Cuisine De Turf

It was Sunday morning and we were going to the track. Since I was out of cash and the banks were closed, I met Philip at the cash machine in Grand Central Station. I fed my plastic card into the mouth of the machine and requested $50. "I am sorry," the machine said on the screen, "I can't do that now." After a short pause it said, "Have a nice day." Then, in its greed, it forgot to disgorge my card. "It's licking its lips," Philip said. "It's eaten your card for breakfast."

Due to this temporary financial instability, I found myself unable to summon the cash for more than a $2 bet. Along with the ever-present John and Cynthia, Philip had invited Harry, a horseplayer who knew more about the turf than anyone since Damon Runyon. When Harry heard about my lack of funds, he shrugged.

"It's tough, going to the ponies without any scratch. But you'll probably have beginner's luck. Who knows, maybe you'll parlay that deuce into a G before the day is over. Stick with me, kid."

Philip had $100. "That's called a C-note," said Harry. "Put it on Biloxi Borscht. Five to one."

There is something about Harry that inspires trust. Perhaps it's his clothes. That day he was wearing a houndstooth jacket, felt hat, and suede shoes. His striped tie, a bit too wide, was held in place with a gold tie clip. Although pink and clean-shaven, with a fresh razor cut and manicured nails, he had overlooked the hairs in his nose.

When we got to the track we paid two dollars each to get in, fifty cents for a program ("Four bits," said Harry), fifteen cents for a tiny pencil. John got the turf sheets, and then we all paid five bucks more for admission to the club.

"We've already dropped over thirty smackers and we haven't even seen a horse," complained John as we hightailed it up the escalator. At the top, a sign outside the clubhouse read, "No abbreviated attire. Men must wear suits or jackets. Ladies must wear dresses, skirts or slacks. Absolutely no jeans permitted, designer or otherwise. No T-shirts, no shorts."

"This must be a classy joint," said Philip.

"Horseplayers never had it so cozy and warm," said Harry. "You should have been here before they built the glass enclosure."

We had a table by the window with a view of the track and the tote board. The board was lit up with odds and payoffs. Above our heads was a color TV. There was one for every four tables.

A waiter set down a couple of glass jars of coffee covered with paper lids. He looked like Boris Karloff impersonating a stiff. He brought us paper cups of ice water and took our cocktail orders. Cynthia had a strawberry daiquiri, John a tequila sunrise, Philip and I had spicy Bloody Marys, and Harry had his usual, a bourbon on the rocks with a beer chaser.

"I'm pourin' in a whole bottle of vodka," the waiter said to me when he returned. He put down a glass of tomato juice and poured vodka into it from a glass vial. "A whole bottle of vodka," he repeated.

Before consulting the menu, we checked out our program. The first race was at one o'clock. It was quite a lineup of three-year-olds, and I could feel my blood pressure going up a foot just looking at it. Short Order Cook was the favorite, Tex Mex and Side of Coleslaw close seconds. I speculated about Danish Chef, Evening Porridge, Chick Pea, French Touch, Jambalaya, Alligator Pear, and Mint Julep. Second Helping had been scratched. "Chick Pea doesn't have weight in his favor anymore," said Harry. "And the others will have to pick up pounds and lengths before they can beat Short Order Cook. "

"I'm going to put my money on that one," said Philip. I put my deuce on Scorned Spinach. Cynthia and John had Weight Conscious to win with Escoffier's Brisket to place. When Harry came back to the table from his turn at the betting window, he said he had changed his mind and bet on My Rutabaga. We ordered another round of drinks.

"I'm pourin' in a whole bottle of vodka," said the waiter. Over the loudspeaker a voice called, "It's post time."

There was a hush. "The horses are at the gate. .. "

"Where's the gate?" asked Cynthia, squinting at the track.

"Way over there."

"I can't see it."

"... and they're off!"

All eyes turned to the TV. The murmur grew to a roar. Menus were dropped, wine lists were dropped, people stood up on their chairs. Sedate matrons screamed at the TV screen. Harry jumped on his chair and snapped his fingers rapidly. "C'mon, c'mon, C'MON BABY YOU CAN DO IT! That horse gotta get out there!"

And it was My Rutabaga, coming up from behind to take the last stretch. Scorned Spinach came in last.

"I won a thousand dollars!" said the guy at the table next to us.

"Get outta here! You'll get us all indicted," said his friend from behind a cigar.

"Yeah. You'll walk out in handcuffs for that one."

Silence fell, and they resumed eating. Harry was looking sharp.

"I'm hungry,'' said Cynthia. "Let's order lunch."

"What's the poultry du jour?" asked Philip, pointing to the menu listing "freshly prepared poultry weved [weved?] in a varied form."

Moira Hodgson

Lunching at the track: a C-note on Biloxi Borscht, a deuce on Scorned Spinach, and they're off!

"Ah. That was fried chicken," replied our waiter, who seemed to prefer the past tense.

"How is the salmon?"

"That was with dill sauce and cucumbers."

"Oh. What about the chef's daily special?"

"That was sole."

"Aha."

We ordered roast beef, chicken salad, shrimp salad, and a chicken liver pate plate. Harry had a sirloin steak with fried eggs and Manhattan clam chowder. To start, I ordered smoked salmon with capers. Cynthia got the jumbo pink shrimp cocktail, and Philip and John went for the iced melon.

"May we see the wine list?"

"Mateus or Lancers."

We ordered soave instead, and it came in a cardboard ice bucket printed to look like wood.

It was time for the second race. I hadn't a cent now, so John lent me two bucks. At the $50 window Harry was talking to a fashion statement in white shoes, white jacket, black shirt, white tie, black pants, and diamond pinkie ring. He broke away from the guy. "Spartan Clambake," he said. I decided to trust him. Back at the table, the first course arrived under plastic.

I had just taken a mouthful of salmon when the next race got off. I leaped up with my fork in the air. Cynthia froze with a shrimp in her fingers, dripping red New Orleansstyle cocktail sauce on the tablecloth.

"Ohmigod," said the announcer. "He threw the rider at the gate! Spartan Clambake threw the rider at the gate!"

"I'm not betting no more today," said a man's voice behind me.

"Gimme another cigarette," said his wife.

"You had enough."

"At my age I should worry about smoking already?" She grabbed a cigarette and the turf sheet.

They were off! And it was Marie's Dressing putting on a fine show, zipping by Wine Slob and overtaking Double Gloucester in a photo finish.

"In the summer the gamblers come in from Florida," said Harry, removing a toothpick from his mouth. "They'll bet five grand on a horse that loses by a hair. You can't print the money fast enough for this game."

"I think they mixed mayonnaise with the chicken liver," said Cynthia. "Is that done?"

The chicken salad was all dark meat, with mayonnaise, grapes, and pineapple chunks. The shrimp came with fresh pieces of orange.

"I can eat anything," said Philip. "But this salad has little bits of bone in it."

"That's coconut, you idiot," said Cynthia, taking a bite.

Our meal was interrupted by a replay of the race. The cameraman gave us a shot of Spartan Clambake, a lively display of rearing and kicking that ended in the horse's taking an earnest nip at his trainer's arm. The winner was Marie's Dressing.

Philip found himself short of ready, having dropped a C-note on Have Some More. So Harry lends him two bucks and Philip puts it down on Beaten Biscuit. What do you know, Beaten Biscuit comes in at 50 to 1. And here's Philip with a hundred bucks. From here on, as they say, the story gets very interesting. I am just settling down to my shrimp salad when Philip slips off and slaps down a C-note on Red Mullet. "A slug," says Harry. But Red Mullet comes in like a greased pig at 2 to 1. So Philip puts down two hundred on Chitterling at 10 to 1, and Chitterling laughs all the way home. So he bets the two grand on something called Squirrel Quiche, and it's a shoo-in. "All the bookmakers in the betting ring are sobbing," said Harry. "It really is most distressing to hear."

It was time for the eighth race. Harry and Philip had ordered a Pecan Ball and a Cafe Equestris, a mixture of Kahlua, Galliano and brandy topped with whipped cream. I got apple pie—what the hell—and Cynthia had cheesecake with strawberries and whipped cream. John went for a black cherry rum sundae. "Ponies make me hungry," he said. "And I've hardly managed a mouthful with all the action." We ordered coffee, which arrived accompanied by small containers of Instantblend Dairy Substitute.

Philip left the table to bet on Predigested. "If the owners in this race had any sense, they'd leave their horses in the stable and save them a lot of lather," opined Harry. "Predigested won the Derby and came in second at the Preakness. None of the other fillies can touch her." But Predigested stumbled and trailed in fourth. Philip had put $2,000 on her.

"Jeez," said Harry. "It never fails. All horseplayers die broke. You'd better scrounge enough scratch to buy a Betsy and shoot yourself through the pimple. But first, I'm beggin' ya, pay for our lunch."