The hunger: summertime tips that'll wet your lips

Interview, June, 1995 by Hal Rubenstein

In order to achieve this airy, childlike carefreeness, all you have to do is reason like a full-grown adult in the heat, on rented turf, in traffic, with a failing deodorant, a chocolate Lab that can't wait, a ferry that won't, and a special friend who keeps asking you to stop at every strip mall in search of the soundtrack to Boys on the Side. Just think. All this, and it's time to take your clothes off without anyone offering to have sex.

* Think abs.

* Wow. Look at how many items have a label that screams FAT FREE. Too bad none of those labels have been slapped on you. That's because there's a big difference between a defatted food product serenely isolated inside a jar and a defatted food product inside of you. Why? Read the ingredients. The average you-can-eat-all-you-want, postbarbecued-skinless-free-range-chicken-breast frozen dessert has five different kinds of sugars in it. Why? Because contents are listed in order of quantity, and by eliminating the spread-the-wealth ruse that amalgamates dextrose, fructose, glucose, corn syrup, maple syrup, honey, and maltose, the consumer might discover that sugar is the main ingredient in most of these goodies.

And while you may enjoy a sugar rush as much as the next guy, your body can handle only so many of them a day. Which means, whatever sugar your body doesn't use, it stores - as fat. The more sugar you use, the more potential fat-in-weighing. And the more sugar you use, the more sugar crashes you sustain, the more sugar you need to get out of it, the even more potential fat-in-weighing.

So, unless your dessert claims good-bye fat and sugar (often achieved by a pharmaceutical melange of chemicals that lab mice will pay us back for one day), there is no such thing as a free munch.

* Nothing wrecks the velvet bristle of a margarita made with a superior tequila such as Sauza Conmemorativo or Tres Generaciones like table salt. The dubious art of Diamond Crystalling the rim of your glass is as useless a procedure as tying the perfect bow tie. Why are you bothering? Please do not write letters. This is not a debate.

* Furthermore, any man who still thinks his dinner jacket looks best with a bow tie probably does so because it matches his lucky cummerbund. Nothing like being cinched, pinched, and knotted when you're supposed to be looking your best. Won't you look fresh as a daisy at the next gala on a hot summer night under a tent? Boy, what you need is a drink. How about a margarita? Straight up. No salt.

* Women, make men envious and even hornier than they already are during a heat wave: When you dress for dinner, don't put on stockings.

* Load up the car with everything you need for a picnic: lounges, boom box, hammock, baseball gloves, little white gloves, love gloves. In fact, try not to leave room in the trunk for food. An enclosed cargo area acts like a large, uncontrollable Crock-Pot, stewing all it encases. If there's room, put food on the backseat, where it can enjoy the air-conditioned climate that it so richly deserves. If there isn't, think of putting the kids in the trunk (though they might end up on Ricki Lake) or let them take public transport.

* There is a period of about two hours when fish goes bad before it starts to smell. You won't be able to spot it. Your body will, but too late. At a buffet, a picnic, or anywhere food is left on the table for an extended period, serve all fresh fish cold. Refrigerate it as soon as it is cooked and cooled. Pack it in ice for the trip. Save your famous braided ragout of bass and monkfish for Thanksgiving dinner. Served then, your guests will think it's an homage to the coiffures of Native Americans and praise your creativity instead of puking their guts out under an August moon at Settler's Brook.

* Despite the most delightfully romantic cooking scene in the history of film, Woody Allen could have won Diane Keaton's heart even faster if he'd known the best way to prepare a lobster. The boiling-it-to-kill-it part he got right - actually, he got it wrong, though he had the right idea - but after the lobster has silently screamed its way to a watery death in about sixty seconds, take the redcoat out of its liquid chamber and place it on a char-ready grill. Six minutes on each side (depending upon size). Split the scarlet devil, and if there's roe to be had, whisk it into some scalded butter. That's the deal. Wash it down with champagne on ice - you heard me - and no one will ever leave you alone eating a mashed-avocado sandwich again.

* Sick of every seasonal salad, steamed vegetable, and cold meat having some kind of vinaigrette dressing? In Miami, they toss around a Cuban variation called mojo (pronounced mo-ho), which, according to Steven Raichlen in his cookbook Miami Spice (Workman Publishing, 1993), is authentically made with sour oranges. The mojo I've tasted was made with lime juice, which Raichlen cites as tasting more like sour oranges than oranges, and it was bracing.

Heat up about 1/2 cup of olive oil in a saucepan on medium-high heat. Add 8 to 10 cloves of minced garlic, turn heat to medium, and cook until browned without burning. This should take less than a minute. Add 3/4 cup of fresh lime juice, 1/2 teaspoon of ground cumin, and salt and pepper to taste. Bring mixture to a boil. Cool before serving. Traditionally presented at room temperature, it's more refreshing cold. Even on tired, old salad nicoise.