Stirring It Up with Molly Ivins Read Online Free PDF

laid her low.
    These then are remembrances from the people Molly knew and who knew her best; who shared Sunday brunch at grandiose Fonda San Miguel; who protected her privacy when she stopped for breakfast at the considerably less-than-grandiose but much-favored Magnolia Cafe South (to distinguish it from its sister restaurant on the
other
side of town); or who chowed down with her at Hoover’s, long Austin’s only soul-food hash house.
    Molly was equally at home fracturing Spanish at a taqueria, knocking back a snort on the Trio terrace at the Four Seasons Hotel, or using the properutensils to deal with escargots at Jeffrey’s, the upscale restaurant credited with introducing fine dining to Austin.
    One of her favorite movie scenes in
Pretty Woman
occurs when Julia Roberts’s character, unfamiliar with the technique for extracting a snail from its butter-and-garlic-laced shell, sends one flying across a room full of diners. The ever-astute maître d’ catches and pockets the airborne escargot in midflight. It was the kind of deft maneuver that longtime Jeffrey’s waiter Johnny Guffey could have easily accomplished.
    He has taken orders and delivered meals to Jeffrey’s tables for more than a quarter century. Over that time he’s also served meals to his share of notables, but Molly was a favorite. “Being a Yellow Dog Democrat myself, she was always an idol,” he says. “Her quips and quotes were always entertaining. Waiting on her was great fun because she always came in with interesting people, especially strong women.
    â€œOne time she walked in with Donna Shalala. There was a bunch of redneck Texas Republicans in that night and I could see that just Molly being there made them nervous. They were seated near her table and they all stood up and exchanged pleasantries. I kept thinking, ‘Look at them; she has bigger balls than any of ’em.’”
    Guffey frequently saw Molly as she dined solo at the Austin Land & Cattle Company, accompanied by her book of the moment. One evening she arrived as he was midway through his meal. As she sat alone at her favorite table, rather than run the risk of intruding, he quietly instructed her waiter to bring her tab to him. Guffey finished his meal, paid both tabs, and asked the waiter to simply tell her that her dinner had been a gift from an admirer. It’s not known whether Molly ever determined his identity, but it was a measure of how she affected people around her. ALC owner and general manager Theresa Mertens says diners often did that for Molly. They knew who she was; they just chose to respect her privacy and leave her alone.
    For some, a Molly-and-food book almost feels too small for her until you consider the kick-ass job she could do on a quiche Lorraine, creamy chilled cucumber soup, a robust coq au vin, or ratatouille. She bypassed chains to patronize local restaurants, large and small. She frequented the Magnolia, clad in jeans and her favorite purple plaid velour shirt, with a book or a friend, her mom or a group. I came to view that velour shirt as her version of a blankie. Utterly unconcerned with anything remotely resembling fashion sense, she wore it everywhere in cool weather.
    Molly enjoyed a fat, juicy hamburger as much as she enjoyed properly prepared foie gras. On column days, after she finished writing she frequently headed to nearby Hill’s Cafe for a medium rare Hickory Burger—a mound of nicely seared meat on a kolache roll, finished off with green leaf lettuce and sliced tomato.
    Betsy Moon, Molly’s right hand for the last six years of her life, steered clear on days when Molly had to write, but when she did appear, she usually arrived with food.
    â€œOn non-column days when I was heading her way I’d sometimes call ahead and ask if she wanted lunch,” she says. One of her favorites was a sandwich called La Nicoise—what else?—from Texas French Bread. It was just