A Chicken Tale

“Well, he said he wanted a bounty,” my grandma once said in her nasal, Long Island drawl. “So, yeah, I ordered ninety-eight chickens.”

A fiction writer couldn’t invent better truth, and here it was up for the plucking: the then brand new 1957 GE freezer packed with nothing but bald chicken carcasses. Yes, those neatly stacked slabs of pale pinks and yellows, fleshy parts solid enough to break a window if thrown. A wall of poultry.

Her best friend and neighbor, Sue Heath, maintained that status of both because of her unabashed honesty. “What about a little brisket?” she had asked my grandmother who was blowing extravagant clouds of smoke from an L & M, a succulent delicacy indulged only in her husband’s absence. “Some hamburger, Fran. A couple of steaks? Just chicken? Who stuffs a freezer full of chicken?”

“Who needs anything else? I can make chicken ninety-eight different ways, Sue; it won’t be boring,” my grandma answered plainly, her recently dyed hair shimmering blond again after an intentional stint with leopard spots. She had thought a little bit of jungle might spice things up in her dull suburban town, not to mention look fabulous as she drove in her two-tone  persimmon and cream Oldsmobile convertible. 

Her hair stylist, Betty, had thought the idea was perfectly outrageous. “Jungle spots!” Betty had applauded. “That will give these women something to talk about!” That, and the fact that my gorgeous grandma was an artist when women wouldn’t follow such pursuits, and that she didn’t give a rat’s ass about convention. Yes, Fran Lawner was often the talk of that conservative, affluent little town. Ninety-eight chickens was simply one more thing.

Back in my grandma’s kitchen, Sue Heath already knew that nothing about Francis Lawner was ever boring, not even her chicken. She had eaten uncountable meals in that house, and with the help of some entertaining banter, blended with some bravado and a generous flow of alcohol, Fran could make anyone believe she had conducted a culinary symphony. Or at least a halfway decent home cooked meal.

By the time Fran would get to cooking the 47th chicken, she had even expanded her repertoire far beyond the likes of barbeque sauces, Saucy Susan, and the flair of Campbell’s Soups, Dahling. Paprika Chicken, Chicken Cacciatore, fried chicken made with corn flakes, chicken parmigiana, chicken in a pot, matzo ball soup, lemon chicken, chicken with mustard and herbs, and many other recipes she just “winged.”

I try to imagine my grandma then, her tiny rebellions enacted to “stir things up;” boredom usurped by harmless mischief. That was, after all, what had instigated the chicken episode in the first place. It started at a tennis match at Forest Hills, that yearly excursion to witness the US Open, where the grand gardens, Tudor style houses, celebrity sightings, well dressed well-to-do, and the pre-game performances by the likes of Frank Sinatra and others, guaranteed to make each event a grand one. Not to mention the tennis, of which my grandfather, a ranked player himself, was particularly fond.

Yet my grandparents were simple people, underneath what my grandfather’s success in business reaped. Children of immigrant Jews, my grandpa had grown up in Brooklyn, my grandma in the Bronx. They came from tailors or held odd jobs, people who spoke with thick eastern European accents. My grandma never started college, my grandpa was long from finished. Neither of them was religious, their faith set in hard work, in being moral, honest people, and standing up for what they believed was right. My grandfather, too, had held a series of odd, almost comical jobs before his entrepreneurial spirit took over. Then, with a background as a gifted and eventually ranked tennis player, he began importing tennis rackets from India and selling them at a profit. This led him to manufacturing sporting goods, and his company, Regent, would soon take him from the tenement buildings of Brooklyn. 

To embellish their large home, they installed a clay tennis court and in-ground pool, luxuries that were so far removed from what either my grandparents had known before. My grandfather’s three young children and beautiful wife were his motivation to be such a success, but so was their large group of friends who knew that 96 Wood Lane was open to them, too. And what friends! 

My grandmother would march for Civil Rights and Women’s Rights, and liberal minded friends of many cultures, religions, and classes surrounded her and my grandfather. This diversity was not exactly the norm in Woodmere, Long Island. It probably wasn’t the norm for my grandfather, either, who got much more than he bargained for in marrying my open-minded, artistic grandmother. He too would have loved to keep up appearances of the Leave it To Beaver era in which they lived, but Fran wouldn’t stand for such a luke-warm, Goyim, existence. And so parties they had! My grandparents were usually the hosts, or so I have heard, and I rarely experienced summer days at their home without numerous people of all walks of life dropping by for a game of tennis or a dip in the pool. Even though they became quite affluent, my grandparents never abandoned their roots of the neighborhood stoop filled with activity and down home fun.

Well, the Year of the Chicken, as it has come to be known, began when a dynamic tennis game ended at Forest Hills. The day’s hero of the court strutted in a sheen of sweat, twirling his lucky racket, straight over to my grandmother who was leaning over the boxed seats rail in the front row. Enticed by her movie star good looks and expressive blue eyes, Don Budge asked my grandmother if she wanted to have a drink. My grandfather, oblivious, was at that moment caught in the clutches of friends as they recounted the most exciting plays of the day. Little did he know of the one occurring just feet from where he stood.

Don Budge 1938 Photo courtesy of wnyc.org

No matter. Beautiful and mildly mischievous, Fran Lawner was no trollop, and the acceptance of a drink, even with the day’s crown prince of tennis was against the rules. Still, she could find a way to enjoy his company, but she would have to think quickly.

“I can’t go with you now, but what are you doing tonight?” she said enticingly.

He said with a smile that he would be seeing her.

“That’s great,” she said, “Because my husband and I are having a fabulous party at our house. There will be a lot of tennis players there, and we have a clay court and a pool. Bring your swimsuit and a racket if you want to hit. About--” she had to pause before she announced the time for a party no one yet knew anything about. It would take her a while to get the liquor and everything and set it all up. Not to mention call everyone she knew to invite them at the last minute. “About, 8?” That would give the guests a little time to play while it was still light out and then they could all head indoors. She had four hours. “See you later then,” she said with a tinge of flirtation before heading over to my grandfather and their friends.

To my grandfather’s surprise, she announced that she had just decided to have a party but that she would have to hurry to get everything ready before 8. “And you’re not going to believe who’s coming,” my grandma said, in a conciliatory tone. The group was a flurry, and even her husband was rushing to get to the car. They drove home, and she said a quick hello to her young children before telling their housekeeper, “We’re having a party tonight, around 8! I have to call some friends; then I’ll go shopping. Please watch the kids and tidy the house.” 

She fixed herself a vodka tonic, quickly went upstairs with her phone book to her room, and closed the door. She sat on her bed and, starting with the numbers of those she knew by heart, she dialed one friend after the other, the same monologue delivered between sips.

“Hi___. Yeah, It’s Fran. We’re having a US Open party tonight around 8. Very spontaneous. A little tennis; bring your suits; I have towels. And you won’t believe who’s coming!” 

Each time, she received the same incredulous “Nooo! Really? See you later!” before the click of the receiver. When she had finally called everyone she could think of, she put on a little fresh lipstick in her signature coral pink, and headed for the Oldsmobile. Was she glad she had just been to the beauty parlor the day before, and she had just the dress to wear! But with only two hours left she would have to hurry, there was still much to do.

An hour later she returned home with several boxes of wine, beer, and liquor, and she had Elsie help her set up four bars, one by the pool, one in the kitchen, and two in the living room. She cut some irises, lilies and roses that grew around the property and set them in various vases throughout the house. While her kids played in the pool and her husband read the paper nearby keeping an eye, she fixed herself another vodka tonic and headed to her dressing room to get ready. She hadn’t eaten much in all the excitement of the day, and the buzzing warmth of her drink was wending its way through her petite frame. Still, she looked gorgeous, the chartreuse halter dress with the crimson flowers showing off her tiny waistline and cleavage.

She was pretty tipsy by the time everything was ready. Everything except the food, which she had forgotten in her excitement, to buy. She scoured her fridge and cupboards for any ingredients she might be able to transform into party food and set out to make a salad. A very LARGE salad. Lettuce, carrots, tomatoes, canned beets, beans, tuna, onion, celery, herbs, croutons, and dressing in the biggest bowl she had.

The guests were arriving, and my Grandma made sure she directed them to the bars, where they would soon get so sauced up that they just might not notice that she had yet again defied convention. They would all secretly wonder eventually, uttered in hushed tones: No pigs in blankets? No cheese and crackers? What, no chopped liver or a little whitefish salad. And where, for Godsakes, were the devilled eggs?

But that would be later, much later.

For now guests were milling about, swimming, playing badminton, ping pong, and tennis, all asking whenever my grandma passed them, “When is Don Budge arriving?” “Is it true that Don Budge will be here?”

He was an excellent diversion from their hunger which would eventually set in. It was dinnertime, after all. But not even Irving, her husband, noticed the veritable absence of food, as he was too busy holding court, on the court, ready to take on any opponent, and the next.

The white convertible Cadillac they were all waiting for then pulled in the driveway. Bronzed and stunning, Don Budge stepped out of the car and languidly strutted towards the court to observe the players. The game was paused and he was flooded with a rush of congratulations and introductions. 

Though my grandfather tried, the tall, lanky champion was unmotivated to join him on the court. “It’s been a long day, and I admit I’m tired and rather hungry,” he said. “But I wanted to make it over here, as I said I would. Irving, I would love to grab a little something to eat, if you don’t mind. Then, who knows. Maybe a game?”

My grandpa led him to the pool area, where a bar was set up, and he hoped to be able to offer Don some food. Apologetically, with a confused shrug, he made him a martini, and pointed him to a diminutive bowl of peanuts. Grandpa then led his guest into the living room where they usually entertain. Friends crowded around more bottles of sodas and liquors but there was not a stitch of food beyond some dainty and very empty bowls where peanuts and some pretzels had been. Amongst the couches, grand piano, only chatty guests, which meant more introductions, but on the tables, no hors d'oeuvres or even snacks. None.

“It’s like the search for the Holy Grail,” Don joked.

Unfortunately, my grandpa’s sense of humor had worn thinner than the lines on his court. All Irving Lawner really wanted in that moment was to get in one good game with this hero before he lost his chance along with the last of the day’s sunlight. He turned red as he led Don into the den where two other friends were engaged in a gripping game of chess, and a few others were on the couch talking loudly and drinking.

“I really don’t know what to say, Don. I’m sure my wife must have set up some food somewhere! It’s a big house, would you like to keep looking, or would you prefer to stay here and I’ll bring you something?”

“I’ll follow you, thanks, Irv,” he said with an understanding smile. There, Don again obliged the room full of more congratulations before my grandpa finally led him into the dining room.

Finally, the first evidence of something edible, besides the olives in a drink, and some scraggly nuts. In the center of the huge antique oak table sat an enormous bowl of salad, and a pile of forks. Guests leaned around the bowl and pecked at its contents out of desperation, awkward as it was. Don looked at my grandfather who returned the confused gaze. He really had no excuses to offer. He had witnessed some eccentricities in his wife, but this really pushed at the edges of what made sense.

But what choice did they have? When Don Budge is your guest and he is hungry, then you join him in a meal, no matter what that meal might be. My grandfather picked up two forks and passed one to Don with a sheepish smile, while the other guests made space for them around the bowl. This really would be the conversation piece the next day: “I mean really, would you believe I shared a salad with Don Budge!”

But my grandpa, well he wasn’t quite as enamored by the experience, at least not yet. The salad had been such an oddity that the guests were immediately disarmed (and drunk), causing conversation to flow even more comfortably than usual. Not to mention they had a celebrity in their midst, and who wanted to pass up the opportunity to chat it up with him! And chat. And chat.

‘Be that as it may’, as my grandparents used to say, Irv Lawner did not make it onto the court with Don Budge, missing the opportunity of a lifetime. All because of a salad. By that point, it was dark, and they would all still have to go home to eat.

“FRANNNNNNN!” my grandfather would boom when the last guest had driven away. “A SALAD!!!! A MEASLY SALAD!!!! Have you lost your MIND???”

Following his tirade, he would articulate specific instructions about party protocol. “I want BOUNTY at our next party, Fran, or no party at all. Do you hear me? I don’t care WHO’S invited! B-O-U-N-T-Y.”

And that’s where and why the ninety-eight chickens entered the scene. Bounty, to be sure.

You can imagine what a conversation piece that was at the next gathering.

“CHICKEN?!” my grandfather would scream incredulously. “Who serves ONLY chicken at a party, even if you made 4000 of the best chickens ever prepared!”

But my grandma wasn’t listening. She had made her point. Her husband would never understand the small sacrifices she made to have a little fun, and to make sure her friends did also. Besides, she had paintings to create. So what if Irv Lawner played one less game of tennis? He shared a salad with Don Budge, after all. And be that as it may, the Lawner family ate chicken for a long time.

-end-