It seems to me that the majority of literary folk who form opinions about Sinclair Lewis acknowledge that he was a writer of considerable accomplishment. But their praise is often qualified by an enumeration of his personal flaws and literary shortcomings.

H.L. Mencken first met Lewis at a New York party, which the Smart Set editor had attended with George Jean Nathan. Mencken's initial reaction to Lewis was less than kind. Lewis bragged loudly about his new novel [Main Street] and his behavior was generally boorish. But back at the Smart Set offices Mencken pulled out an advance copy of Main Street that was lying around. Mencken had only gotten part way though it before telegramming Nathan: "That idiot has written a masterpiece!"

There's little question that most of his novels don't measure up to the standards of his great 1920's works. One can argue the merits of Elmer Gantry and Dodsworth. And one may take or leave his stories written for the magazines.

Still, I've long held that an immigrant need read only three classics to understand what makes America tick: Democracy in America by Tocqueville, The Theory of the Leisure Class by Veblen and Babbitt by Sinclair Lewis.

Many years ago, when I was young, reckless and hanging around in all the wrong sort of company a junkie I met gave me some street survival advice: if you're about to be mugged, act as if you're crazy in the head. It will put the muggers entirely off their game. Too much uncertainty as to how you'll respond to risk it.

Nobody's as yet tried to mug me, but I've always believed this to be an example of pure folk wisdom and have secretly hoped for an opportunity to measure its effect.

Although, come to think of it, why should I listen to advice from a junkie?

I think he had read my blog entry regarding the Candlelight Restaurant...anyway, an older friend wrote to me about eating at the Automat in the Bronx in the 1950s. We also ate at the Automat, the Fresh Meadows, Long Island branch. The Automat was operated by Horn & Hardart, which also operated retail shops ["Less Work for Mother!"] purveying their Automat-style food. We regularly had food at home purchased from the Great Neck branch of the shop. Wonderful gooey, middle-of-the-road food. Of all the dishes my mother brought home I most distinctly recall the macaroni and cheese. Don't ask me why.

This made me think of another Great Neck restaurant playing a significant role in my childhood: "Hamburger Express." This was a counter style burger spot. It's gimmick was a model railway built into the counter. Your hamburger would arrive via Lionel railway! It was rather a dazzling sales gimmick. No child could resist the sheer romance ot it! The rattle of the train, the steam whistle blowing, the crackle of sparks...the hamburger on its own flatcar gliding to rest right before you!

I grew up in Great Neck, Long Island in the 1960s. At that time our family dining spot of choice, for special occasions, was Patricia Murphy's Candlelight Restaurant in Manhasset. They were famous for their popover rolls, distributed from baskets by gingham clad waitresses. I notice these popovers are still mentioned enthusiastically on the internet. For good reason.

The other day I was recalling to my wife, Bonita, a typical Candlight menu--at least what I think I remember of one. I'd start out with a "heart of iceberg lettuce" and Russian Dressing. My entree was chopped steak and gravy with potatoes au gratin and string beans. Dessert: a strawberry parfait.

My father had a preference for starting out with the tomato juice cocktail, moving on to broiled scallops, then lemon meringue pie for dessert.

It was unashamedly comfort food. Very American. Very good, in fact.

It seems like it was only later that the average run of upper middle class American diners developed a penchant for self-consciously European bistro or trattoria food accompanied by amusing little wines.

During World War II the artist Jean Arp had an exhibition in London. When he arrived in London for the opening he was delighted by seemingly how well his dealer had promoted him. All over London there were posters announcing his show. He was disappointed when he learned that the posters actually signified A.R.P. [Air Raid Precaution] .

In his 1922 essay "Tradition and the Individual Talent" T.S. Eliot wrote: "...the more perfect the artist, the more completely separate in him will be the man who suffers and the mind which creates...."

I first encountered this phrase about 25 years ago. Since then I have come to more fully appreciate its applicability to the lives of many artists.

Most recently, a few days ago, it came back to me when, at loose ends, I pulled Stefan Zweig's biography of Balzac off our bookshelf and leafed through it.

How well Eliot's separation principle applies to Balzac. A writer of almost supernatural acuity was in his non-authorial life prone to fatal miscalculations, a first-class stumblebum!

Chuang Tzu and a disciple were crossing a foot bridge. Chuang Tzu notice the fish swimming past below and commented: "Being in their natural element and behaving as is natural for them, unencumbered by conflict, the fish feel truly happy." The disciple challenged Chuang Tzu: "How do you know how fish feel? You are not a fish!" To which Master Chuang replied: "You are not me. How do you know I don't know how fish feel?"