The Literary Hangover Cure

[BeefCheeks]

They played hard, and they drank harder: but what do we think the likes of Dorothy Parker, Scott Fitzgerald, and Ernest Hemingway ate after tying one on just a little bit too tightly....? And do we think that Carver really ate menudo?

The curious want to know.....

Thanks all.

[racheld]

Bromo Seltzer for the merely agued, Hair of the Dog for the late-night lamented, and Prairie Oysters (not to be confused with either the oceanic or the altitudinous kinds) for the truly tied-one-on-with-rope. I suppose the gulped egg would satisfy the "ate" part of the question.

And I would imagine Tennessee Williams to be a Bromo man, as well. After all, Blanche D. swore to "get hold of a Bromo" as she rubbed her aching head.

I hate to be the first to answer this---two sips into a cocktail and I can't find the kitchen to finish dinner. Better drinkers than I will answer more accurately, I think.

Hemingway struck me as a raw-beef man on any occasion, and he would have eaten barely-flamed red meat in great, grease-lipped bites, breathing quick loud breaths through his nose as he chewed. Men like Papa don't have time to trim the fat---they down it all, with sluices of golden yolk mingling in the pool of red, and soft tortillas dived through warm, lard-slick frijoles.

Fitzgerald seemed a more effete sort, with collar stays and galluses hoisting his pin-stripes; his breakfasts were the gin rickey sort, or Sazerac-fueled bacon-and-eggs on the terrace, silver domes ashine, with an ever-full ashtray testament to the puffs between bites. Fruit group was covered by a Salty Dog or two, and vegetable, the parsley left to wither on the plate.

And Miss Parker---ahhh, Miss Parker---now HER, I could have breakfast with. I picture all the Algonquin outings beginning with the first perks of the coffeepot, and ending with nightcaps seasoned with a whiff of cigar.

But she ate, I think; that wit and acid tongue and reputed soft heart were driven by more than martinis. And anyone still in a cocktail suit at six a.m., with a little feathered whimsy over one eye---that woman could order anything from Eggs Sardou to a lumberjack's breakfast, and eat either or both with a bright-eyed, lusty joy belying her reputation. Or she could slump into despair, regarding world and friend alike with a sabre-tongued sentence through clenched teeth, frowning up in disdain or nausea at others' breakfasts. What I'd give to have been listening from a quiet corner.

She strikes me as the Prairie Oyster sort---yolk only, heavy on the Worcestershire---tossed off like a horse-opera cowpoke in a swing-door saloon. Not even a grimace to spare in that crowded, lonely life.

Edited to corral a wandering italic arm.

Edited April 28, 2008 by racheld (log)

[racheld]

And do we think that Carver really ate menudo?

The curious want to know.....

←

No idea. But I think he really, REALLY liked cinnamon rolls. He describes them with the ardor of a lover describing the curve of his lady's thigh, with the tastes and mouthfeel and sweet redolence of spice jumping off the page. Great golden panfuls, hot from the oven.

Making them muffins in the movie just negated all those warm, yeasty, squashy sweet mouthfuls of sorrow's anodyne.

Edited April 29, 2008 by racheld (log)