A Birthday Cake for Martin

If Martin said he would be over by 5:30, you could set your watch by it. Say what you will about my friend Martin; but one thing is for sure… he has a great sense of time.

My responsibilities for the evening were simple: two generous rib-eyes, gorgonzola salad, a couple of spuds and a patient ear (whenever Martin comes over for a visit, everything is a backdrop for the talk).

His responsibilities were also well defined: a bottle of good Claret from his cellar, a perfect baguette from Woodbury’s Ovens of France and the construction of our pre-dinner martinis. That, and, of course, the talk.

Martin and I go back a ways. We even talk about this. We reckon that it was sometime before the fourth grade. He would say, “I can remember canonballing you at Woodbridge Country Club’s pool, and that was before Hamden Hall.” This, for those of you who don’t know, is the school we attended… beginning in grade four. That was also the year that Francie came into our lives.

I put my work aside early to fetch our steaks. Another thing about Martin… he does not abide with meat from Stop & Shop, or a supermarket of that ilk… it has to come from a butcher. He would say, “My Grandfather was a butcher, for Godsakes… do you expect me to eat something that would defile his memory?” And this is something that we would talk about, too.

Perhaps I should share this with you… I am an artist. A rather poor one, at that. Oh, not for my talent; but rather for my remuneration. Thank those on high… my Grandfather made a killing in the scrap metal business, and he invested his wealth in real estate, which in turn has left me with modest holdings in a small apartment building, a few three family homes and an intersection with two gas stations, a convenience store and a Chinese take-out. Martin calls me the only slumlord that understands scale and perspective.

My choice of residence is the third floor flat in one of my homes in an older section of New Haven. And it is to here that Martin brought his martini making skills (and his baguette, and his Ch. Smith Haut Lafitte ’00).

I prepped for Martin as best I could.

The martinis were indeed splendid, as Martin said (for the umpteenth time in my listening), “The martini is the only American invention as perfect as the English sonnet.” He does not take credit for the phrase; but attributes it to H.L. Mencken.

Somewhere between martini one and two, Martin’s left eyelid drooped. Francie, now his “Ex”, would say that this was the sign that he was “passed the point of no return.” In truth, that lid could droop at the halfway pole in martini #1, hardly a point of no return, at least for him; but certainly a point where talk would begin.

Content that the Bordeaux was decanted and the food prep was accounted for, we quickly dispensed with the burning issues of the day — the War in Iraq, the incompetence of the present Administration, the horrible condition of I-95 and, of course, our kids. Martin sipped his well-chilled Tanqueray and offered, “I can’t remember the last time I had banana cake with Mary Oliver frosting.”

This was a revelation from left field. “Wasn’t that the cake that your Mother made for you?”

“Geeze, I loved that cake. Look, you remember my Mom. Virtually all of the cooking details were turned over to my Aunt Hilda or to Rachel… but Mom baked. It was her calling. Wednesdays were piecrust days and Fridays were given over to manufacturing cakes and pies. At least 5 would be produced. Two for Friday night dinner and three for Saturday night when the ‘Boopies’ came over for coffee and dessert.”

This latter detail needs some explanation. Martin’s folks had a “circle of friends.” The Jacobs, Grants, Lewis’ and Shures. They all went to school together, they all got married about the same time, and, importantly, they all remained in New Haven. When Estelle Grant was in her early 20s she would do a killer impression of the cartoon character Betty Boop, and it is because of this talent that she acquired the “handle” Boopie. It would be Francie who would apply the label to the circle as a whole.

Another sip of gin, “I don’t know where she got the recipe… probably from some magazine. She also made a monster chocolate mousse cake and then a blueberry or peach cake that was made in a glass dish. But one time she asked me what cake I wanted for my birthday and I said ‘banana cake with Mary Oliver chocolate frosting.’ And, you know it could just as easily have been one of the others.” From that point on, the banana cake with Mary Oliver became the birthday cake.

And that’s just the way it was with Martin’s Mom. And I should know… after all I have been over for visits since the 4th grade. One time I mentioned to her that she made the best lemon meringue pie. And from then on, whenever lemon meringue was on the Friday baking roster… a sixth dessert was fashioned… a second lemon meringue was added just for me. Even when I came home weekends from college, there would be a pie waiting for me.

I used to think my Mother was the source for when I would be coming home… an advisement call would be made to Lena (Martin’s Mother)… But even on my unplanned visits — times when no one knew I was coming back to town — Lena, obviously gifted with a sixth sense, would have a tasty lemon meringue for me… with the best meringue I have ever experienced… lofty peaks just kissed with a golden tan.

I also had first hand knowledge of the birthday cake selection. When Martin turned 21, I was dragooned into driving the cake (and Francie) up to Schenectady for Martin’s surprise birthday party. By that time, Lena trusted Rachel (their housekeeper) with the sacred recipe. The cake for the milestone birthday was in fact “subcontracted” out to Rachel since Lena was still in Barbados for her winter holiday.

Thirty-five birthdays have passed since then. I can’t recall Martin mentioning that cake once, or hearing whether Francie even attempted making that cake in Lena’s absence.

Our martinis done. The rib-eyes grilled to a turn and their accoutrements finished, we picked up our talk over the last of the Bordeaux. “Terrific wine, Martin.” Of small note, I am the only person who calls Martin, “Martin.” To everyone else on the planet he is “Marty.”

“Great Vintage, under-acclaimed producer from the Graves,” he returns. And then without missing a beat, “You know, I’m not such a big chocolate freak… but it was the frosting that made the cake.”

“Are we back to the cake again? You said no dessert…”

“Yes, I said ‘No dessert’… and you believed me?! What kind of friend are you?”

“Did you really want, or expect, me to bake that cake? It’s not even your birthday!”

He looked into his glass of wine. Turning it this way and that… as if the very colour and appearance was the ultimate experience. Then he looked over to me, no longer able to contain his famous shit-eating grin, “Nah… but it was a good thought.”

And that’s the way it is with my friend Martin. He had no interest in eating the cake. For Martin it was all about the memory of the cake.

And of our dinner that night, the delicious steak and Smith Haut Lafitte will fade into a collection of other enjoyable dinners and talks; but what I will always remember is the memory of the banana cake and Mary Oliver frosting. That, and I will think of Lena’s love.

Anyway, I think that’s what Martin really had in mind from the get-go.