Stirring It Up with Molly Ivins (5 page)

Most people knew Molly only as a keen observer of the sociopolitical scene, highly ranked in a hierarchy populated by similarly astute observers of the human condition—H. L. Mencken, Mark Twain, and Will Rogers, or, more
recently, writers Calvin Trillin and Garrison Keillor, and political cartoonists Ben Sargent and Garry Trudeau, who once paid homage to Molly by reiterating her characterization of former president George W. Bush as “all hat and no cattle.”

Author and columnist Jim Hightower was a friend and confidant whose unwavering commitment to populist causes forged a strong bond with Molly's progressive politics. Both trained watchful eyes on corporate and political shenanigans. He continues to do so through books, columns, and lectures.

Hightower, like Molly, was a veteran of the
Texas Observer
. Unlike Molly, though, he did hard time in government service, most notably as a legislative aide to the late senator Ralph Yarborough, an endangered species known as a Texas liberal. Hightower also served as state agriculture commissioner, advocating for sustainable farming, organic foods, and small farms long before it was fashionable. He is unsparing in his denunciation of independents, observing that “there's nothing in the middle of the road but yellow stripes and dead armadillos”—a bromide that became the title of one of his books.

Hightower also has his own way with catchphrases, as demonstrated in an interview with Bill Moyers during Moyers's farewell PBS program in 2010. Over a fifteen-minute time span Hightower characterized wavering Democrats as “weaker than Canadian hot sauce”; credited Republican Texas governor Rick Perry with having “put the goober in gubernatorial”; and, citing corporate arrogance coupled with influential lobbying efforts, said, “They think they're the top dogs and we're the fire hydrants.”

It was this facility for uniting pithy commentary with razor-sharp wit that forged a bond between Molly and Hightower. It's a fitting tribute to her that when Sarah Palin silliness bubbled to the surface during the 2008 Republican presidential campaign, a frequently heard refrain was, “God, wouldn't Molly have had a field day covering
this
convention.”

When Houston swindler Allen Stanford's billion-dollar scam imploded—following the collapse of Bernard Madoff's multibillion-dollar Ponzi scheme—the lament became, “God, if only Molly were here to write about this.”

And what about that panoply of philandering goody two-shoes who surfaced after Molly slipped the surly bonds of earth—not to mention the bizarre 2010 Supreme Court decision that essentially established a corporation as a person, thereby freeing each greedy, power-hungry company with deep pockets to buy even more elections than its lobbyists had already purchased? Molly would have gleefully pounced on George Rekers, the homophobic founder of an organization that, among other efforts, seeks to “cure” homosexuality. He was caught on a European vacation with a male companion secured through rentboy.com, a gay website.

Or with John Ensign, the not-so-honorable senator from Idaho and once-upon-a-time presidential hopeful who was banging his friend's wife? And Lordy, let's not forget South Carolina governor and presidential wannabe Mark Sanford, whose peccadilloes with an Argentinean woman not his wife introduced the term “hiking the Appalachian trail” to every late-night comedian's shtick in 2009? And, no, stupid behavior is not the exclusive purview of the Dems: Eliot Spitzer's dalliance with a hooker cost him his job too. The Repubs are just better at theological hypocrisy.

The heart aches for that too-soon-silenced Ivins raillery.

The more I considered the prospect of writing a book, the more I thought maybe a peek at another side of Molly would provide a momentary distraction
from how much we still miss her singular political voice—a little lagniappe, as they say in Cajun country, to smooth the rough edges of loss.

Just maybe, I reckoned, it could be fun to share Molly stories from myriad friends, almost none of them household names but nonetheless an integral part of her substantial Rolodex. She never could remember anyone's address or telephone number, so well-worn cards detailing digits for friends and acquaintances were interspersed with names and numbers for cabinet members, governors, members of Congress, musicians, cabinetmakers, mechanics, and plumbers.

5

LOTS OF FAMOUS FOLKS KNEW MOLLY
, but not in the way her Austin crew did—the ones who gathered Saturday mornings at Polvo's, a South Austin Mexican restaurant where the food was decent, the prices were right, and from time to time folks actually got what they ordered more or less at the same time.

Gal pals were a solid component of the Molly menagerie. They were the ones who participated in potluck lunches, brunches, and dinners. Meals might be built around a recipe theme as arch as a Julia Child all-vegetable brunch or as lame as a repast of all-red foods. Some were camping compadres on trips that invariably included a canoe whose sole purpose was to haul beer.

At the other end of the spectrum were meticulously planned dinner parties for notables she rarely discussed and certainly never bragged about knowing. Even less well known were the aspiring writers she encouraged; the sons and daughters she counseled without ever tattling to their parents; the myriad friends who drove her to chemo treatments, overfilled her refrigerator with food, and sat with her when failing health 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 proper
utensils 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.

“One 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.

“On 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 white albacore tuna tossed with homemade vinaigrette and capers and served on focaccia with lettuce and tomatoes, but she loved it. If she took a fancy to you she would spring for a meal at McCormick & Schmick's Seafood Restaurant, at least until she found out they were big Republican donors; then she switched to Ruth's Chris Steakhouse.”