Parlor Games, &c.

On pizza in New York, and elsewhere; a golf story; a song; and more

Photo by Aurélien Lemasson-Théobald on Unsplash

Not a week ago, I was musing about running for mayor of New York (musing in a jocular way). (You can find those remarks in this column.) Well, I will sink my chances with what I’m going to say today.

Or will I? I bet many of the residents of New York feel the same as I.

Earlier this month, I was in Bloomington, Ind., hanging with my friends at the university—specifically, its (storied) music school. A few of us gathered at Mother Bear’s, hard by the campus. It is my favorite pizza parlor—anywhere.

Hang on, here’s a quick photo:

True, I like the ambience. Mother Bear’s is a classic college-town joint. And true, I like meeting my friends there, and I have good memories, relating to the place.

Beyond that, however, I love the pizza. (And I love the fact that there is Pepsi on the soda fountain, not Coke.) (As a liberal-minded conservative, I wish there were both Coke and Pepsi everywhere, to please all.)

I live in New York, thought of as a land of pizza, and my favorite pizza parlor is in ... Indiana.

Let me try out some thoughts on you ...

I have no doubt that New York was once magnificent, and exceptional, for pizza. The home of pizza in the United States. Think of the infusion of Italian immigrants.

But there came a time when pizza across America got very, very good—making New York less special, less exceptional, in the pizza department.

When I was growing up in the Midwest—Michigan, not Indiana—there were Lender’s Bagels in the supermarket. They were okay. But they were frozen, and you put them in the toaster, and ... they were not the “real thing,” exactly.

The real thing was in New York, no doubt—at H&H, for example. Top-notch stuff.

But guess what? There came a time when the whole country got very good bagels—maybe not at the H&H level, but very good nonetheless.

You did not have to travel for bagels, or for pizza.

When we moved to New York in the 1990s, we thought, “Great: New York pizza.” We went to one parlor. It was okay. Then to another. Which was okay. Another: okay.

I think of a song lyric: “no better than all right” (“Tonight,” from West Side Story, by Bernstein & Sondheim).

There was a place in the Village that was very good. But better than could have been had in Ann Arbor, or Bloomington? I don’t think so.

There was a famous place in Brooklyn—a “destination” pizzeria. The line was out the door. The pizza was good, maybe even very good. But worth waiting in line for?

Lincoln liked an English saying, a saying often attributed to him—because he wrote it down in one of his notebooks, I believe. In any case, here it is:

“Once a man establishes a reputation as an early riser, he can sleep till noon.”

I may be wrong—and if I am, I hope my readers will correct me—but I believe that New York has been sleeping till noon for many years, where pizza is concerned.

(I must say, though, that I love Motorino. Had a slice or two there this very day. Followed by a cookie from Levain. It has been a gluttonous, and good, day.)

***

Several weeks ago, I had a little lamentation about New York, in a column that was mainly about Washington (D.C.). Let me do a little pasting, and “follow up,” as they used to say at White House press conferences. (After asking a question, Helen Thomas, for example, might say, “And I’d like to follow up.”)

You know what city is too lightly policed? New York. When I got back [from Washington], I went to the 42nd St. Station to take the subway home. Of course, the kid next to me jumped the turnstile. Not a “hood,” let me specify. A clean-cut high-school or college kid.

Last year, I was talking with a young friend of mine, a freshman at one of our universities. She said that practically everyone jumps the turnstile. It makes you feel like a chump for paying.

When law-abiding people see others break the law—breezily and with impunity—it demoralizes them. The entire atmosphere is degraded.

Well, you know what I saw the other day? A mother with her children—who ducked under the turnstile, as their mother directed.

That was demoralizing. I have already quoted Stephen Sondheim in this column. Now let me quote his mentor, and second father, Oscar Hammerstein II: “You’ve got to be carefully taught.”

***

I was at the golf range a few days ago, and a man engaged me in conversation. He brought up The Legend of Bagger Vance. That gave me a memory, which I know some of my readers will enjoy.

The Legend of Bagger Vance is a 1995 novel by Steven Pressfield. It is a golf story—a mystical one. The game of golf attracts mysticism. Bagger Vance is based on the Bhagavad Gita (loosely).

In 1996, I was working at The Weekly Standard, and Tin Cup, a golf movie, came out. I reviewed it for the magazine. In that review, I believe I said something about the difficulty of portraying golf in a movie (if “portraying” is the right word).

So much of the game is mental, and unseeable, and undepictable.

Bill Kristol, the editor, was nice enough to send my review to Dan Quayle, the former vice president, whom Bill had served as chief of staff. Quayle is a very good golfer, who was captain of his college team (DePauw).

Quick aside: Bill once had dinner or lunch with Quayle and Quayle’s friend Tom Watson—one of the greatest golfers in history.

I received a letter from Quayle, via fax. Such a warm, kind letter. In it, he mentioned having read The Legend of Bagger Vance, and he wondered whether it would make a good movie.

The novel was, in fact, made into a movie in 2000. It stars Jack Lemmon, Matt Damon, Will Smith, and Charlize Theron. I watched it (for the first time) the other night (spurred by the conversation I had had at the golf range). A lovely movie. Absurd in parts—especially in parts directly related to golf and its mechanics—but lovely.

I think highly of Dan Quayle, by the way.

***

Yesterday, I was talking with a nine-year-old girl. She’s nine and a half, I should say! Let’s get that straight. She said, in a general discussion of music, “Do you know ‘It’s Been a Long, Long Time,’ by Harry James?” Dumbfounded, I said, “Of course I know it, but how do you know it?!” She giggled and said, “Captain America!”

Apparently, the song is used in a Captain America movie.

I then said, “Raise your hand if you met Harry James, in person!” I raised my hand; she did not. (James died in 1983.) She was amused, slightly.

Frankly, I think she should have been more impressed that I had met Harry James, but ...

Here is some information I did not trouble her with: “It’s Been a Long, Long Time” was written by Jule Styne and Sammy Cahn. James made a very popular recording of it, with the singer Kitty Kallen.

I can hear my dad playing that song, on the piano, and singing along.

***

You want a quick snap of a scene in my ’hood? ’Tis the season ...

Thanks so much for joining me today, my friends. I figure a Sunday-evening column is not so bad, now and then. I wish an especially good evening to my Detroit Lions, who are playing the Kansas City Chiefs.

All the best ...