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From the New York Times
 Of all the grilling gurus in my life, from my fire-happy mother (who
thinks nothing of grilling lamb chops in January) to the big-time
grilling maven Waldy Malouf (with whom I wrote a cookbook), the grill
master who made the deepest impression was my childhood pediatrician,
Dr. Arthur Ruby.
Dr. Ruby was a close family friend and partner in gustatory
delights. In winter he brought over pots of gelatinous p’tcha (stewed
calves’ feet) that we ate with challah to sop up the shimmering, garlicky broth.
Summertime meant weekends at the Rubys’ second home in Cold Spring,
N.Y., where Dr. Ruby had a stone grill built into the patio.
Our
Saturday-night dinner menu never varied. After nibbling on baked brie
strewn with canned fried onions, there were always clams, grilled until
their pink bellies were steaming hot and slightly smoky, but still raw,
with a crisp bite and soft center.
Then, Dr. Ruby artfully grilled a two-inch-thick porterhouse until it was salt-crunchy and
charred on the outside but still bloody within. Fresh corn, tomato
salad with basil, and hot bread and butter rounded out the offerings.
Naturally, the star of the meal was that steak. But the flavor I most associate
with those hot, hammock-swinging days is that of briny, smoky clams.
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