Chapter Twenty-one

Bink, Buddy and Snooky

Haring
We went out the other evening for a get-together at Conny's cousin's house nearby. Very nice house, three stories high, panoramic view of the Mediterranean. The rest of his family had just arrived from Holland, so we had the parents, the sons, their wives, the grandchildren, and the two dogs Bink and Puk. Bink is a huge, fierce-looking Boxer who knocked me over a couple of times when we first came in the house, then washed me thoroughly all over several times during the course of the evening, pausing only to gravely shake a paw now and then before continuing. Like most huge creatures he is a big softy, greatly dominated by his mate Puk, the Golden Cocker Spaniel. The two of them put on a double-act from time to time, racing around the garden at high speed, bodies pressed tightly together, head to head, never missing a beat, absolutely in synch. Next moment Big Bink could be seen squirming around on his back in the grass, squealing, while little Puk pinned him down, bullying him unmercifully.

Conny's cousin John had brought a shipment of haring (i.e., herring) with him. Now the Dutch know all about haring. The preparation and eating of them has got to be done by the book and they are adamant in that. Centuries of folklore have turned the haring into a kind of cult image and John is probably what one might describe as a haring guru so I didn't see too much of him this time, because while we were having fun on the terrace, the dogs were rushing around and the kids were jumping up and down, leaping into the pool and having one hell of a good time, John was in the kitchen the entire evening skinning the damn things.

You have to transport them untouched by human hand because these haring have to be eaten a few seconds after coming under the knife. Wait too long and they are ruined. Well, that's what they told me. They must be eaten correctly, too. This involves tilting the head right back as far as it will go without it falling off, holding the haring by its tail high above, then gently lowering it into the open mouth, and presumably, right down into the open throat, before chewing swallowing and moaning with pleasure.

Haring are eaten raw, of course. Oh, yuk! No, no, hold on: they are absolutely delicious. Trust me on this. I remarked to Conny later on that I'd always thought haring were treated in some way, laid down in brine or vinegar, or whatever.

Not these haring, she replied. They are merely packed in salt immediately they are caught and kept that way until sold...

Well there you are then, I said.

...to get rid of the worms, she added.

When I see people eating haring I am invariably reminded of an elderly German acquaintance of some years back who was a real treat to watch when eating such delicacies. A herring he would thrust into his mouth, whole and unskinned, clamp his teeth around the poor perisher and withdraw it slowly by the tail. To the horror and revulsion of all present only the backbone would emerge. He was hot stuff when eating Weisswurst, too. Weisswurst needs careful preparation, must be opened surgically, eaten daintily with a touch of sweet mustard. This man shoved the Weisswurst right in as far as it would go, bit down hard, and pulled the collapsed skin out from between clenched teeth.

Very popular at parties he was. Used to pocket all the bread rolls before we'd even sat down at the table. He always brought with him an empty wine bottle or two and went around the table after we'd finished, pouring any wine that was left over, regardless of type or colour, into these bottles. On several occasions I caught him doing it before we were halfway through the meal. Suddenly there'd be no more bread and no more wine. He was always finished before everyone else because he'd start in eating before most of us had got through the usual milling about routine shaking hands, kissing, saying how-are-you, how have you been and deciding where to sit. This was necessary because nobody wanted to sit opposite or anywhere near him.

Anyway, we had a marvellous time last night, great food, love all around, warm Spanish breeze, starlit sky, surrounded by friends and family. You can't beat it.

Buddy
A colleague of mine, drummer Dave Horn, has told me that he has 67 issues of Down Beat dating from 1967 for sale. Now there's a jazz history if I ever saw one. He gave me one to look at and there was an hilarious repartee between Mel Tormé and Buddy Rich in there that would justify buying them all, for that article alone.

Sample:

Tormé: Can you define what the difference is between the way you play currently and the way you played in the days with Shaw and Dorsey? When you used to back soloists, mainly with hi hats? The idea of playing on a top cymbal or a ride cymbal to back a tenor or trumpet was virtually unknown in those days. You didn't do it 'cause I heard a lot you played. You played a lot of snare drum.
Rich: Yes.
Tormé: On things like Swing High you would play snare drum.
Rich: Yes. I played a five stroke plus roll.
Tormé: Why is that changed?
Rich: I can't do a five stroke plus roll any longer.

Snooky
I was amazed to learn that Snooky Young was playing in the John Clayton/Jeff Hamilton Jazz Orchestra at the 2004 Wigan Jazz Festival. Snooky is now 85 and still up there with the best of them. Jon Faddis once showed me a photo of Snooky he used to carry around everywhere in his pocket. Proud to know the man. Well, so are we all. A giant of a lead trumpet player. May you go on for ever and ever, Snooky.

Chapter Twenty-two >>>

Copyright © 2004, Ron Simmonds. All Rights Reserved

Marco eating the haring - Photo by Maaike Bogaard