Oh, yes, all the wonderful traditions. The tree decorated with heirloom ornaments; the beautifully wrapped presents accumulating underneath; the mantelpiece bearing marzipan fruit and hung with stockings; the sound of Christmas music; the mincemeat pies in the oven. At least that is how it was at my friends’ houses.
But as the evening of the 24th approached, I faced a void. At a Hanukkah party with dreidels and popcorn balls, I hadn’t known the words to any songs and felt like an outsider. The menorah in my parents’ living room and the nightly lighting and gift-giving were enjoyable, but the celebrations of the eternal light had ended in mid-December. On Christmas Eve I did my best to curl up with a good book.
But then came a very nice tradition in my distinctly non-Christian household. It began when I was six years old and continued through my college years. Mother had the idea; she, too, didn’t want to stay at home with nothing to celebrate. “The only restaurants that are open on Christmas Day, Nicky, are the Chinese ones. Even Scoler’s has to be closed for the sake of the help.” Scoler’s was a New York–style establishment that specialized in chopped chicken liver, matzo-ball soup, pastrami sandwiches, and cheesecake. Mother was a snob about Scoler’s, even though she adored the food; she blamed its owner for not having staff willing to work on the 25th. The Chinese, on the other hand, were superior for having the brains to stay open on Christmas.
“So we will go to the Chinese Hitching Post, and first we’ll go to the movies. It’s the perfect day for it, Nicky. No lines, half-empty theaters. December 25th is always a chance to see something great.”
Oh, the movies! In those cavernous rococo theaters with their smoking balconies. The films I saw on Christmas Day were among the best of my life. The first one, in 1953, was The Long, Long Trailer, with Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz honeymooning in a bright-yellow trailer. The mobile home that they pull behind their matching convertible was Lucy’s dream, but it becomes Desi’s nightmare when they end up destroying a highway overpass—sheer bliss for a kid my age.
“The only restaurants that are open on Christmas Day, Nicky, are the Chinese ones.”
Just as I was becoming a teenager, it was The Mouse That Roared. Peter Sellers plays three roles, as different leaders of a minuscule duchy: Grand Duchess Gloriana XII, Count Rupert of Mountjoy (the prime minister), and Tully Bascomb, the head of the military. They declare war on the U.S. and succeed in conquering it. Although I did not quite understand its satirical bite as a parody of the nuclear-arms race, as sheer entertainment it outdid A Christmas Carol.
The most memorable Christmas Day movie of them all was The Manchurian Candidate. I saw it when I was 15 and marveled at the acting: Angela Lansbury, the ruthless mother; Laurence Harvey, the sacrificial son; Frank Sinatra, the haunted friend. I came to understand the art of filmmaking as never before and learned what “thriller” really means. What a marvelous gift.
And then came our version of Christmas dinner. First, the inevitable hot-and-sour soup. Let others have their Yuletide fare; I loved the astringency, the rich texture, the way it coats your tongue. We were not original in our choices. Spareribs were an imperative. Crispy egg rolls—with their lighthearted fillings, dipped in plum sauce—were the perfect combination of brittle and yielding. Lobster Cantonese was not easy to eat, given the need to crack open the claws, but the tastes and textures were sublime. Moo goo gai pan, redolent of ginger and garlic, was as good as any holiday turkey.
Driving home, looking at other people’s Christmas lights, I was still aware of my family’s difference. But the holidays that more than 65 years ago made me feel like an outsider are now the source of glowing memories.
Christmastime in Paris
I occasionally spend Christmastime in the Saint-Germain neighborhood of Paris, where one can walk to so many cinemas. For a Chinese dinner, I recommend the charming local Lao Tseu, where the various dumplings à la vapeur and succulent calamari provide textures and flavors that induce yuletide cheer. And the Peking duck at the fashionable Tse Yang more than makes up for the absence of Christmas goose. In my childhood, my parents drank Scotch old fashioneds at Chinese restaurants while my sister and I had tea; at these gems in Paris, superb French wines are a perfect accompaniment.
Nicholas Fox Weber is the executive director of the Josef & Anni Albers Foundation and the author of 16 books, including the recent Mondrian: His Life, His Art, His Quest for the Absolute
