Today clears the great summer backlog of posts from Friend of the Blog, Charlie Seluzicki. I want to thank Charlie for all the contribution - they couldn't have been submitted at a better time - around August the Farmers Market takes over my free time.
To close out his summer of writing, Charlie is getting all Magyarian on [us], talking about his memories of Louis Szathmary. A little later in the week I will post more about Szathmary, who was an innovator and should be more of a legend - for today, enjoy Charlie's essay.
Chef Louis Szathmary [1919-1996] was a formidable presence. As a person, he was heavyset yet strong, with a grand white handlebar mustache and a devilish glint in his eyes. He was in every way demonstrative: his accent still colored by his native Hungarian, his movements theatrical, filled with gusto and an unmistakable love for life. While I never ate at his famous Chicago restaurant The Bakery, I did have the good fortune to know him as a collector of rare books. One morning in the late 70’s he showed up at John Gach Bookservice (Baltimore) where I worked for almost 5 years.
At that time, Chef Louis’ cook book collection was already legendary. Numbering into 10’s of thousands of volumes dating from the 15th century to the present, he remained insatiable and endlessly curious. I remember showing him the Janus Press production, SPAGHETTIANA, a marvelous conceit in which the text unfolded as a more and more entangled bunch of spaghetti some 20 pages long. He clapped and laughed as I made the slow reveal. And he then put it on the stack that he was buying.
Around the noon hour, he said he was getting hungry. Could I get him some food? The sense of ease that I was beginning to feel with this man, immediately vanished. My mind scrambled over the possibilities: where could I turn up a plate of chicken paprikesh and homemade noodles? My state of confusion was clearly showing and Chef Louis held up his hands and may or may not have said, “Well?” At which point I asked, what would you like? His asked for bread and cheese. “What kind of cheese?” His reply was somewhat noncommittal, “Swiss?” I learned after the fact how simple a man Chef Louis could be, often opting for simplest, most unpretentious choices when he was in the company of others. Gratefully there were two good grocery stores not far from the store and I shortly had real Kaiser rolls, a wedge of Jarlsberg and a stick of butter before the big man. He produced a pocket knife and cheerfully ate the simple fare.
After he was done, he inquired about things that fell beyond the scope of cook books. Did we have any books of Hungarian literature? Books on Hungarian coins? Frank Lloyd Wright? And finally, with an instantaneous air of seriousness, he asked if we had any books on the greatest delicacy? “And what is that, Chef?” “You don’t know?” “I am not sure that I do.” “Think about it a moment.” Silence. And then he said, “Humans, the long pig...” “Huh?” He cracked a smile. “You’re kidding me, right?” “No, actually I have over 150 books on the subject.” “That’s impossible.” At which point he explained that over half of those books were tracts written by missionaries and published by their missionary presses. They included tales of cannibalism. I vividly remember that his favorite account was recorded by the wife of a missionary who watched as her husband was summarily butchered, put in a large pot and then flavored with a variety of herbs and roots, all of which she scrupulously preserved in her diary, a ghoulish recipe if ever there was one.
It is good to meet people like Chef Louis when you are young. He taught me more in a afternoon than I could have learned in years on my own. He was a man of astounding imagination and great generosity. And there is more to tell about this immigrant who showed up on our shores with a $1.10 in his pockets. He wrote cook books and, equally importantly, he edited a series of historically important cook books. His many collections are now preserved primarily at Johnson & Wales, University of Iowa and University of Chicago.
Charles Seluzicki
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