Merrill at Midnight
Helen Merrill is my favorite living jazz singer. And it was a thrill when, on a recent jaunt to New York, friend and music journalist Jim Gavin (author of the excellent Stormy Weather: The Life of Lena Horne) arranged a dinner for the three of us. Almost 30 years ago, as a young foodie and jazz enthusiast, the best employment I could garner was to work the swing shift at a smoke-filled jazz club in Cambridge. I’d arrive home at 4 in the morning and, hopelessly hopped up on coffee and drink orders, I’d put on some of Helen’s old LPs, listening with headphones to her mysterious, hazy vocalizing. Her intense blue bebop and reworking of melody, the intoxicating balance of space and sound, always jibed especially well through ‘the wee small hours’. She’d breath ‘Lazy Afternoon’ with a musical sigh: “…there’s not another human… in vieeew…but us twooooo,” and I’d agree. I only had a few old scratchy LPs from the ‘50’s – the early ‘80’s was a bleak time for jazz and little was available. So I figured she must be long dead, a tragic diva lost to the pitfalls of the ‘jazz life’. This couldn’t have been further from the truth. Helen was, and is, very much still here, putting that myth to rest and having produced an enormous body of work over a career that spans 65 years. After her early successes in the New York jazz scene, Merrill--Bronx born of Croatian immigrants--spent time living and recording in Italy and Japan, returning to the US in the ‘70’s. She’s made more than 40 albums, all of them exquisite, but the most famous is her first, recorded in 1954, and simply entitled ‘Helen Merrill’. It features the trumpet master Clifford Brown (who did die young, in an auto accident) and was arranged by the then unknown Quincy Jones. When I asked Helen why this disk is so famous – in jazz circles, anyway - and appreciated, she paused before responding, “I don’t know, really…we were just a bunch of young people having a good time.” “It’s the mood it creates”, I suggested. “Even the upbeat songs are imbued with pain and longing – and that blue cover adds something as well.” On the angst-ridden cover, a black & white Merrill, tinted blue, screams ferociously into the microphone. “I cried when I saw it,” she lamented.
Helen knows I live in Mexico and she wanted Mexican food, assuming I’d lead her to the best. Naturally, I don’t pay much attention to the Mexican restaurant scene north of the border. But this being an emergency, I sent queries to several local chefs. It was Zarela Martinez (whose ‘Zarela’ is now closed) who suggested a new place in the Village, Empellón. This homey, classically decorated spot was the dream of former pastry chef of WD-50 and Alinea, Alex Stupak, who, despite being a gringo, appreciates the complexity of the Mexican lexicon and wanted to do something about the paucity of sophisticated Mexican food on the east coast. It opened only recently--and to much acclaim. The menu is intriguing, offering many classics reinvented.
“I want a Margarita,” Helen declared when she arrived and was seated at our corner table, a spot we would occupy for the next 5 hours. I ordered her a classic one, but she complained that it didn’t have enough tequila - “it’s not working” – so she joined me in 
a straight shot for round two. I loved our ceviches which followed, one of octopus with ‘parsnip and salsa Papanteca (chile arbol, chipotle, pumpkin seeds). The other was a black bass with beets and guava puree that was not cloyingly sweet--rather, tantalizingly perfumey. We followed with an array of artsy tacos: a simple chicken with yucca to add a sweet crunch hit all the marks. Why didn’t they think of it down here? Lamb barbacoa with salsa borracha was an artisanal version of the pit-roasted Bajio classic; it conjured the earthiness of the original. And the duck confit with swiss chard and guajillo was something you’ll never find here in Mexico or at your local taco truck--but it would make any Frenchman happy, the meltingly soft roast meat caressed and prodded by the mild, non-spicy sauce – a winner. We never even got to the main dishes. Unfortunately, the two rooms get raucously noisy and service is perfunctory. But the food is good. Chef Stupak’s re-thought classics, while reminiscent of the originals are modern, unpretentiously creative and successful--like a Helen Merrill album. We practically closed the place down, finally leaving at 1AM. “Jazz people don’t go to bed early,” Jim opined. We talked of jazz and life, of feeling like black sheep for our ‘odd’ interests, and of the future. When I asked Helen if she will record any more, she replied, “I’ve done enough. But,” she mused, “who really knows…”
a straight shot for round two. I loved our ceviches which followed, one of octopus with ‘parsnip and salsa Papanteca (chile arbol, chipotle, pumpkin seeds). The other was a black bass with beets and guava puree that was not cloyingly sweet--rather, tantalizingly perfumey. We followed with an array of artsy tacos: a simple chicken with yucca to add a sweet crunch hit all the marks. Why didn’t they think of it down here? Lamb barbacoa with salsa borracha was an artisanal version of the pit-roasted Bajio classic; it conjured the earthiness of the original. And the duck confit with swiss chard and guajillo was something you’ll never find here in Mexico or at your local taco truck--but it would make any Frenchman happy, the meltingly soft roast meat caressed and prodded by the mild, non-spicy sauce – a winner. We never even got to the main dishes. Unfortunately, the two rooms get raucously noisy and service is perfunctory. But the food is good. Chef Stupak’s re-thought classics, while reminiscent of the originals are modern, unpretentiously creative and successful--like a Helen Merrill album. We practically closed the place down, finally leaving at 1AM. “Jazz people don’t go to bed early,” Jim opined. We talked of jazz and life, of feeling like black sheep for our ‘odd’ interests, and of the future. When I asked Helen if she will record any more, she replied, “I’ve done enough. But,” she mused, “who really knows…”
Twisted Sister
The next night I attended the performance of another jazz legend, the great Annie Ross. Annie sings Tuesdays at the Metropolitan Room in Chelsea and is the author of that classic crazy-girl tune, ‘Twisted’ (“My analyst told me…that I was right out of my head…the way he described it… he said I’d be better dead than live…”), recorded by many others but ne’er as well. British-born Annie got her start in the movies and made a name for herself in the ‘50’s by setting words to bop jazz instrumentals and later as member of the trio Lambert, Hendricks & Ross. You might have seen her in the Altman film Short Cuts, where she plays a pessimistic version of herself. Her good looks, humor, swing, timing, and cool material made her the original hipster. And so she remains. This evening we were astounded to find a special guest in attendance: none other than Jon Hendricks himself. (Lambert died in the ‘60’s.) It was a reunion of sorts, and the two blew the roof off with a couple of renditions of their old Basie and Ellington concoctions – as Annie herself proclaimed, “I’m 80 and he’s 90…we’re doing the best we can." Neither of their voices is strong, and those high notes don’t come easily anymore, but the rhythm and musicality are intact. 
Annie’s showstoppers were a haunting, introspective version of 'Lush Life' and a raucous, show-stopping rendition of that sad diner’s lament ‘One Meat Ball’ (“Little man felt so ill at ease, he said: ‘Some bread sir, if you please.’ The waiter hollered down the hall: You get no bread with ONE MEAT BALL.”). After the show, I chatted with Annie and the topic naturally returned to food. She’s apparently a great cook. And when she heard I’m from Mexico and ‘in the food life,’ she told me she has the BEST guacamole recipe going. I pleaded with her to send it to me and she replied, “Honey, I’ll tell you right now.” And here it is:
Annie’s showstoppers were a haunting, introspective version of 'Lush Life' and a raucous, show-stopping rendition of that sad diner’s lament ‘One Meat Ball’ (“Little man felt so ill at ease, he said: ‘Some bread sir, if you please.’ The waiter hollered down the hall: You get no bread with ONE MEAT BALL.”). After the show, I chatted with Annie and the topic naturally returned to food. She’s apparently a great cook. And when she heard I’m from Mexico and ‘in the food life,’ she told me she has the BEST guacamole recipe going. I pleaded with her to send it to me and she replied, “Honey, I’ll tell you right now.” And here it is:
Annie’s Guacamole
Take a nice firm avocado and cut it in half, discarding the pit and skin
Mash it with a potato masher
Take a nice firm avocado and cut it in half, discarding the pit and skin
Mash it with a potato masher
Sprinkle on some lime juice and salt
Grate in some onion (here she’s insistent: “don’t chop, GRATE”)
Mix lightly and serve
Mix lightly and serve
“That’s IT!” Annie’s words, accompanied by a sweeping gesture.
And so you see, all roads DO lead to Mexican food. “The song has ended, but the melody lingers on.”
