Show on DVD. For some reason, I find it oddly reassuring. It takes me back to a time and place that were decidedly simpler and more innocent. I appreciate that for the Vietnam War-draft-aged men, 1970-71 was anything but simple and innocent. Still, I was an eight-year-old kid in the second grade at St. John’s neighborhood grammar school. My teacher—a kindly woman—lived up the street from me. I remember—at a class show-and-tell session—bringing in a toy clock that I had gotten for Christmas. It counted the minutes and hours away with indefatigable alacrity. I had this thing for clocks and calendars—a youthful time fetish.

And here I am now, thinking long and hard about the passage of it. Fifty years ago, I was lying on my grandmother’s living room rug with a big fluffy pillow covered with a flowery pillowcase. The latter was my grandmother’s handiwork, just as were the heavy wool socks—a wintertime staple—that she regularly crocheted for her grandchildren. In fact, one of the most captivating things about The Mary Tyler Moore Show was Mary’s cozy studio apartment and her panoramic picture windows leading out to a deck. The fictional Mary Richards lived in the non-fictional Minneapolis, Minnesota with its notoriously cold and snowy winters. We television viewers were thus treated to ample fictional snowfall outside of Mary’s picture-perfect windows. As a youth, I considered snow an impressive weather phenomenon for a whole host of reasons, including outdoor hijinks, potential white Christmases, and—win-win—possible days off from school.

What an awesome time it was to watch prime-time television. Everyone had a favorite show on any given night and there was indeed something for everyone. When The Mary Tyler Moore Show debuted, there were no reality shows with histrionic, insincere narcissists behaving badly or Love Islands with histrionic, insincere narcissists behaving equally badly. Once upon a time, the commercials served as welcome bathroom breaks or—in my grandmother’s presence—apple and grapefruit breaks. The commercial allotments were also reasonable in length, unlike today’s TV ads, which are at once ubiquitous and intrusive. You could cook a full-course meal during some of these breaks.

One final thought on that special time—1970-71: It represented the last year in existence of “The Garden,” as it was affectionately known, across the street from me. This sprawling “victory garden” was the last of its kind in my neighborhood, Kingsbridge in the Bronx. If I looked out my front window, or my grandmother’s below me, during the first season of The Mary Tyler Moore Show, I spied an elongated makeshift fence covering a sprawling patch of earth that sprang to life in the summertime and became starkly barren in wintertime. It was the end of an era in a city with fewer empty spaces and undeveloped lots for gardens and youthful adventures. The times they were a-changin’ then and then has gradually become now, which is quite a melancholy thought to entertain. Just gaze out your front window and contemplate where we were versus where we are. Love is not quite all around us.

 (Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Harvey Is a Funny Name

(Originally published 10/29/17)

Fifteen years ago, this past May, I was in the same room with Harvey Weinstein. Nothing untoward happened at the time—at least not to me. Weinstein was presiding over BookExpo America’s festive opening night at the Jacob K. Javits Center in Manhattan’s Hell’s Kitchen, which—take my word for it—is not your grandfather’s Hell’s Kitchen anymore. You see, his Miramax publishing imprint had landed a really, really big fish, Rudy Giuliani, who was under contract to write a book called Leadership. Still sporting his well-earned 9/11 halo, Rudy was something of a rock star basking in adulation.

In late May 2002, Giuliani had been out of office for nearly five months. He was, though, still looked upon as “America’s Mayor,” an elected official who somehow transcended petty partisan politics. It was a distinctive but very fleeting snapshot in time that sadly didn't have legs. That night at the Javits Center, though, good will runneth over along with the heavy security presence of the post-9/11 world we now called home. Weinstein heaped praise on Rudy for bringing people together in the most horrific of circumstances. The rotund Hollywood mogul also made it clear that he was a liberal Democrat in good standing—but one who nonetheless revered Rudy Giuliani for his leadership in the wake of the 9/11 attacks.

Ah, but that was then and this is now. What I remember most about then was how exciting the BookExpo was. I had received a complimentary “Exhibitor Author” pass from my very first publisher—Adam’s Media—to attend the extravaganza, which included the opening salvo followed by four full days of fun, frolic, and freebies. My friend—a fellow Adams Media author—and I attended all four days of the affair, including commingling with the big shots at Weinstein’s shindig. After Rudy Giuliani’s inspirational address to the assembled that evening, free-flowing wine, beer, and hors d’oeuvres was ours for the taking. Long lines quickly materialized around the fare, however, and I wasn't one to fight tooth and nail to get at it, even if it was on the house.

In those days of yore, publishers were a whole lot more generous than they are today. My free pass—as the author of The Everything Collectibles Book—meant I could attend the publisher’s booth party on day three of the BookExpo. Free wine, beer, and munchies—again—but this time I did not have to cross swords for a swallow. But all good things come with a price attached to them. In the party’s aftermath—on my subway trip back home—I found myself contemplating things I had never contemplated before, like relieving myself between cars or getting off and using a station’s facilities. Sadly, most New York City subway stations have no public restrooms, or they are off limits for good reasons. So, the facilities I had in mind meant taking a page out of—as the English might say—the “rough sleepers” handbook.

The happy ending is that I made it home without resorting to a nuclear option. No such happy endings for the other protagonists in this tale of mine: Harvey and Rudy. In fact, the latter did everything he could do to destroy his non-partisan sheen during a subsequent run for the 2008 Republican presidential nomination and—more recently—in his bug-eyed, foaming-at-the-mouth shilling for Donald Trump, the Ernest T. Bass man-child elected president. I wish Rudy would have gone out on a 9/11 high note, but super-ambitious politicians like him never can rest on their laurels.

As for Harvey Weinstein, it's impossible for me to understand his mindset. How could he act like he did for so long and get away with it? Enablers! It would appear they come in all stripes and all political ideologies. Weinstein had his sanctimonious left-wing Hollywood elite overlooking his beastly behaviors, just as conservative Bill O’Reilly, who was always looking out “for the folks,” had his right-wing family values crowd giving him a pass. Character is destiny, is it not?

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Russian Interference

(Originally published 11/6/17)

Fear not: This essay has nothing to do with the Robert Mueller investigation. It's about an encounter I had last week in Van Cortlandt Park in the Bronx. Minding my own business, I was sitting on a bench that overlooks the El on nearby Broadway. The morning in question was on the breezy side but pleasant—ideal fall weather to be left alone with my thoughts and the super-loud subway horns repeatedly blowing in the distance. This is the norm when track workers are in the vicinity of Number 1 trains preparing to exit and enter the terminal at W242nd.

It being a weekday with schools in session, the park was empty. In other words, there were plenty of unoccupied benches from which to choose. So, when I spotted a tall, elderly man—not ancient by any means and walking with a spring in his step—heading my way, I prepared for the worst. He had a look on his face that told me he was preparing to sit for a spell—and right beside me. I understand the mind-set: A senior citizen feels compelled to sound off and needs an audience of at least one. And like it or not, I was that one—the chosen one—in this instance.

Now, here is who gave me an earful: a Russian refugee suffering from diabetes, who came to America fifteen years ago and settled in the neighborhood. Right off the bat, he wanted to know if I was a native born American and wondered if I had ever heard of the Soviet Union. The old fellow must have mistaken me for a Millennial or some such thing. I remember the USSR all right, and the Cold War, too. I came of age with both prominent on the radar. My newfound friend waxed nostalgic about the nation of his birth and what he deemed its “moral code.” Gorbachev and Yeltsin, he said, were responsible for chaos—mostly—which is what made him a man without a country. As a footnote to his naming names, he conceded that Josef Stalin was something of a monster, but, come on, the guy also “built Russia.”

The rambling Russian was far from finished. He informed me that he was now an American patriot, despite finding great fault with our penchant for military adventures and haughty boasts of “exceptionalism.” On the other hand, the man thinks very highly of American domestic policies, although he was not the least bit specific on this count. During his extended sermon—I didn't get a chance to say much—he inquired if anything he had thus far said offended me. “No,” I answered, which was the truth. With respect to benign, affable ramblers, I don't offend easily.

In retrospect, the most surprising thing the man said to me was that he voted for Donald Trump. His friends, he reported, thought he had taken leave of his senses. But this former denizen of the Soviet Union had attended a university in the old country—when all that good stuff was taken care of by the totalitarian nanny state—and made an intellectual argument for his vote. Since he didn't have the greatest command of the English language, I can't really say how he came to his decision to throw in with the Orange Man. The voluble Russian merely wanted to “make America great again” and “drain the swamp.” One last thing, my park bench companion unleashed a fair share of spittle as he spoke. Fortunately, I was far enough away from these missiles of October. And just as quickly as he crashed my space, he departed. I was prepared to shake his hand, but I suppose it's not in the Russian playbook.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)