The Zeitgeist with Howard Barbanel

I Remember Grandma

Lately, I’ve been thinking about my late maternal Grandmother, Lee Steinfeld. She passed away right around now about 22 years ago. She was my “longest serving” grandparent as everyone else passed away either before I was born or when I was a little kid. Some of the “longevity” was due to her having my mother at 21 and my mom having me at 24.

Grandma Lee was a unique character in so many respects. Her father (for whom I’m named) came here alone at 16 before the turn of the 20^th Century from the town of Iassy, Romania and so my grandmother was born here in the U.S. in 1913. My Great-Grandfather Harry Schwartz (known as “Big Harry” because he was a strapping 6’1” at a time when most immigrant Jewish men were 5’2”) was by all accounts a highly charismatic figure who made a ton of money during Prohibition manufacturing distilling equipment for the Jewish Mafia. He did so well that he built a house for his family on Laurelton Boulevard in Long Beach with all cash and had a Packard limousine with a chauffer.

My Grandmother as a consequence grew up with money and comfort at a time when most newly arrived Jews were barely eking out a living shlepping pushcarts or working horrendous hours in the needle trades. She was also very slim and pretty (throughout her life) something that was always very important to her. I used to joke with her that she was one of the very first Jewish-American Princesses and one of the prototypes upon which succeeding generations of Jewish girls would be modeled.

With all these advantages, my Grandmother married well. Her father made a shiddach (match) to a young, successful Romanian-Jewish attorney, Lewis Steinfeld, who would become my Grandfather. They set-off on a month-long honeymoon tour of Europe and what was then British-ruled Palestine in 1931 and even took home movies of it. They had three daughters, one of whom is my mom.

Life wasn’t completely charmed by any means however. My Great-Grandfather suffered from the repeal of Prohibition and a bunch of bad real estate investments in Florida (the original “swampland in Florida” deals probably) and my Grandfather who also did real estate had some things go sour. He passed away at 63 when the average American man’s life expectancy wasn’t much more than that, leaving my Grandmother as a widow for 26 years, most of which she spent in Manhattan.

Like many of her generation, my Grandmother was not what I’d call very physically demonstrative. She loved people deeply and expressed her feelings in the kitchen. Born with a natural gift for cooking and baking, every meal was a work of art and a taste-bud extravaganza. Dairy dishes were awash in cream, butter, sugar and milk. Meat dishes spared no expense of chicken fat. She was exacting and persnickety when it came to buying meat, poultry, cheese and produce. Only the best quality stuff would do. Hours would be spent preparing even an average dinner and from the first bite you could always tell. She was so acclaimed for her cheese blintzes that for a few years Zabar’s in Manhattan actually sold them. I haven’t had a blintz since she’s gone that is its equal. Amazingly, in spite of her belt-busting cuisine, she never was heavy, owing to her French style of eating – very small portions of very rich food. We didn’t eat small portions though.

She also could be a lot of fun, enjoying beer or cocktails out at restaurants. She loved popular culture, in particular she had a longstanding crush on the singer Tom Jones in his 60s and 70s heyday. A religious reader of The New York Post and watcher of the Channel 5 News at 10 (“It’s 10:00 p.m., do you know where your children are?”), like most New York Jews she was avowedly socially liberal and staunchly Democratic. A huge fan of former Mayors John Lindsay (for his good looks) and Ed Koch (for his no-nonsense policies) she was paradoxically a big fan of the late Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin and a real right-winger when it came to Israeli security issues as she felt that anti-Semites should be taken at their aspirational, genocidal word. She loved the art of conversation and political debate and at the same time chic outfits, great restaurants and nice things. Her home was always spotlessly immaculate and her living room was sprinkled with bowls of candies and treats.

At the end of her life she was hit with cancer that could not be vanquished by the medical technology of the day. Over many years I would go to her home for dinner quite often when I was living or working in the City. She loved cooking for others and preferred that to going out. A couple of months before her passing, as I was leaving she uncharacteristically reached out and gave me a big hug and told me that she loved me like a son and got all misty-eyed, which was not her style. Trying to cheer her up, I told her, “Now, Grandma, you know you’re not supposed to be hugging people, what’s this all about?” I told her “You can’t leave until you see great grandchildren from me.” This was not to be as she passed soon after. She was one of the few women in my life (and for most people there aren’t that many) who loved me unconditionally and unreservedly. I miss her whenever I make her chicken soup recipe, see blintzes or eat her Romanian eggplant salad that my mother still makes. I think of her during the occasional Ed Koch or Tom Jones sighting, when reading The Post, and of course when her yahrtzeit comes around.

It is said that people can achieve a kind of immortality as long as people remember them. Now, you have shared some of my memories, so maybe in this exponential way you’ll share with me in making her memory be for a blessing.

The Zeitgeist with Howard Barbanel

     

A 1966 Pontiac Catalina Wagon (left), a 1969 Firebird and a 1983 Maserati Bi-Turbo Coupe (right).

All The Cars I've Loved Before

My car lease expires in about three weeks. We spend a lot of time with our cars and it can be argued they even become part of the family. I stopped buying cars about 15 years ago because I learned that, sadly, there is no free ride in this life. By that I mean that once you stop paying the bank on a car loan, invariably you start paying the various and sundry mechanics for anything and everything that breaks down or wears out.

You can rest assured that as soon as the loan is paid off, the warranty expires, the brake pads and tires need to be replaced, the wheels need alignment, the air conditioning needs work, new shocks and struts may be necessary (owing to the smooth pavement here especially on New York City roads) and far worse can unexpectedly materialize. That’s why I’ve been leasing. Car problem? Not my problem, it’s the dealer’s problem and every few years you get a brand spanking new set of wheels.

The cars we choose to drive often say a lot about ourselves, our self image, what we may look to project to outsiders and how much, if at all, we really care about all of that. They say that dogs often look like their masters. Cars also ape the image of their drivers and stereotypes abound. There’s the little old lady in the 30 year-old relic chugging down the street; the male senior citizen in his Cadillac; the greaser or “Guido” in his muscle car (Chevy Camaros, both old and new are the ultimate “Guido” car); the suburban white collar professional driving an expensive car imported from any country hostile to U.S. foreign policy; the mother of a large brood with the silver Honda mini-van, and so it goes.

The first car I owned was a maroon 1966 Pontiac Catalina station wagon with seating for 12 with more than 100,000 miles on the odometer which cost me all of $200. It got minus five miles to the gallon when gas was about 45 cents per for premium. The steering wheel was enormous and it took five turns from end to end. Bias ply tires. No shoulder belts.

Generally I associate my cars with whatever personal relationship may have predominated during my tenure with whichever car. There was my 1969 Pontiac Firebird in puke green with black vinyl top and no factory air conditioning that I drove from my senior year in high school through much of college. In high school I had two totally unrequited teenage crushes with two different Lisas, one who went to Woodmere Academy and one from sleep away camp. College was my time with Shelley from Staten Island who I met at an NYU orientation and Wendy from Brandeis University who I met on the beach in Martinique on a family winter vacation.

In the Fall of 1980 I bought a silver 1981 Ford Mustang GT with T-tops (remember those?). It cost something like $7,000 new. A real splurge. These were my University of Miami grad school years along with Alison from East Rockaway who I met at Boston’s in Delray Beach (FL) and then my first wife Cheryl who I met in the cafeteria at UM’s Mohoney-Pearson dorms. She was an R.A., so she had her own solo room, a real luxury in dorm terms. From there for a time I had a boring Pontiac Grand Am which was a company car. When that job ended I treated myself to a silver 1983 Datsun (now Nissan) 280ZX, silver with wicked black pin striping, T-tops, rear-window louvers and front headlight bubble covers. A five-speed manual, it flew like lightning. My first marriage having ended before buying this car, these were the days of my intense short relationship with Silvia who sold advertising for The Miami Herald and a multi-year long-distance relationship with Amy from Washington, D.C. who drove an old Mercedes she called “Mr. Benz.”

The “Z” got stolen right in front of my office (it was Miami, after all) and I replaced it with the ultimate flashy car, a used 1983 Maserati Bi-Turbo Coupe in forest green with so much wood, leather and suede inside that an entire forest and herd of cows probably sacrificed themselves for this vehicle. A great New Year’s with Jill from South Miami in this car. Alas, it was totaled after a mere three weeks of ownership by a woman with a suspended license, running a red light and barreling into me at 50 mph with an enormous 70’s-era Cadillac Sedan de Ville. The car was wrecked but I emerged thankfully unscathed. She was arrested. To replace the Italian job I went this time for a 1986 Toyota Celica Convertible, in white with black top and interior. When living in a place like Florida, what you drive is important and a part of the culture.

In 1990, I came back to New York and have been here ever since. For the first couple of years I didn’t have a car as I was living and working in Manhattan. Once I entered the wine business, I needed a car and the first one was a family hand-me-down, a small 1986 Cadillac Cimarron (also silver) that surprisingly was a very well-built car that I drove well past 120,000 miles with hardly a repair needed. As that car died, I went for a 1995 Chrysler Sebring coupe in some kind of turquoise blue that was a dealer car with 1,000 miles on it. These were the days I met my now ex-wife and spent nearly 15 years in various forms of togetherness. The Sebring (a horrible car) gave way to a used black Lexis sedan that was also stolen in Manhattan, after which we got a 2001 Chevy Blazer Xtreme (extremism in the pursuit of SUV’s in the last decade was no vice) in deep black. Moving to the suburbs came a succession of Jeep Grand Cherokee Laredos and as a second car, a used Toyota 4Runner.

As the Toyota was facing the end of its useful life, I procured my present set of wheels, a 2008 Mazda MX-5 Grand Touring with 18-inch alloy wheels, eight-speaker Bose sound system and retractable hard top. A real joy to drive, this is a fabulous car in every respect but for the fact that it’s somewhat haunted as my now ex split midway through my ownership of this car. I’m looking forward to driving something fresh and new, unencumbered by the ghosts of passengers past. Not in any relationship now, I’m hopeful that any new vehicle (and I’m dithering and tossed between four possible cars) will, as with prior cars, eventually come with a female co-pilot as standard equipment and not as an expensive option. With a few weeks to go, I’ll keep you posted on my ultimate choice of wheels, the co-pilot thing however may take a little longer.

The Zeitgeist with Howard Barbanel

Mets Manager Terry Collins (left) and General Manager Sandy Alderson

Rx for the Mets

For better or worse, I’m a Mets fan and have been that way since I was a kid. Being a fan of any team created in the 1960s with an “ets” as the major part of its name is coextensive with being able to endure and be inured to vast amounts of disappointment and even pain. The Nets? Moved to Jersey and then they became terrible. The Jets? They moved to Jersey and for the most part became terrible. The Mets? Well, at least they had the good grace to stay in Queens but apart for sporadic flashes of brilliance, are often prone to disappoint.

The Mets are actually tied with the Dodgers as the fifth most popular baseball team in America – up one notch from the number six slot last year – this according to a nationwide Harris Poll of 2,163 adults conducted online between June 13^th and 20^th by Harris Interactive. The Mets have risen steadily from the number 11 slot back in 2008. Hated rivals the Philadelphia Phillies are only ranked at number seven and the particularly loathsome Yankees are at the top of the heap at number one and have held that slot every year consecutively since 2003, yet another reason to despise them. Boston came in at number two and Atlanta third in American popularity.

One of the greatest assets the Mets have going for them is that they’re not the Yankees. By virtue of this alone, they are guaranteed a loyal cadre of fans irrespective of their prospects in any given year. I’ve worn my Mets hat at Baltimore’s Camden Yards (a great ballpark) and been high-fived by all and sundry in the stands and on concession lines. For Orioles fans, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. In Boston people give me the thumbs-up.

I’ve been to the new Yankee stadium with some good friends and felt like Christians might have when visiting Rome’s Coliseum back when the lions were playing there. (No, I didn’t wear my Mets hat).

This has been a year of less and zero expectations for Mets fans. Attendance is down by more than 140,000 for the first half of the season. The Mets ownership is besieged by lawsuits from the Madoff trustee looking for a gazillion dollars and the Wilpons also lost a ton of cash in the Madoff fiasco on top of this, which is definitely crimping their style and their cash flow. Hedge fund wunderkind David Einhorn is poised to put $200 million into the team but this hasn’t happened yet. The Mets have been saddled with some mighty expensive payroll obligations many of which are for dud players procured during the reign of former General Manager Omar Minaya who was a big believer in overpaying hyper retail price for fading stars, never-have-beens and never-will-bees.

In a year where so many of the team’s top stars have been on the disabled list (injuries are a constant plague for the Mets) surprisingly, as I write this during the All Star break, the Mets are actually over .500 (barely) but have been playing exciting, fun and scrappy ball manned by a team primarily composed of recent graduates from the Buffalo Bisons (the Mets AAA minor league club) and other minor league teams including their new manager Terry Collins who spent umpteen years in the minor league wilderness before landing the big job at CitiField. Collins has essentially pulled off the impossible by turning around the miasma of utter hopelessness, poor morale and dejection that pervaded the clubhouse for the past few seasons and delivering if not a pennant-winning season then at least a respectable one against heavily overmatched opponents.

Right after the All Star game the Mets traded away uber-expensive closer Francisco Rodriguez (“K-Rod”). K-Rod never lived up to his hype and generally delivered nail-biting and heart attack inducing performances in the ninth inning. Every team wants a Mariano Rivera so every team feels they need an expensive “Superman” closer to end the game. Realistically, there are maybe a handful of guys pitching today who fit that bill and the rest are wannabees and pretenders. Better for the Mets to rotate different guys from the bullpen into the ninth inning slot (or let a good starter finish a complete game, heaven forbid) and save the money K-Rod was getting.

Likewise as we approach the July 31^st trade deadline the scuttlebutt is that Jose Reyes (probably the most exciting shortstop in baseball today) and Carlos Beltran may also be sent elsewhere. Reyes brings much momentum and drama to the team but he’s as fragile as a china doll – injured nearly every single year for some stretch or another and he’s on the DL right now. Can Reyes stay healthy for the next five to seven years? My guess is not as he’s always under the weather for some period and he’s only 28. Beltran? He’s never lived up to his potential, he’s pushing his mid-30s and he also costs a fortune.

My sense as a fan who goes to and watches a lot of games is let’s clear out all the deadwood along with the high-priced hand-carved mahogany – especially anyone and everyone associated with the ancien régime of Omar Minaya. That means high maintenance and temperamental pitchers like Mike Pelfrey. It means Reyes and Beltran. It also means David Wright who, while a heck of a nice guy and a good player, is no great player, no clutch player and no team leader. It means Jason Bay who was one of the biggest overpriced underperforming acquisitions of all time. Sweep them all out. I know I speak for many fans when I say, “let’s watch the young up and comers.” Tampa Bay won a World Series with these kind of guys. So have the Marlins. Let’s watch the hard charging Bisons out of Buffalo fight for stardom in the majors. It’s a lot of fun, it lowers the Mets owners’ costs, it lowers our ticket prices, it lowers our expectations, which in turn will lower our pain, heartache and disappointment. Met fans would rather root for young bucks on their way up than overpriced, underperforming lugs and we don’t need to try and mimic the Yankees with one of the biggest payrolls in baseball because that’s a contest the Mets will never win.