The entirety of Stripah Love is published on its own page in Silverback Digest. If you missed a section, want to check something, or want to re-read any part, just go to the home page and look for the table of contents banner at the top.
As we prepare to turn the page into April, it’s been fun having you on this journey.
April is the cruelest month, at least for the wading salt water fly fisherman. The water is so cold that it numbs your legs no matter how many layers you wear. Your hands fumble and mis-tie even familiar knots. There are no fish around yet, but you know they are coming. In the winter you can stare at maps and charts and plot strategies. You can tie flies and picture their action perfectly in your mind. But now, the weather is no longer so bad that you can live inside your fantasies. You have to go outside and start flogging the water, but there are no fish, and the water is so @#$%##!! cold.
-Sandy Beach, from The Boston Globe
from “Tastings: What’s New and Delicious on Boston’s South Shore.” The South Shore’s newest restaurant opening this spring will be Stripah Love, which is described by owner Clarence “Cuzzin” Gordon a self-described “throwback to the future.” Gordon, who boasts several generations of fried food heritage, will present all the clam shack standards–fried clams, scallops, and fish, plus the golden surroundings of fries and rings, plus oysters on the half-shell and lobster in-the-rough. Plus, in a nod to international cuisine, he will be debuting a new fusion assortment of his own creation of “fried sushi.”
“People tell me that it’s the worst idea ever,” says Gordon, “but that’s what they said about the Edsel, too!”
Fried Onion Rings
My father, Seamus “Bull” Gordon always maintained that the onion ring was the best test of a fry-cook’s prowess, much as the ice cream maker’s reputation must rest on their ability to make vanilla ice cream. A fried clam is too complex, even a challenge of the master of the fast food fryer. But even a 15 year-old twerp, properly trained, can make a good onion ring. When Bull cruised the car hops and drive-ins of coastal New England. He’d always make his initial assessment by ordering onion rings.
“Onion rings are simple, but a few things can go wrong. Start with the onion. Texture is all important. You want an onion that is dense and hard. Next is uniformity. It hard to ever do justice to different sizes in the same basket.
“Soak the sliced onions in a large bowl of ice cold water. You’ll need a separate fry mix, and the range of styles is infinite. Some people like a bready mix, but in my opinion this overpowers the onion and all you taste is coating. I like my mix light and crisp, providing minimal coating to the crisp onion. Do not overpower it. Sift together these ingredients:
- Flour
- Non-fat powdered milk
- Bicarbonate of soda
- Salt
- Powdered egg whites
Take a double fistful of onions from the water, give it two big shakes, drop the onions in the fry mix. Wipe your hand on your apron. Toss the onions until they are evenly coated. Don’t worry about making a mess. You’re going to. Put the onions into the fat. You don’t have to use a separate fryer for onions if you are using a Gordon’s Fat Filtron.
Onions will spatter due to the high moisture content. Cook only about one minute, or until golden brown. Listen to the grease. The onions will tell you when they are done. Drain onto paper towels. Two shakes of salt from the industrial shaker. Perfect!”
Interview with Liam Gordon in The Wrong Note, a guide to the L.A. music scene
Q. So why didn’t you just become a famous film director like your dad?
A. I will, when I’m finished being a rock star.
Q. How did your band get its name?
A. I started with “Lug Nuts,” because I just like the sound, and they’re the things that keep the wheels on the car, which seems appropriate for any band. Next was “Nucking Fuff,” because that’s the name my Dad and I used for a mythical construction company we had whose work was always “Close e’Fucking Nuff.” That’s what they say about tuning in rock ‘n roll, too. Our motto was “All Work Completed in One Day.”
Q. One Day? That’s pretty ambitious.
A. Not if you know my Dad and I. One day is all it takes. Next was “RE:AM” which was intellectually right, but other wise lame. Finally, after Meiko joined the band, we settled on “Uncle Cuzzin.” We think that in-breeding is going to be the next big thing.
Q. Your new album is The Battle of Indian Mound. Is it a theme album?
A. I’d rather call it a “good album,” but if people want to see a central theme in it, that’s fine, too. There are some obvious musical elements that carry over from song to song. For instance the same chord progression is used in the chorus for Move It a C- Hair, The Size of Your Dick, and Spray It White, although the words and melody are entirely different. I hope this doesn’t sound too ambitiously tech- nical, but what I’m hoping to accomplish is a sense of stability and constancy in a world that appears to be always changing.
Q. Did it change the dynamic to bring a female lead singer into the group?
A. Change the dynamic? “Obliterate” the dynamic is more like it. A song like Chink Bimbo comes across as mean-spirited and cynical when sung by me. When Meiko sings it, it’s funny. Same with I Slept with Your Dad.
Q. Your lyrics have been criticized by some feminists, who point to lyrics like the line in Garden Bitch where you say “You’re a perennial pain in my ass.” Are you a sexist?
A. Absolutely, and proudly. So is Meiko who wrote half the lyrics
Q. And yet you come up with a tender, sentimental ballad like Estherina. Who inspired that?
A. Estherina? That would be my Mother. Mother Nature, that is.
Q. And what about You Can’t Have It Both Ways? There’s a song with multiple layers of meaning. How would you summarize it for us?
A. It’s about sex, pure and simple. There are lots of positions, but you can real only one position at a time. It’s about choices and commitment.
Q. Speaking of which, you have a commitment coming up. Tell us about it.
A. That’s right, at the beginning of this year I promised my Dad I would finish my degree requirements this year. By Christmas, we had a record deal and recording dates, so I went to my college dean to ask what should I do? He agreed we should go for it music-wise and he’d give me academic credit if we’d come back to play for graduation. Here we are. We’re also doing a private gig at my father’s wedding in May and for the opening of my Uncle Cuzzin’s new restaurant, Stripah Love, next week.
A. I hear they feature fried sushi.
Stripah Love
It’s a bright April day that reminds you what spring is about. It’s a day when forsythia is the most beautiful color in the world. A giant crane is at the corner of Ocean Avenue and Germantown Pike lowering a fifteen foot long, fiberglass striped bass onto the roof of Cuzzin’s Seafood, The Home of Fried Sushi. Bright signage, reflecting Cuzzin’s hand-scrawled humor says “Grand Opening Arpil 16 (intentional misspellings). Spend your tax refund on a Clambake with Cuzzin.”
The man himself is watching from the sidewalk, not far from where Artie stood paralyzed a year earlier. With him is Elaine. Her transition is complete. She is now a disheveled, female counterpart. She wears a bandana and a jean jacket that was used to wash the parking lot. She has gained a few pounds, but seems entirely comfortable in her skin. Their “his and hers” Harleys are parked side by each alongside the building.
Elaine and Cuzzin have formed a partnership that is based on a foundation of mutual abuse. To an outsider they appear to be fighting viciously. Cuzzin will call her an “ugly, fuckin’, syphilitic whore” and she will respond by threatening “pull his cock out so far she’ll be able to wrap it around his neck and strangle him.”
Let anyone come between them, however, and their bile becomes instantly galvanized onto the intruder. Having observed the foul intercourse repeatedly, Artie is content to muse to Shea “Add this to the list of things I don’t understand in life.”
Cuzzin has changed appearance again. “Gotta look like a restaurantoowah.” He says. His head is now shaved save for two gray patches on the back of his head that grow down to the nape of his neck. He has grown the world’s longest mustache that creeps around his mouth, down to the line of his jaw, and then four tangled inches beyond. He looks like a cross between a pirate and a Salvador Dali dream. And he looks happy.
The parking lot has been cleaned up, covered with crushed shells, and handsomely landscaped, with picnic tables with brightly colored umbrellas overlooking the now visible salt marsh. Cars stream by. Many honk. Cuzzin stands on the side- walk and waves like a politician. He is on a cell phone with a built-in digital camera. He’s talking with his nephew, showing him live video of the fish going into place. Liam sends a photo of himself, Meiko on his arm.
Artie drives up in his new, beat-u pick-up pick-up. Shea is with him. The sign on the truck reads:
Striper King Tours and Lessons
Shea gets out with hand-held video recorder, and points it at Cuzzin. “Lights, camera, action,” she says. “Guess who’s making a promotional video about striped bass for the Massachusetts Harbor Association?”
“Don’t look at me,” says Cuzzin. “I just got out of the bait and tackle business.”
“Me and my partner, The Captain. It’s a history of the Harbor.”
“As told from the perspective of a striped bass,” says Artie. “I shit you not. And we’ve got a shooting budget of fifteen big ones. I used to be able to spend that much money on a cast party. Now, I’ve got to produce a thirty-minute film!”
“Fifteen grand,” scoffs Cuzzin. “Pocket change.”
“It’s for a non-profit. Gives me an excuse to write off my fishing expenses.”
Artie surveys the restaurant scene from the cab: “Amazing what you can accomplish with a little elbow grease and a million bucks. I still don’t think I’ve heard of an idea as bad as fried sushi.”
“This is my ticket to the Hall of Grease,” says Cuzzin. “Some day my plaque will be up there alongside Howard’s, and Bill’s, and Bull’s. ‘Cuzzin Gordon, Inventor of Fried Sushi’. C’mon let’s take the tour!” He’s already developing the swagger of the impresario. The bait shop transformation is nearly complete. The kitchen is a study in stainless. The coolers and fryers stand at the ready. Workers move purposefully, bringing in supplies and making fine tunings adjustments. There’s a clatter of purposefulness, chaos that’s under control and moving towards order.
“In less that a week,” says Cuzzin, “I’ll be holding that ceremonial first piece of sushi in my hand. It will be perfectly coated. The oil will be at exactly 350 degrees and squeaky clean, thanks to my Gordon Filtron7. I’ll throw it in and listen to the grease. There will be peace, harmony, and order in the world. And best of all, if I completely screw up, the bank sticks it to you, Ah-tee.”
Cuzzin is so amused by his own humor that it sounds as if a motorcycle convention is being held in the parking lot. Elaine laughs and Cuzzin says, “What do you think is so funny, you frizzy-headed, smelly Jewish bitch?” She responds by saying his belly looks so fat because his head is shoved so far up his ass that it pushing out the front. Artie notices that Elaine’s laugh is getting a little gravelly, too.
Artie’s cell phone rings. He looks at the display to see who it is. “It’s Spielberg,” he announces.
Hey, Stephen. Howyadoin’? Yeah, we’re still on. The absolute best time for you to come will be the third weekend in May. The highest tides of the spring. We’re talking the weekend of the 18th. Does that work? Perfect.
You’ll stay with me at the cottage, won’t you? It might be a little cold. Bring a bottle of single malt. Don’t worry about the equipment. I’ve got it covered. I’m going to put you right on top of some striped bass. I promise you.
Yeah, we can talk. OK, see ya.
“He’s a nice man, and I’m not just saying that because he paid through the nose for the right to make the sequel to My Mother, My Lover… We’ll bring him up here for some fried sushi, or maybe cook up lobsters at the cottage. After all, he did make all this possible.” Artie gestures to the surrounding splendor of Cuzzin’s Seafood.
“Yizz might say yowah the one who made this possible,” says Cuzzin.
“Right,” agrees Artie, “Or maybe we should thank this old babe who got Spielberg to pay millions more than what it was worth.”
He pauses to take in Elaine, and puts his arm around her. “You have really become quite a rig. Didn’t you used to be somebody?”
“You’ve got me mixed up with Arthur Gordon, who used to be a famous movie producer/director. Now he spends his time driving around in an old truck taking pictures of fish.” Elaine may be wrapped in a different package, but her voice still hovers on the edge of aggression and whine. “So, Captain, how’s business shaping up for the summer?”
“Spielberg in May. Bob Redford is coming out to do the Hasty Pudding thing at Harvard in June, and I’ll be taking him out. And if the Lakers and Celtics-fat chance-hook up in the playoffs, then Jack will be out for a few days. He wants to stay at the cottage. And Bobby DeNiro also wants me to call him for the strongest spring tides, but that’s when Spielberg is here. Joe Liquordup says the tribe will be occupying Faneuil Hall in August. He’ll arrange the date around the best tides. So I’m booked solid, or as solid as I want to be.”
They all look skyward to admire the giant fish, still attached to the crane, but now settled into place. “We can’t stay long,” says Shea. “We just heard that the first herring have arrived at the Weir River dam, and we need to get some footage for the documentary.”
Artie adds, plus we’ve got to open up the cottage for Liam and Meiko. He pauses to take another look at the transformed Elaine. “You know, when you hooked up with my cousin, somehow I thought you would get him to clean up his act. But you’ve spiraled right down to his level.”
She fidgets, then quickly flips him the bird and suggests that he can kiss her flabby ass.
“I rest my case,” says Artie. He continues his level gaze.
“So whaddya got? A staring problem?” she asks.
Artie shakes his head with a grin. “No, but I can’t believe that I’m here and you’re here with me. Did we really take the money and run?”
“Naw,” she says, pulling at her nose and looking up at the fish, now settling into its final resting position on the roof, “That only happens in the movies. Hey, jizzwanna beer?”
The End
What a great tale and read!
Looking forward to my 3rd read through back on Indian Mound/Post Island.