Eating - Jason Epstein [43]
Roy then went on to become McCarthy’s chief counsel, an assignment that Joseph P. Kennedy wanted for his son Bobby. The elder Kennedy had paid McCarthy not to campaign in Massachusetts for the Republican candidate when Jack was running for the Senate in 1952 and felt that Joe owed him and his son a favor. But George Sokolsky, Hearst’s political columnist, wanted Roy for the job, perhaps to show that not all Jews were Communists. With support from Cardinal Spellman and J. Edgar Hoover, according to Roy, Sokolsky convinced McCarthy to choose Cohn. Bobby was furious. He should not have been. Had he become McCarthy’s chief counsel, the Kennedy family would have been ruined politically. Roy, by preempting Bobby, made Jack’s presidency possible.*
One morning, in the kitchen of Roy’s unkempt town house, I was pondering a cup of coffee that had turned cold as I waited for Roy to come downstairs to work on the manuscript. A back staircase led directly from the bedrooms to the kitchen. Eventually, Roy emerged wearing a short robe that reached only halfway to his bare knees. “Roy,” I asked, “in your memoir, how do you plan to deal with your homosexuality?” I had found no reference to his sex life in his manuscript, though his preference was well known. In fact, at that very moment his companion, to whom I had been introduced previously, came down from the bedroom, said hello, and left. “Your homosexuality?” I reminded Roy. Roy and I belonged to a generation that had not yet gotten used to the word “gay.” “I’m not homosexual,” he replied, without expression, his watery blue eyes unblinking.
The bland country-club menu at “21” had never appealed to me except, faute de mieux, for the “black and blue” hamburger—a half-pound of chopped sirloin blackened on the outside, cool on the inside, steak tartare enclosed in a burnt hamburger crust—served with limp string beans and the restaurant’s own spicy ketchup, tomato paste mixed with mustard, cumin, and who knows what else. That evening I didn’t touch my hamburger. Roy was dying before my eyes. He could hardly lift his fork.
It was now obvious that he would never finish his manuscript. A few days later, I heard that Nancy Reagan had sent him to Walter Reed for experimental treatment with AZT. I never saw him again.
As far as I can recall, Roy never visited me in either Manhattan or Sag Harbor, but we did meet once at a restaurant in East Hampton. The occasion was the birthday of an old aunt, which Roy celebrated each year by inviting his most illustrious friends—politicians, tabloid journalists, judges, and so on—to a luncheon in her honor. But this year Roy was in disgrace. He had been disbarred for cheating a client, and his sickness had been widely rumored. His entourage had abandoned him and he would soon die. I arrived at the restaurant to find a long table set along either side for forty or so guests, with balloons and red, white, and blue favors at each place. But except for Roy himself and the old woman crumpled in her seat at the head of the table, no one had shown up. I was the only guest.
The “black and blue” hamburger that I ordered that night at “21” and couldn’t eat is no longer fashionable, having been preempted by Daniel Boulud’s extravaganza. But it is easy to make at home, and far less expensive.
“BLACK AND BLUE” HAMBURGER
For my version, you will need a piece of rib eye or fillet, which you may grind at home in a food processor a little at a time, being careful to retain a chunky texture. What you want to achieve is room-temperature steak tartare enclosed in a shell blackened at top and bottom. Mix a few grains of sea salt, some pepper, and a trace of cumin or celery salt with a dash of Worcestershire into the meat. Form the mixture into a ball, placing a sliver of ice in the center. You might also add some celery and/or onion, chopped very fine. Lightly flatten the ball, top