Grandma Got Run Over by a Midterm

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Many years ago, when I headed off to college, I had just one living parent and one surviving grandparent. Barring some unforeseen tragedy, my oldest son should ship off to his still-unknown alma mater not only with both me and his mother above ground but also both of his grandmothers. I hope and pray that they survive the next four years.

What has me so worried? It’s a study I ran across from biology professor Mike Adams of Eastern Connecticut State University who found a shocking fact based on two decades of tracking his own students:  College is highly fatal to grandmothers.

Grannies, it seems, are 10 times more likely to die right before a midterm than any other time and nearly 20 times as likely to die before finals. Even more puzzling is the fact that weaker pupils’ grandmothers are a lot frailer than those of ‘A’ students.

When no exam was imminent for a student of his, there were an average 0.04 grandmother fatalities per 100 students. But the stress of exams for grandparents of the worst students seems to have been too much in many cases, making them 55 times as likely to die.

Since my son didn’t apply to any colleges in Connecticut, I was holding out hope that this was a strictly regional phenomenon and that my mom and mother-in-law would be unaffected. Professor Adams quickly disabused me of this notion. Even studying abroad, it seems, wouldn’t change the grim calculus: In England the phenomenon is called “Graveyard Grannies” and in France “Chere Grand’mere.”

I’m happy to report that, at 75 and 80, they’re in fine health for their ages. If they weren’t rooting for my son to make the Dean’s List, though, they sure will be after reading this.

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Dear Woody Johnson

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Congratulations on being appointed Ambassador to Great Britain. Believe it or not, the pomp and prestige of the office you’re assuming rivals that of owning the 27th best football team in the NFL.  As a former American expat who lived in London for many years, here’s some friendly advice to make sure that the Trump administration makes the best possible impression at the Court of St. James. You’re welcome.

  1. British people don’t eat normal food like cheese fries served in commemorative green plastic helmets. Weird, right? To fit in, you’ll have to ask for and consume staples of their cuisine such as plum duff, spotted dick, black pudding, Marmite, and haggis. It’s polite to ask for seconds.
  1. The educational system is very poor compared to what we have in the U.S., probably because their universities are so old. You’ll notice, for example, spelling errors everywhere. I regularly saw words like color written with an extra “u” and the “er” in words like center reversed. As a civilizing influence and a proud graduate of the University of Arizona, the Brits will greatly appreciate being corrected in such matters and may even bestow upon you the honorific “tosser.”
  1. Britain doesn’t have a president. Instead they are ruled by a monarch, though they also have a debating society called Parliament that chooses a sort of chief called Prime Minister. Concentrate your energy on the woman in charge, Queen Elizabeth, who I hear is a huge Jets fan.
  1. Guess what? The Brits absolutely love, love, love football so you’ll have lots to talk about with them. Better yet, you can opine on strategy there as they haven’t heard of your unfortunate personnel choices like Geno Smith and Tim Tebow.
  1. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. (By the way, you’re not literally in Rome – that’s the capital of Italy, a different country that’s north of Scotland). British men always wear bowler hats and stop everything they’re doing for “elevenses” in the late morning and high tea in the afternoon, just like in Downton Abbey.
  1. You may notice that, though you’re ambassador to a single country, some Brits act as if there are countries within a country. This is just like U.S. states and, while acknowledging regional pride, you shouldn’t be too fussy about the distinction. We don’t call people from Georgia Georgians, do we? Whether in Wales, Scotland, or Northern Ireland, just refer to everyone as “English” and you’ll be in good shape.

Well, that’s everything I can think of at the moment. Good luck or, as the Brits say, “dog’s bollocks!”

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You too can be a literary critic!

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This post has a point so please bear with me and read to the bottom. If you’re in a hurry, just skip to the bottom.

A few years ago someone “tweeted at” me with a link to a book that I needed to check out. For those not au fait with Twitter, this means he was both a stranger to me (usually the case on Twitter) and also that I wasn’t following him (so he couldn’t send a direct message). There are plenty of kooks on social media, but often such messages are from a perfectly normal person bringing something to your attention or promoting themselves to a journalist. I usually ignore the latter, but I checked this one out as he had written a supposedly riveting “financial thriller” – my great white whale.

Normally someone trying to get a journalist to read a book will offer to send them a copy or just put one in the mail unsolicited. The author, whose name I’ll refrain from mentioning, didn’t have a publisher and only provided a link to the book’s Amazon page. In other words, he was a literary spammer.

I clicked anyway and saw dozens and dozens of five star reviews. They had titles like “Awesome Historical Thriller” and “Incredible Book…Ripped Out of Tomorrow’s Headlines!” None of the top reviews showed “Verified Purchase” which, since the book was unlikely to have been available in bookstores, was odd. Where did they buy it? Did they really buy it?

There also were no editorial reviews as such – not even from places such as Kirkus, which will write one for any book for a fee. The author bio had poor grammar such as: “He lives on a 300+ year old farm in Connecticut deeded from King George of England with his children.” I downloaded the free Kindle sample anyway and read the whole thing. It was bad. I’ll let a couple of the are one-star reviewers sum it up:

 “The author does not demonstrate basic grammar skills, sentence construction, nor realistic dialogue formation. He should have invested in the advice of a professional editor before self-publishing this book. I would suggest he find a good editor and rework the novel for republishing under a different title.”

And:

“Everyone has a story to tell but not everyone is cut out to be a writer. The numerous, obviously contrived reviews are not doing the author any favors. It is hard to tell someone that something they worked hard on is poorly done, but sometimes the truth is more important. This book is not good. It is not even an approximation of good. REDACTED may be a knowledgeable and intelligent individual but he is not a writer and I hope for the sake of his family and friends that he does not attempt another book (at least until he has taken a high school level composition class).”

These are outweighed by some 183 mostly breathless five star reviews and very few in-between. In other words, when someone decides whether to buy the book in question, he or she will see that it has an average rating of 4.6 stars. Just to put that in context, The Great Gatsby and Lolita each have 4.3 stars. The Bonfire of the Vanities, Reminiscences of a Stock Operator and The Financier, three well-regarded works of fiction involving finance, have 4.2, 4.5, and 4.4 stars, respectively.

Clearly the author solicited friends and family or a paid service – perhaps including “King George of England and his children” – to write positive reviews.

Why should you care? I guess it’s not a big deal as long as you can see past the fakery, though it does make it tough to evaluate all sorts of consumer products on Amazon or restaurants on Yelp where the deception is a little slicker.

And why do I care? Well, I just published my first book. It has some very nice advance praise and has been written up in The New York Times, Forbes, Fortune, Money, USA Today, Barron’s and excerpted in The Wall Street Journal, Marketwatch, and elsewhere. I’m grateful for that and all the other media exposure as I’d like people to buy it.

But a lot of people just hear about it in cyberspace, navigate to the Amazon page, and check out strangers’ reviews. There are some really nice ones and, for a while, all were five stars. I was worried that I’d look like the aforementioned author. Then a couple of four star ones crept in and even a three star and I actually was sort of relieved. Then, all of a sudden, a couple of one star reviews started landing. “Waste of money!” and “The worst book on investing I have ever read!” On Goodreads, which doesn’t provide proof of purchase, some of the reviews criticized stuff that wasn’t even in the book.

I guess they’re entitled to their opinions and, according to Amazon at least, they made “verified purchases.” A former colleague of mine, Kaja Whitehouse, is a dogged investigative reporter and also an author of a book about wills. It looks like a really useful book and the two reviewers that are verified purchases both gave it five stars. Then there are several one star reviews all submitted on the same day from non-verified reviewers (see screenshot below). They are by people who never reviewed any other books. Clearly she wrote something negative about a company they owned and they punished her by trashing her book, which now has an average rating of 2.3.

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I’m not a victim of a smear, but all this made me realize that many books benefit from friendly reviews, which brings me to the point of this post. I thanked friends and strangers alike who told me they liked my book but I never asked them to go and write a review.

Now I’m politely asking. If you didn’t read the book then please don’t go onto Amazon or Goodreads and click five stars for my benefit. But, if you read and have something to say, I’d really appreciate a little bit of support. And if you hated it? Well, it’s a free country, but nobody likes a gossip.

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Hey, I wrote a book

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No, it isn’t about food, travel, or human stupidity, though maybe I’ll get around to those subjects one of these days. It’s called Heads I Win, Tails I Win: Why Smart Investors Fail and How to Tilt the Odds in Your Favor and is being published by Penguin/Random House. It goes on sale on July 12th but is available for pre-order wherever fine books are sold.

If you permit me a moment of immodesty, I’d include mine on the list of “fine” books too, and not just because the reviews have been good. Most books that claim to help you with your finances are dry and self-promotional. Mine is neither. I think you’ll actually like reading it and I’m not selling anything. Well, I’m selling a book, but you will already have bought it by that point, so …

It contains the very best advice I know for individual investors and delivers the message in the way I think is most likely to be followed. It also has some shocking stats on how awful individual savers are without realizing it. The book is very much aimed at the novice investor but financial types who have read advance copies found a lot of good information in it as well.

I hope you check it out and consider purchasing it either for yourself or a loved one who can use a little guidance. I’ve copied some of the breathless praise below:

The book gives a deep and realistic insight into how investing really works… while most people can’t fix the appliances in their home, they are now required to be part time money managers of their retirement investments through their 401k or IRA plans. Unfortunately, most people woefully lack the financial education to do so. His book makes a dent in that knowledge deficit, at least for those who read it.”  —SIMON CONSTABLE, Forbes

“Jakab has plenty of sensible advice—especially for the novice, who is unlikely to be able to select securities or even to pick people who have that skill. He laments that people who would never presume to fix their own refrigerator have the burden of managing their money.”—ROGER LOWENSTEIN, Fortune Magazine

“Jakab’s efforts to acquaint readers with the basic realities of the market and to provide an insider’s view of how to approach money management will be comprehensible to even the most intimidated reader. Energetic and engaging, this is required reading for anyone who’d like to retire ahead of the game.”    —PUBLISHER’S WEEKLY

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Shamed by You English?

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“Stankly Closing Daws!”

What, you don’t know what I’m talking about? You do if you’ve ridden the New York City subway much. It may not be pronounced correctly – not close – but even an immigrant right off the boat knows it’s the motorman’s warning to “stand clear of the closing doors.”

I hear it 12 times on most weekdays traveling between 175th Street and the Wall Street Journal on 47th on two different trains in each direction. And when I get back to Washington Heights in the evening I head straight for one of the semi-official jitneys (a.k.a. the Dominican Bus) across the “Jore Washing  Toe Brie” to “Four Lee.” There are two competing cash-only companies, each with their own conductor/pitchman/sales guy, and since both go across the George Washington Bridge to Fort Lee, the choice comes down to which bus leaves first (they have to fill up).

“Lee bee now! Lee bee now!”

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That’s the great thing about America, and New York in particular. Not only don’t you have to understand much of the official language to get by but speaking it is optional. Why should a hard-working bus tout who inhales diesel fumes for 12 hours a day, seven days a week, waste time and energy learning how to pronounce “leaving now?”

As a child of immigrants who only learned English when he started school, I think about this a lot. My sister, cousins and I didn’t have the option of settling for pidgin English given our career choices, but our parents and their extended community of friends were way too old and busy to learn all of the finer points. The farther you got from New York the harder this made things.

My dad, a few years after coming to the U.S. as a refugee, even got arrested in Mobile, Alabama in 1961 for using the “colored” bathroom in the bus station. I’d like to pretend he was making a principled stand for civil rights, but he just didn’t understand what the sign meant or what the cop was telling him. The cop almost certainly didn’t understand his response.

To a limited extent this linguistic confusion rubbed off on the first generation, or me at least. My dad, on the frequent occasions he didn’t understand someone, would say “pah-rah-me?” I thought this was what you said when you didn’t understand something.

Sometimes it was hilarious. His brother, my Uncle George, would put on his striped “cocksucker suit,” though that may have been a joke from day one. My grandmother went to the supermarket and nearly served us tuna cat food. My wife’s grandmother went to the store looking for “shits” – you know, the ones that go on the bed. My mom, who learned her English early on from African American nurses, still amazes me with her hungaricized  ebonics.

Once, when I was just learning English, I had a bad cold and an American family friend said: “Oh, you have a stuffed duck nose.” Well, that’s what I heard, and since you sort of do sound like a stuffed duck when you’re congested, I said that for many years until the inevitable, embarrassing correction. I also thought until about age 11 that a bike had a “cake stand” so it wouldn’t fall down. It forms a triangle and is shaped like a piece of cake so …

In any case, the moral of this story is to be thankful for, rather than annoyed by, the fact that people can get away with only a crude approximation of English here in New York their entire lives and be just fine. If you happen to be visiting from, say, Iowa, and are confused, just listen a little more carefully. And if you’re back home and meet a little foreign-sounding lady without a cat buying a lot of cat food that’s on sale,  please stop her.

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The Haves and the Have Mores

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Make sure you’re sitting down when you read this. Ready? Here goes:

In certain unknown corners of the world there is a “money-based caste system” in operation. Crazy, right?

I read this in an interesting but somewhat tone-deaf front page New York Times article this weekend by Nelson Schwartz: “In an Age of Privilege, Not Everyone Is in the Same Boat.” Geddit? It’s a double-entendre because it’s about a special section offered by a cruise line that caters to the upper-middle-class, Norwegian. In a “ship within a ship” 275 guests have private entrances, pools, get the best seats in the house at shows, private transport to the ship, and so forth. It’s the first in a series of articles about “The Velvet Rope Economy… how growing disparities in wealth are leading to privileged treatment of the rich.”

In fairness to the writer, it’s a fascinating look at a world that I (and probably you) will never see and comes at a time when the ultra-rich really are getting richer. The proportion of wealth controlled by the top 0.1% has doubled in the past couple of decades. The odd thing is the slight tone of shock and disdain. After all, people who are willing to pay tens of thousands of dollars for an upgraded version of what merely well-to-do people pay a few thousand for acts like a subsidy for the latter. If I liked going on cruises (I don’t – I wrote about my one experience a couple of years ago) I would appreciate these people, not despise them. Not only would it be no skin off my back, but it would be saving me money.

What I really wondered was why any super-rich person in their right mind would pay for that when a private yacht would be so much nicer. But then you probably already knew that money can’t buy good taste (see McMansions, Cadillac Escalades, and Trump Tower).

And while society may more economically stratified, money has always bought perks. These are a lot less objectionable than, say, the state of affairs on the Titanic when those in steerage not only had much worse food and sleeping arrangements but died in greater numbers because they couldn’t reach the lifeboats.

There were a lot of predictable comments on the piece (2,086 at last count)  whining about executives, taxes, etc, that are such a feature of election season. But plenty of readers wondered about the same things that I did. Artie from Cincinnati wrote:

I find it very curious that someone with the means to drop $30,000 on a room (OK suite) for a week’s incarceration, with very little possibility of escape on one of these ocean-going hotels, would want to do so with 4200 other commoners in such close proximity. Perhaps for some, flaunting one’s wealth is a desirable way to get away from it all. I guess we’re all out of touch in one way or another.

And Lou from Rego Park:

I would venture that almost everyone reading this article, whether they realize it or not, are part of the pampered few when compared to the entire world population. Having a home, food and many of our conveniences is the equivalent of living in the Haven on this earthly ship.

Echoed by JHM from Taiwan:

My heart goes out to couples who can only afford an “ordinary” stateroom for $3,000 a week instead of a room in the Haven for $10,000. Life is tough. What’s that you say; according to the UN half the world’s population survives on less than $2 a day? Come on, don’t bother me with that stuff. Can’t you see? I’m on vacation.

Can you hear that faint sound? It’s the world’s smallest violin.

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Hot Chicken!

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I think I’m in love … with a bird.

Last week I traveled to Nashville with the cover story of accompanying my  oldest son on a tour of Vanderbilt and to visit my little sister. At the top of my agenda, though, was finally sampling some of the Music City’s hot chicken. That alone was worth the plane fare.

After consulting my sister about our options, it really came down to two choices: old school Prince’s Hot Chicken Shack (no, they don’t have a website – it’s a shack) or relative newcomer Hattie B’s Hot Chicken. We went for the latter because she said it was more consistent and it also was closer to our meeting at Vandy.

Technically this wasn’t my first time having hot chicken, but that other time doesn’t count. You may have seen KFC advertising its “Nashville Hot Chicken.” We treated my son to some after his awesome college test scores several weeks ago and, well, I’ll let David Pemberton of UPROXX tell you:

KFC’s bastard child looks like Hot Chicken, it smells like Hot Chicken, and up until my first bite, I had hoped that it would actually taste like Hot Chicken. But we live in a world of lies. And Colonel Sanders is the antichrist.

Okay, so it was a little better, in my opinion, than their usual “11 secret herbs and spices” stuff but fell apart, had no kick, and was generally disappointing. On the other hand, the real deal, as described by Serious Eats, is heavenly:

The magic comes in the mingling of fat and heat. Take fried chicken’s fat-crisped crust and electrify it with a blistering spice blend, then place the meat in a spongy cradle of white bread. The bread soaks up the hot chicken’s juices, becoming just another delivery system for the heat, and the spicy grease lingers on your lips: the afterburn is an initiation to the habit that is hot chicken.

So we went to Hattie B’s and I thought we’d be disappointed. I mean it was something like 11:10 in the morning – a little early for a place for anything with an “afterburn” to even be open, especially in relatively sleepy Nashville. Much to my surprise, though, there already was a line out the door.

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Besides white or dark meat, the choices were Southern (“no heat”), Mild, Hot (“Feel the burn”), Damn Hot and Shut the Cluck Up!!! (“Burn Notice”). I considered going for at least Damn Hot, but a guy in line scared me. He said it would be too much to handle. I don’t know if that’s true, but read Pemberton’s description of the time he ordered the “extra spicy” at Prince’s:

There are no words to describe how hot Hot Chicken really is. It sits on the Scoville scale somewhere between “native Thai” and “molten lava.” I muscled my way through the meal with gritted teeth, spewing sweat and tears and breathless gasps until — finally — it was finished.

So I had the “hot” and it was just right. And by just right, I mean awesomely awesome. I would have had it again for dinner and breakfast the next morning if social and travel plans hadn’t intervened. The photo at the top of this post shows how it looked, along with the sides of pimento mac ‘n cheese and black eye pea salad, in the two nanoseconds before I inhaled it.

I’ll be back soon for more.

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Math Is Hard

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Store clerk: “If you open up a store card today you’ll get 55% off of whatever you buy.”

Me: “Awesome.”

And so that’s how I went from buying a single pair of shoes to a whole bunch of stuff. At 45 cents on the dollar it was silly not to at the store which, to protect the innocent, I’ll leave unidentified (rhymes with Bandana McPublic).

But, much to my surprise, when I showed up at the cash register with my new wardrobe, the nice young man first applied a 40% discount followed by a 15% discount. I started to point out that I was only getting a 49% discount, not the 55% he promised, but math didn’t seem to be his strong point and half off was still pretty good.

I doubt many people even bother thinking about it. You can bet the people back in Bandana McPublic’s HQ do, though. In fact, as this article from a colleague of mine explains, shops fool people by doing the same thing in reverse – so-called “stackable discounts.” An item will say “20% off” and then “take an additional 25% off.” People mistakenly assume they’re getting 45% off rather than the actual 40%.

But sometimes companies shoot themselves in the foot by underestimating their customers’ innumeracy. The most famous example is when a chain offered a “Third Pounder” for less money than a McDonald’s quarter pounder in the 1980s. Despite a big marketing campaign, consumers shunned the deal. The company couldn’t figure out why until they held focus groups and found that many people thought they were getting ripped off. Three is less than four, you see. D’oh!

Further underlining the saying that those who don’t learn from history are doomed to repeat it, McDonald’s tried the same thing … twice! Here’s the latest iteration from last year.

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Usually, though, it’s consumers that get the short end of the stick. It turns out we aren’t very hard to fool according to a study in the Journal of Marketing. Students were offered two deals, 33% extra coffee or a 33% discount on a cup of coffee. They were indifferent between the two despite the fact you would need one-and-a-half times as much coffee to get the same discount.

So caveat emptor and please do the math.

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Ninjas, Soba, and Buddhism

So I’ve been remiss in updating this blog, especially considering the fact that the whole family spent two weeks in Japan over the summer. It practically provided me with years of material, but where to begin? We saw so much! We ate so much!

Friends and relatives, the vast majority of whom had never been to Japan, asked us what we liked best and what we ate there. Between Tokyo, Kyoto, Nagano, and our Nagomi Visit,  it was all amazing – 14 solid days of great experiences and meals. (Okay, maybe the freezing, rain-soaked night climb of Mt. Fuji could have been more pleasant).

The thing about Japan -something you’ve probably heard before – is that it’s a heady blend of the familiar and alien, the modern and traditional. That struck all of us, but the experience that resonated most with me was a one day detour we made to a place that felt traditional period. We took a bullet train to Nagano, a lovely, medium-sized city three-and-a-half hours northwest of Tokyo – and then a one hour bus ride into the misty, volcanic hills to Togakushi Village.

After dragging the kids to lots of temples, the local ninja school was going to be their reward. The famous local soba noodles were going to be the adults’ consolation prize. Before we got to the ninja school, though, we walked through the village with thatched roof houses and to the Togakushi Shrine. Actually consisting of three separate Buddhist shrines dating back to the first millennium AD, the whole place felt serene and, dare I say, holy.

An explanation of the mythology behind the shrines from Japan-guide.com:

The shrines are related to an important story in Japanese mythology in which the Sun Goddess hid herself in a cave in present dayTakachiho on Kyushu after her brother had misbehaved, thereby bringing darkness to the world. In order to get the sunlight back, the other deities tried to lure the Sun Goddess out of the cave by performing spectacular dance performances in front of it. As the Sun Goddess took a peek out, one of the deities grabbed the cave’s stone door and threw it away to prevent her from hiding again. The stone door flew all the way to Togakushi in Nagano Prefecture, which is also how the area got its name: Togakushi literally means “hiding door”. Today, the upper shrine worships the deity who grabbed and threw away the stone door, while the middle shrine enshrines the deity who organized the dance performances in front of the cave.

The ninja school down the road felt kitschy by contrast, but the kids had fun shooting blow darts, throwing stars, and having a mock sword fight. There was even a nice, albeit small, collection of arms and armor.Toga7

On the way to the ninja school, though, we passed a restaurant next to ancient trees that I had seen in a blog post at bigontrips. I had little hope of finding it but, as we were walking by, recognized the proprietor from that post. Bigontrips said lunch was first-come, first-served, so we put our names on a waiting list and got a spot later that afternoon. We got back a little early and watched the owner hand-roll noodles through the ground floor window.

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The food was well worth the wait. I ordered the soba with mountain radish and a quail egg, washed won with some unfiltered sake.

 

The kids liked the food but didn’t appreciate it as much as the adults. Still, they were hungry enough from playing ninja to slurp down their noodles.

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Off the beaten path but simply amazing and well worth a detour if you ever find yourself in Japan.

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The Secret Hungarian Restaurant

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“We could always try the secret Hungarian restaurant.”

Wait, what?

Lamenting the disappearance of eateries serving central European soul food with my cousin Pete – our beloved Mocca, the last one standing, closed over a decade ago after 47 years in business – his comment while we were having lunch in Midtown a few weeks ago threw me for a loop. As the only member of my generation born in the old country, he had once again proven himself an expert on all things Hungarian-American.

I couldn’t believe that I had never heard of this place. Though not exactly a restaurant, The First Hungarian Literary Society was, according to a few sources on the Internet, a place to experience some real magyar konyha. He hadn’t been either so we agreed to meet outside the East 79th Street club last night.

The establishment doesn’t exactly shout its existence from the rooftops. Aside from the mandatory health department inspection sticker (it got an “A”) that one might assume was for the actual, unrelated restaurant at ground level, you would never know there was an eatery upstairs. The only sign once you enter the vestibule was this:

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But then it became clear that this was no ordinary apartment building. There were various plaques and posters of their membership with faded old photos lining the hallway. Those people reading this who have traveled in Hungary or elsewhere in Mitteleuropa will recognize the style of photo from gimnázium and középiskola graduation posters. Here’s one from their 35th anniversary in 1924:

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And here’s Pete standing next to one from their 50th anniversary. The people in the photos look like younger versions of the patrons of Mocca and Tip Top who would pinch our cheeks as we spent hours and hours there during countless Sunday afternoons in the 1970s with our dads and mutual grandpa.

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Here’s me next to a 105th anniversary one with color photos. If you look closely you’ll notice that there are fewer members and that the average age is way up there – a sign that the club’s heyday is long past. There would be more signs when we actually reached the “club.”

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The woman at the reception as we entered appeared to be the only employee. To my immense relief, quoting Attila József or György Faludy wasn’t a requirement for being admitted. A few words in Hungarian got us in the door and quickly seated. For the night we went there at least reservations weren’t necessary as no one else was eating. There were a couple of lively card games going on:

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On to the food. The prix fixe $25 menu, four courses plus coffee, was a bit more than Mocca, even adjusted for inflation. It still won’t break the bank, though. For an appetizer I had körözött (you may know it as liptauer) and Pete had chopped liver. Both were authentic but not amazing. Here’s the körözött:

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Then came a perfectly tasty vegetable soup. For the main course I had borjúpörkölt (veal paprikash) with galuska (egg dumplings) and uborkasaláta (cucumber salad). It was excellent.

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Pete’s stuffed cabbage was good too.

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For dessert, we both had palacsinta (crepes) – mine with walnuts and jam and his with túró (curd or sweetened farmer’s cheese). I think they had to improvise with his filling but it was okay. Mine was yummy.

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Finally came coffee served in a glass and some pleasant, unrushed conversation. Just like in the Old World, it would be rude to bring the check without the customer asking. Grandpa used to occupy a table for hours back in the day on 2nd Avenue, reading Népszabadság and gossiping (granted, he often would have two meals). We finally found the waitress/cook/receptionist, paid, and left with slightly higher serum cholesterol than a couple of hours earlier.

All in all the food was authentic but not amazing. The location that oozed history and kitsch was the main attraction. Oh the agglutinative, multisyllabic stories those walls could tell! You needn’t have grown up speaking Hunglish to relish this little piece of history, but it probably helps. I can’t wait to go back with people who would appreciate this slice of a nearly vanished world. Business isn’t exactly booming and the clientele wasn’t lively. I hope they hang on and perhaps find some fresh blood so that there are many more anniversary posters to come.

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