{"id":7058,"date":"2022-02-15T10:43:25","date_gmt":"2022-02-15T08:43:25","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldsite\/?p=7058"},"modified":"2022-12-17T11:04:00","modified_gmt":"2022-12-17T09:04:00","slug":"la-sketches-fred-saidy-humorist","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldsite\/la-sketches-fred-saidy-humorist\/","title":{"rendered":"LA Sketches: Fred Saidy, Humorist"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"
British poster of the Francis Ford Coppola film version of Finian’s Rainbow<\/em> (1968).<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

 <\/p>\n

Humorist Fred\u00a0Saidy (1907-1982) born in Los Angeles of Lebanese immigrant parents, wrote for movies and Broadway, most notably the musical Finian\u2019s Rainbow<\/em> and the pictures I Dood It<\/em> directed by Vincente Minnelli and Meet the People<\/em>, directed by Charles Reisner. Those FOB newcomers could be funny. He often told stories about them for hours, including skilled mimicry, keeping a house full of guests in stitches. When \u201cangels\u201d gathered to consider backing a new play, he would read it aloud, voicing all the roles. \u201cLet \u2018Em Eat Bread\u201d\u00a0<\/em>will be familiar to Lebanese-American old timers. It is from a magazine of September 1939.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Fred M.\u00a0Saidy\u00a0<\/h4>\n

 <\/p>\n

I have just returned in weary triumph from Mrs. Nazralla\u2019s candy shop on Hollywood Boulevard, where by dint of careful diplomacy I succeeded in buying five pounds of baklava. Baklava is not what it sounds like, the name of a Central European village where a war broke out at one time or other, but a Syrian pastry which \u2014 if it could be distributed to the armies of the world \u2014 would probably end war altogether.\u00a0Unfortunately, the total annual output is hardly enough to sustain a troop of healthy Boy Scouts, let alone an army, and a contributing factor to this perennial scarcity is the oriental psychology of merchandising. The quality involved, of which Mrs. Nazralla is a prime exponent, may be best described as a determined selling\u2014 resistance on the part of the vendor.<\/p>\n

Mrs. Nazralla is a roly-poly, middle aged woman with glittering black eyes and shiny black hair parted in a zigzag and pulled back over the ears into a chignon. Dominating her face is a Levantine nose of which the convex curve resembles the beak of a parrot.You probably infer, between the lines, that she is not beautiful, but the point is not important. Beauty is a dime a barrel in Hollywood, but who owns the talent to confect butter, dough, sugar syrup and pistachio nuts into the apocryphal reality which is baklava? Only Mrs. Nazralla and a few solitary geniuses like her, and when they vanish from the earth, their magic goes with them. I know it is magic because I have seen hardened gourmets, upon first sampling the stuff, burst into little twitters of delight. Magic, also because the method by which Mrs. Nazralla piles twenty layers of flaky crust into a slab a half-inch thick is just as obscure, to me, as the workings of a zipper.<\/p>\n

\"\"
Lebanese American humorist Fred Saidy.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

I am no fledgling\u00a0aficionado\u00a0myself \u2014 if I\u2019ve eaten one piece, I\u2019ve eaten two \u2014 and when Mrs. Nazralla greeted me warmly from behind her showcase of homemade sweetmeats, I quickly returned the greeting and asked for five pounds of baklava, to be put up in two boxes. I hoped to take her by surprise, before we came involved in a long discussion of my family\u2019s health, and be out of the place in ten minutes, which is equivalent to shooting a birdie. But the brusqueness of my approach stunned her.\u00a0Rallying her forces, she launched into negotiations. \u201cFive pounds,\u201d she repeated. \u201cYou want that much. You sure?\u201d<\/p>\n

I\u00a0wasn\u2019t sure<\/em>\u00a0\u2014 the amount was a stab in the dark and could as well have been seven pounds or six \u2014 but in the moment of my hesitation, my doom was sealed. \u201cWell,\u201d I temporized, \u201cI just wanted to give a couple of presents to some friends \u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

She was listening eagerly, her eyebrows lifted in concentration. \u201cBig families?\u201d she said. \u201cChildren?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u201cNo,\u201d I replied, \u201cno children\u2026but these people are crazy about your pastries. I guess they could actually use about fifty pounds.\u201d I smiled weakly to indicate a witticism.<\/p>\n

\u201cI see,\u201d she said thoughtfully. \u201cWell, you know I make it fresh every day, my baklava, you don\u2019t have to take just as much you want.\u201d<\/p>\n

I thought I knew what she meant, but to press for an explanation might result in my getting one; I didn\u2019t feel conscientiously, that I could spare the time. \u201cAny amount you think is ok, \u201c I said. \u201cJust put it up in two boxes.\u201d<\/p>\n

Her forehead was still wrinkled in puzzlement. Then quickly the wrinkles cleared away; she had come to a decision of some sort. \u201cWait,\u201d she said. \u201cI show you a tray. I just bake it this morning.\u201d<\/p>\n

She scurried through a doorway into the small kitchen, and shortly bustled back with an aluminum baking pan full of the pastry neatly criss-crossed into\u00a0diamond-shaped pieces. \u201cThis run four and a half, five pound,\u201d she said. \u201cIt look good?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt looks beautiful.\u201d I topped her. \u201cJust divide it into \u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe you like it not brown so much?\u201d she continued.<\/p>\n

\u201cI like it anyway at\u00a0all<\/em>, Mrs. Nazralla,\u201d I assured her.<\/p>\n

She glowed with satisfaction. \u201cFine. I give you some to eat.\u201d<\/p>\n

Before I could stop her, she had dished up a portion and set it on the counter. I dutifully munched on it and announced it delicious. This was, more or less, a mistake.<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u201cMaybe you like to try it my candy,\u201d she pursued, eagerly. \u201cAll homemade, I make it right here, pure butter.\u201d<\/p>\n

It was no use pointing out that that I had sampled her candy and her generosity on numerous previous occasions; she took my demurrer for oriental bashfulness. Nimbly she reached into the case and produced some fudge, a couple of caramels and a slice of Brazilian nut-roll, which she heaped on the dish before me. \u201cReally,\u201d I pleaded, \u201cI don\u2019t think I can eat another thing \u2014 I had a heavy breakfast just before\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

She dismissed the protestation with a motherly wave of the hand. \u201cHealthy young man like you? You could eat all day, I bet you!\u201d\u00a0She winked archly, making it clear she had penetrated my transparent excuse. With an effort I nibbled off the corner of a caramel, prudently suppressing any comment for fear Mrs. Nazralla might maneuver herself into a net loss on the transaction. Any attempt to compensate her for the refreshments, I knew, would be construed as an insult, pure and simple.<\/p>\n

After I had turned down her offer of hot coffee, just made fresh, Mrs. Nazralla lapsed into momentary silence as she laid out two boxes, lined them with wax paper, and prepared to transfer the pastries from the pan. We were making progress, finally. She was about to insert a knife around the edges, when she caught herself short. \u201cI forgot to show you other kind,\u201d she announced, with an air of self-reproach. \u201cSome people like not so brown.\u201d She started for the kitchen.<\/p>\n

I knew it was useless to say anything more. If my friends had to have baklava \u2014 I personally, would settle for a plain vanilla topped coffee cake, without raisins \u2014 this was the only way to get it in greater Los Angeles.<\/p>\n

She was back now, bearing another panful, the glossy crust a shade more blondish than the first. \u201cYou like it better?\u201d she asked eagerly.<\/p>\n

\u201cI like them both,\u201d I said. \u201cWhat\u2019s the difference?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, not really much,\u201d she replied. \u201cThis one\u201d \u2014 pointing to the second \u2014 \u201cmaybe little bit sweeter. You like to taste?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u201cNo thank you!\u201d I assured her. \u201cGive me whichever you like.\u201d<\/p>\n

The wheels of activity again came to a standstill. She could not consummate the deal on this unprecise basis. Her hand, the knife into it, fell to her side and her brows went up again. \u201cIs not what\u00a0I<\/em>\u00a0like,\u201d she said, like a patient schoolteacher addressing a backward child. \u201cIs what\u00a0you<\/em>\u00a0like.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u201cAlright,\u201d I decided with brisk finality, \u201cI\u2019ll take the first pan \u2014 just pack it in two boxes.\u201d<\/p>\n

As I had only a little cash with me, I would have to give Mrs. Nazralla a check \u2014 and I dreaded the prospect.\u00a0\u00a0She would, of course, be completely gracious about accepting it, and this in fact was the whole trouble. I feared another delay of five minutes while she convinced me it was quite all right, during which time she probably would ply me with homemade fondant and pralines.<\/p>\n

\u201cMay I give you a check,\u201d I inquired boldly.\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cMr.\u00a0Saidy!\u201d She placed her hands on her hips and wagged her head roguishly. \u201cDid I ask you for money?\u201d<\/p>\n

She was still shaking her head when she tied the last blue ribbon around each box. Packing the pastries in boxes was something of an irregularity, as I usually took the whole pan with me, and returned it empty later, but I was sure Mrs. Nazralla had been pleased with the extra trouble.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis the right amount \u2014 \u201c$3.75?\u201d I asked, handing over the check. She paid no attention to the check and even ignored the question. \u201cThere\u2019s sales tax, isn\u2019t there?\u201d I continued reaching into my pocket for some more coins.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s all right,\u201d said Mrs. Nazralla, with a quick blinking of the eyes and a confidential nod, as though she were a bootlegger delivering a case of contraband gin. I didn\u2019t know exactly\u00a0what<\/em>\u00a0was all right; to make an issue of the sales tax might continue our little tete-a-tete well on into the night. The boxes were under my arm by now and I was poised for a quick getaway.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou didn\u2019t have to give me a check,\u201d was Mrs. Nazralla\u2019s parting word. \u201cYou could pay me when you bring me the pan back.\u201d<\/p>\n

She was, of course, well aware of the fact that I wasn\u2019t taking any pan with me this time. She was also aware that\u00a0I<\/em>\u00a0was aware, but it would have been gauche and unreasonable on my part to point out the obvious flaw in her oriental logic. Our eyes met for a moment in wordless acknowledgment of the situation; then with a curt occidental \u201cThank you,\u201d I turned and left.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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