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EVERYBODY’S DANISH Uncle Fred’s reliving the days of his youth.
By fred | January 29, 2009
Back to the days of my youth with my Danish father & mother. Life in the early 1940’s so different from today. This chapter is a bit about politics, the way it was done in the Danish colony back then.
There was not the name calling, the back stabbing of today’s politics. You still had to be a little inventive to get your way, this is about my Dad, Andrew (Andy) Nielsen, a leader in the Los Angeles Danish colony of those distant days.
If Dad is looking down I’ll bet he has a smile on this face remembering this part of his life.
Love ya all, Uncle Fred
CHAPTER (Politics & Gambling, Danish style)
“Freddie, wake up!” Mom said. Looking through the window it was still pitch black outside. “What’s the matter Mom” I said still half asleep. “Your father’s not home and its almost 5 A. M.” Mom was really worried. “Gee Mom, he only went across the street to the Danish Hall, and he wasn’t driving or anything.”
Still, it was a worry, even a kid of twelve knew his Dad should be home at 5 A. M. in the morning. I got dressed as fast as I could and ran across the street. There was still a light in the downstairs area that was called ‘the library.’ Never was there a book in the Danish Hall ‘library’. They had a bunch of tables and chairs and played poker in the so-called library. I went to the side door and pounded on it. “Dad are you O. K.? It’s me Fred” I yelled.
Soon I could hear a chair pulled back and footsteps coming to the door. The door opened and Dad said “they won’t let me go home!” I could see that the spot with the chair pulled back had pile after pile of chips on the table in front of it. The room was clouded with cigar smoke, beer bottles filling a side table. Around the poker table were Nels Pallisgaard, Einor Knudsen, and several other old buddies, friends, and buddies. All were large men weighting at least two hundred to two fifty pounds, all hard as nails Danes that did not look happy. A deep heavily accented Danish voice back by the table, it sounded like Nels Pallisgaard, yelled “Freddy, you tell Helga that Andy can’t go yet, we got to get some of our money back.”
Dad rolled in a couple hours later, pockets still full. “Sorry, Helga, but I had to stay and give them a few dollars back.”
Mom was mad as hell, really pissed, however that seemed to lessen as Dad started pulling hundreds of dollars in wadded up bills from all his pockets and laying them on the kitchen table.
There were five members of the “Danish Hall Committee.” There was a little Danish politics to all this. It was quite an honor to be elected by the shareholders to one of these non-paying jobs. This was the governing body of the Danish Hall. Most of the Danes in Los Angeles owned a few shares in the Danish Auditorium Building.(the formal word for it), everybody just called it the Danish Hall) No one ever expected to make money on the shares, but they sure as heck did not want to lose money either. The Hall had to pay its way and pay the manager’s wages.
The Danish Hall was a huge building, at least by the standards of those distant days in the early 1940’s. As you went into the front door, on the left was a small apartment, living quarters for the manager and his or her family. On the right was a door to the “library” which never had a book in it that I can remember, yet that was the name used by everybody for the room. A hell of a lot of money changed hands in the poker games held in that ‘library’ over the years.
Next was a huge stair well going to the upstairs area. The Upstairs had a small “committee” meeting room on the right, a large bar room on the left, and big dance floor that could hold hundred of people. At the far end a stage for plays and singers of which the Danish Colony had a bunch. All in all, I would bet the upstairs are could hold at least a thousand people. The whole building would shake when the dancing started as a few hundred of the “boys” would take the ladies for a turn around the floor, especially when some of the Danish folk dances were done with the stamping of feet.
Downstairs, down the hall after the manager’s apartment and the library were the ladies and men’s rest rooms, and two meeting rooms, one could hold several hundred people. Next to these rooms was a huge kitchen. The downstairs meeting rooms acted as the dining area for all the Danish Clubs dinners. The kitchen was also where the manager made a few bucks on the side, selling Danish Open faced sandwiches, beer and something a little stronger if requested.
Probably the best manager the Danish Hall had was a fellow by the name of Knudt Muller. The politics of getting him in as manager were told to me years later when Knudt was the owner of the very popular Mollekroen Restaurant in Solvang, California, the small Danish town above Santa Barbara.
The Mollekroen Restaurant was a big customer of our wholesale company, in a years time Knudt would buy hundreds of cases of Danish beer from my company, plus Danish fruit wines, thousands of dollars of Danish cheese, fish products, crisp-bread and so on, he was one hell of a good customer. One evening over a drink at his bar, I had told Knudt how much I appreciated his buying so much from us. Knudt said “Fred, you are a nice young man, but do you want to know why I buy so much from you?”
“Sure”, I said, figuring he would say the service was good, etc., etc., did I get an ear full.
“It’s Andy, your Dad, he fought to give me a hand when I really needed it, that’s the reason I buy everything I can from your company, I buy from your company because you are Nielsen, your Dad gave me a break and it is pay back time.”
The story went like this—.
Knudt and his wife had just come over from Denmark a few years earlier. Knudt had been trained in Denmark as a chef. They had scraped together a few dollars and purchased a tiny restaurant on Hollywood boulevard, unfortunately the wrong end, the big business was further out. Any way, it was a losing battle. Even with Knudt doing the cooking, cleaning, and washing dishes, and his wife as waitress, it was a bare living.
Knudt had been purchasing things from Dad as a wholesale customer. A loaf of Danish cheese, a little herring, not really much, but Dad loved the guy. Dad could see he was extremely honest, ran a very clean place, worked very hard, served excellent food, and always was a cheerful guy to be around even if his business was rotten.
Knudt and Dad were two of a kind, both so easy going, seldom getting mad or upset, both hard working, honest, decent guys.
The Danish Hall had two wonderful older ladies, co-managers that ran the hall for years. They wanted to retire, the long hours, the heavy cleaning, waxing floors, was getting to be to darn much.
The ‘girls’ wanted out, and my Dad figured Knudt needed a break. Dad figured he would be a terrific hall manager. The trouble was that not many other Danes knew him at the time, and another guy was more popular, and he wanted the job too.
The decision was to be made by the “hall committee” of which Dad was one. Of the five members Dad could always count on one of his best friends Nels Pallisgaard. Nels was a major building contractor in Los Angeles by then, when he had first come over from Denmark as only a carpenter Dad had helped him by hiring him for various projects. When Nels got his contractors license one of his first jobs was to build our retail store on twenty-fourth street right across from the Danish Hall, so they were big buddies plus Nels ‘owed’ Dad a few favors. The problem was the other three wanted the popular candidate; a guy that Dad knew had bucks and sure didn’t need a break like Knudt. The battle of wills began. My Dad, Andy, had planned his campaign well. The meeting started as eight P.M. Dad said, “Fellows I ordered up a few sandwiches if anyone is hungry, and a little something to go with it.”
In came the present manager ladies, with trays of open faced sandwiches. The ‘little something,’ was a bunch of ice cold beer, an ice cold bottle of Aquavit (I call it Danish ‘White Lighting” it is stored in the freezer, many even freeze the bottle in ice, this makes sure the water in the bottle doesn’t effect you, all you get is the straight alcohol) and a bottle of VO Canadian Whiskey.
Every time the three members against Knudt wanted to bring the matter to a vote, either Andy or Nels would say, lets discuss it again, “how about another round of drinks.” Another bottle would appear, (in those days they never drank cocktails, it was straight shots with a beer chaser) another round of beer and booze would be served.
Knudt got the story from the outgoing girls, the two elder ladies managing the Danish Hall then. Knudt claims that at about two A. M. in the morning after several cases of beer, two bottles of Aquavit, several bottles of bourbon, and who knows how many sandwiches, Danish coffee cake, and coffee, one of the three decided, in his now ultra happy condition, that if his good friends Andy and Nel’s felt so strongly about Knudt, what the hell he would vote with them. A quick vote was taken and the best manager the Danish Hall was ever had – was in.
Politics “Danish Style!”
Lucky Andy, how Dad did it I can’t figure out. Some of the wild games they played hardly resembled poker. Baseball, and a poker game called ‘lonely boy’ only pronounced in Danish, where you deal every one seven cards. Bets on every round, then the last card in the center of the table (the lonely boy) is turned up as the wild card. It could kill many an otherwise good hand. Winning in these games had to be luck, how in the hell could it be anything else!
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