The New Movie Magazine (Jan-Sep 1935)

m/km? EVERY man is a hobo at heart — every woman a nymph. I know. I just trekkeJ from Hollywood to New York. The whole country has begun to realize that the universe of outdoors is a giant dynamo — yours to tap for vital elemental forces which can only creep in on the installment plan through the chinks and keyholes of a house. All along the Pacific Coast, the picnic is no longer a ceremony reserved for Sunday. The solid mahogany dining-room table has been relegated to the attic and Poppa and Momma and, the whole darn family join the nightly procession of four and fourteen cylinder cars on their way down to the sea. Some come with plump hampers bulging with devilled egg, ham and liverwurst sandwiches, stuffed tomatoes protected by celophane wrappers, cold, fried chicken to be eaten with fingers for forks, olives, pickles, and coffee kept piping hot or freezing cold by that old reliable — the vacuum jug. You don't have to guess twice at what's in the fat glass jar. No seashore spree is a success without mother's home-made potato salad. The old-fashioned picnic that came in a cardboard carton tied with a love-knot of pink string and containing the proverbial cake, sandwich, pickle, egg, napkin and Monday morning indigestion, has been laid away in camphor by modern youth. At Santa Monica, Venice and Malibu, the modernistic arrive equipped for cooking outdoors and fully armed with a grate for roasting, a skillet for frying, a popper for the pop-corn, a percolator -/-foMlU{/00<A GONE HOBO The old-fashioned picnic is all done up these days with new fangled trimmings. Hollywood takes gaily to the hills to "wrassle" its own dinners By S^U*^ 7C&UJVV for the coffee — and a harmonica for harmony. The ocean wind can blow itself blue in the nose because the new fangled grate boasts a windshield, and the flame, once lighted, remains a joyous rainbow until the steak announces that it is medium rare. Free driftwood lies close at hand, and those too lazy to beach-comb can buy a big armful for ten cents. Epicureans who desire "that certain flavor" in tender porterhouse, build a deep nest of stones and make the fire of charcoal. But even an old skillet — if it is good and hot — will respond with "french fries," brown onion rings and delectable chops. Still more informal is the "weenie roast." Frankfurters are easy to cook and simple to serve. There's nothing to it. The weenies are spread on sharp sticks, held over the fire until they pop open with a juicy chuckle, swabbed with mustard, dressed in rolls, and washed down with pop. Another dish that is tugging the Coast by its coat-tails had its birth in Mexico and is known as "size with showers." A generous portion of hamburger is showered with beans and a cup of chopped onions. This concoction is drowned in catsup and consumed with gusto and a wooden spoon. Night drops down. Darkness falls equally upon the porterhouse party and the weenie roast. More wood is piled upon the bonfires. Slim sticks appear like wands, and the marshmallow toast is on. For miles all along the coast, the rim of sea is made magic by the flare of beacon lights. Song drifts up toward the dunes — and no man is poor. Even the cinema stars have joined the army of those who rebel at formality and four walls. What do you think draws the crowd to John Gilbert's swimming pool parties? The big attraction is the open-air barbecue that adjoins the pool. Small steaks are carelessly tossed on the open grill while the fancy divers jack-knife and work up a ravenous appetite. Claudette Colbert built her house to sit on the top of the tallest mountain in Hollywood in order that she might breakfast outdoors before a magnificent panorama. Let loose the four winds! Eggs served in pottery keep hot for hours. Spanish patios, so typical of California, now have a new purpose in being. Sunday , evenings, at Marion Davies' just before dusk, bridge tables are dropped like confetti any and everywhere, and lackeys in royal purple, parade toward the buffet table under the hollyhocks bearing solid silver platters piled hill-high with joints of roast turkey and southern fried chicken — lobster salad and chicken salad lying in twin sunbursts of lacy fern leaves — giant baked hams — aspic loaf, a dozen varieties of cheese and hors d'oeuvres eloquently saying, "Help yourself." Each guest shoulders a tray and is his own best waiter. The Japanese lanterns are lighted and a Spanish singer in a black mantilla strums a soft harp from a drooping balcony. The West Coast, however, has no option on all the romance of the world. There's Arizona — justly famous for its dude ranches. Have you ever taken a horse into a canyon and eaten a supper broiled beside a mountain creek? You ride for hours with the desert wind before you in the saddle, and descend hungry as a bear into a sheltered canyon. There is a stream at the bottom, purling and cold. Above hangs a velvet sky with the stars so low you can almost pluck them. Now for some grub. Once you've eaten beans baked in the oven of Mother {Please turn to page 55) The New Movie Magazine, August, 1935 33