The Ash Creek Papers

I love going to the market. Particularly markets that have fancy stuff… A well ordered fruit display it is always impressive. Neat, even rows of apples, pears, plums and the like. But it the “fancy” fruit, the exotic fruit that draws my keen interest. Fruits that look like Dr. Seuss had “invented” them. Fruits that have peculiar names, irregular shapes, bumps and spines. Fruits that are probably a “throw back” to the Late Cretaceous. And besides, how the hell are you supposed to eat them? I just love it.

What constitutes “exotic” is up for interpretation. And fruits that were one time thought to be exotic are now mainstream.

When I was a kid a mango was exotic. Today? It is part of the “regular” fruit display settled in with the Gala Apples, Bosc Pears and Red Flame Grapes.

Ask each of my kids to rank their Top Ten favorite fruits and Mango places high with each. Number One with Zack, Number One with Shaina & Number Four with Suzy.

But it should also be noted that when Suzy went to Nicaragua for two weeks to help build a school, she lived in mean circumstances with a local family… their cottage was surrounded by mango trees… but sadly, the mangoes weren’t quite ripe, and what would have been a satisfying snack remained beyond her reach. Before leaving she was able to have a mango from a neighbor’s tree… she attests that it was the best she ever had… and the highlight of her culinary experience there (if you discount the iguana stew).

I love mango, too. When I was a kid, Mommie Soph would buy them for our home from Margie’s Market (New Haven’s “Designer” produce seller). I would cut away sections of the fruit, skirting the bothersome pit, or stone (which was far bigger than required, as far as I was concerned). I would rip the sweet succulent fruit from the skin with my teeth… and then finish the job by reversing the skin on the back of my hand, so that my teeth could scrape the remaining portions that had escaped the main attack.

Two things were a lock… I would be sticky from doing battle with the mango, and Mommie Soph, patient from her observation post, would take that recalcitrant pit and strip it of the remaining slivers of fruit, the way a vulture treats a carcass on the Serengeti.

As a side note, modern technology has produced a mango “de-pitter” (or de-stoner). Sandy bought one for us. It looks like a torture device used by Theodoric of Yorke against suspected witches. But it is effective (it might even be effective against suspected witches, too).

Anyway… I loved the fruit. Mommie Soph loved the pit: we were quite a team.

Maybe this was a family thing. Perhaps there is a genetic marker that shows a predisposition to liking mango. Further evidence of this is my Sister, Lynn. If there is a “mango gene”, then she has ten to my one.

There was a day, not too long ago when we were sitting in the den in Stamford watching some TV. If it was my choice it would have been Shawshank Redemption. If it was hers it would have been Texas Hold ‘Em Poker (I find this, by the by, as improbable as Mommie Soph watching Friday Night at the Fights. Which she did…).

Lynn had a prized mango, a sharp knife and a quantity of paper towel (and maybe a bath towel). I wasn’t sure whether she was going to eat it, or operate on it. But my attention was elsewhere… probably on Shawshank.

But when I next glanced to Lynn… there she was… spent peels in a neat pile, face wet from the sticky fruit and small shards of mango on her glasses, on her cheek & on her sweater.

It was like something from Tom Jones, with Squire Weston having grizzled pieces of fatty meat dripping from his hair.

I offered to bring in a garden hose to wash down the room; but she politely declined.

But yes… I was proud! It did a family proud! That mango didn’t stand a chance! It was engaged with a direct descendant of Sophie Fleischner!

Mangoes… exotic? Not for our family! Just a “walk in the park.”

LYNN’S RECIPE FOR MANGO

1 Mango

1 Bowie Knife or a machete or a Samurai sword

1 Roll of Bounty

1 Plush towel

1 Canvas drop cloth

1 Roll plastic sheeting

1 Safety goggles

2 Boxes of Handi-wipes

1 Container of floss

We give thanks to Thee who hast provided us bounty in the Garden of Eden and also in Connecticut… We praise the graciousness of the tree that has yielded its juicy progeny. Mango: You don’t know who the Hell you are dealing with.

Eat at your own speed. Loud sucking and slurping noises are not only allowed; but they are an indication of joy and fulfillment. Making a mess is also a good thing.

In Woody Allen’s film Annie Hall there is a scene where he and Diane Keaton are standing on line to get into Bergman’s Face to Face. Near them is a guy who is sharing his opinions with his friends, quoting liberally from Marshall McLuhan, in an attempt to add greater validity to his position.

With each pronouncement, Allen rolls his eyes… and finally at wit’s end, he steps aside and brings in Marshall McLuhan himself into the scene to refute this guy… “You have no idea about my theories, and you don’t know what you’re talking about…” Or words to that effect.

Somehow, in the sequence, Allen captured a form of justice prevailing… some know-it-all dip shit getting a proper come-upance. How often have we dreamed of this? A form of divine retribution, if you so believe.

You may think this only happens in books or movies… but I am here to tell you that I saw it happen — in real life. I was there, oh yes, I was there! Justice sustained!

It’s a story that involved my Father… and maybe I’ve told you the tale before… but since it’s close to Father’s Day, I thought it would be fun to re-visit it again.

Our family business was Chipp Inc. of New York (and today it still operates under the banner of Winston Tailors). Central to the business was Custom Tailoring… what our English cousins on Savile Row refer to as Bespoke Tailoring.

Our clothing was individually made to order based on a unique paper pattern specifically drafted for each of our customers. The drafting of the paper pattern, overseeing the making of the garment, and fitting the customer was the responsibility of our Head Designer. You see, while as a family we understood taste and clothing, no one in the family could sew or draw outside of a colouring book.

And at the time of this story, the person in command of our Tailoring Department was Charles Sferrazza.

The making of a suit was an involved process, and it would take several weeks and a number of fittings from start to finish to complete. From a business perspective, the fewer the fittings, the better. Each fitting past 2 or 3 began to seriously eat into our margin.

Enter into our story J.B. Whatever-His-Name-Was.

I don’t know who recommended him to us. But he ordered a number of suits from us over a three month period. It seemed that with each visit to fit clothes, he would give our salesman, Paul Jorgensen another order.

The trouble was that he was not taking delivery of any of his suits. And we were out quite a bit of money. Satisfying Mr. Whatever-His-Name-Was was proving to be an impossible task. And with each fitting, it looked like this guy was going to be more difficult to please.

My Father caught wind of this and wanted an explanation.

It seemed that when Mr. Whatever-His-Name-Was would come in, every other visit he would have his Wife in tow. On her visits she would bark instructions, “Stand up straight J.B.!” But the trouble was that standing up straight was not J.B.’s natural posture, and Charles could not fit the clothes properly to this guy’s natural posture (when she was not present) and staged posture (when she was).

More attempts were made to the same results. Almost right; but not good enough in the eyes of Mrs. You-Know-Who. It was making Charles sick, and he told my Father so. My Father said fine, waste no more time, it was stupid to throw good money after bad, he was going to sue this guy’s ass to get paid.

Charles thought the better of it… “You know Sid, let me take one more shot at making this guy happy.”

For the next fitting, my Father was on hand to observe the proceedings. Inside his breast pocket he had legal papers, as a “just in case”, serving Mr. J.B. Whatever-His-Name-Was for the cost of the suits (maybe seven in number).

He watched as Charles tried on each and every garment… listened as Mrs. Whatever-His-Name-Was chirped about this and about that. Finally, he lost all patience and called J.B. to the side…

Quite sternly he said, “Mr. Whatever-His-Name-Was, I am serving you with papers. I have been in the business of making people clothes for 30 years, and I am telling that those suits fit you. The trouble is Mr. So-And-So, that Mrs. So-And-So will not let you enjoy these clothes. She thinks she is a maven…”

Mrs. Etc., Etc on hearing this at a distance responded, “I am not a maven, I’m an Episcopalian!”

For those of you unfamiliar with the Yiddish term “maven”… it means expert. Originally this was a positive term. Over the years, however, the term acquired a secondary meaning, negative in feeling. It was applied to someone who thinks he (or she) is an expert.

But our story is not yet complete.

My Dad, having duly served J.B. Etc., Etc. with papers, took the seven suits to a Court of Law in New Jersey to fit Mr. You-Know-Who before a Judge. The Judge took careful note as each suit was tried on and when done the Judge turned to Mr. Whatever-His-Name-Was and pronounced, “My Father was a Tailor, I buy my clothes at Brooks Brothers… I know clothes. And I am telling you those suits fit you! Pay the man!” Justice served!

I think of this story from time to time. I just love it. I have to smile. I think of my Dad.

Thanks for sticking around.