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Hello, my father really relished his Sunday lunch, roast meat, potatoes, sprouts, and thick

gravy that moved around. But sometimes before he'd even lifted up the knife and fork

he'd sing a little phrase that meant nothing at all to my mother or anyone else at the

table he'd go one meatball and only then dive into his food. At the time I thought it was just

another example of the way in which he tried to upset my mother by using what she

called industrial language. But the other night I sat in the jazz club and listened to a

review called Café Society that brilliantly recreated the urban scene in America

during the Depression, the time when soup kitchens were needed to cope with the hunger pangs

of some of the 12 million Americans who were out of work, a time, as the review revealed,

when my dad's song had some real resonance.

Well, the little man walked up and down

to find an eating place in town.

He read the menu through and through to see what 15 cents could do.

Wine meatball. He could have bought.

One meat ball.

He could afford but one be bought.

Josh White memories of the depression.

Of course we can readily indulge in a sort of poverty nostalgia

when we're reminded of the times when people had to resort to asking a waiter for one meatball

or queuing up at a soup kitchen in order to keep their hunger pangs at bay.

...