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Beat egg whites and ¼ cup sugar in large mixing bowl at low speed until frothy. Add cream of tartar; increase speed to medium and gradually beat in remaining sugar. Beat until whites just hold stiff peaks.

Immediately spoon meringue over hot custard, being sure that meringue touches baking dish on all sides (this helps prevent it from shrinking). Transfer to oven and bake until golden, 20 minutes. Remove from oven and cool 1 hour. Refrigerate at least 4 hours before serving.

MY FRIEND SAM FLOYD was the most dapper, eloquently dressing man I ever knew. Had he lived during the flapper days, he would have been one of the first to wear spats. In another age, he would have sported a foulard or a four-in-hand. He certainly would have owned a derby and a fedora. In fact, somewhere in his crowded closet in his crowded apartment in New York’s Greenwich Village, he did have a beret from Paris and a top hat for formal evenings out on the New York town.

In the 1960s, he wore Brooks Brothers suits, Van Huesen shirts, and Sulka silk ties. His shoes were custom-made.

In 1969, Sam and I flew out to California to visit my mother, who was the most elegant-dressing woman I ever knew. She wore Dachê hats and Lilli Ann suits, Lillie Rubin dresses, and Daniel Green slippers. They admired and even liked each other. They were a match.

Sam and I were invited to dinner by a friend of my mother’s, who declined to go. The date started to go bad from the first minute. Our host opened the door and invited us directly to the bar in his den. He told Sam that he shouldn’t have dressed up. He added, “There’s no one in my house you have to impress.”

I knew he was being friendly. Sam was offended. Sam wouldn’t have thought that what he was wearing was dress-up. He said, “I didn’t really have to try to achieve this just to come to your house.”

I knew Sam was just being Sam, but now the host was offended. Just as he was preparing his rejoinder, I stepped in.

“May we order drinks? I’ve got dust in my throat.” That was the height of the evening.

In a half hour, the host had stopped speaking to Sam who retaliated by trying to drink the bar dry. Sam ordinarily drank one or two whiskeys before dinner and some wine with the meal. On that particular night, Sam had whiskey after whiskey, and when dinner was served he refused the wine, saying he would go out with whom he came in. He ordered another scotch.

I don’t think he tasted the food, and as quickly as I could, still being courteous, I said our thanks and good-byes.

Just before he passed out in my car, Sam said, “I drank because that jerk bored me.”

He lurched into my mother’s house and straight into the guest room. In the morning I was having coffee when he came into the kitchen holding his head. “I drank everything I could to get back at our host.” I said, “And he’s feeling it this morning, poor thing.” Sam said, “Don’t add insult to injury.” Mother entered, saying, “Only if it is deserved.”

I looked at both people whom I loved and thought how much alike they were. They were separated by a generation and by gender, but at 9:00 A.M. both had showered and chosen expensive dressing gowns just to come to the kitchen.

I asked Sam to recount for my mother what he could remember of the night before. I headed back to my room. When I returned, my mother was laughing heartily.

“What you need is a cold beer now, and as soon as I can make it, some tripe. Some good red-hot tripe and white rice! Or I can make the Mexican menudo.”

Sam said, “I only know how to cook tripe à la mode de Caen.” He pronounced the dish with a French accent.

My mother asked, “What?”

He started to tell her.

She said, “Wait, let me change. I’ll be right back, and I’ll cook my kind of tripe and you can tell me your recipe.”

She went back to her room. Sam took his beer and disappeared, and I returned to my room.

I smelled onions frying and I followed the aroma to the kitchen. My mother, dressed in white, was stirring onions in a skillet.

Within minutes Sam entered, also in white. They looked at