Orrin Hatch, the longtime senator from Utah, passed away last weekend. I have some memories of him here. Extraordinary person. He was a friend of mine, and one of my few friends in politics. I mean, among candidates and officeholders. (I know a lot of people who work in politics, as you might imagine.) For one thing, he loved music, and composed it. Anyway, a unique person, and unforgettable, to me.

Another link: to this Q&A podcast, with Matthew Continetti. As you know, he has just authored a book on the Right, called, in fact, “The Right.” It is a history of the American Right over the last hundred years. We talk for an hour and barely get started. We will do Round 2 soon (reserving the right to record yet more rounds).

Briefly, and quixotically, Orrin Hatch ran for president in 2000. I covered him campaigning in New Hampshire one day in the summer of ’99. “Salt Lake Steeler,” the resulting piece was called. Hatch was a Utahn, yes — but he was born and raised in Pittsburgh, in straitened circumstances. He was scrappy as all get-out (as he himself might have said).

Before getting to some mail, I want to make a note about “working people” and “workers’ parties” and so on. This is an old theme, which I touch on now and then (as a year ago, here).

In 1999, Hatch said he was running “an unusual thing: a Republican campaign for the working people.” He said he would get “the blacks, the Hispanics, and everyone else.” Democrats, he continued, “just want to exploit them.” But “I want to help them.” And, if given the chance, “I’ll change the face of this party. We’ll have a big Republican party for the people, not the fat cats — and we’ll still do all right by the fat cats!”

As I say in my piece today, that last line is pure Orrin. One of the reasons I loved him.

The other week, Kevin D. Williamson wrote a piece on politics and labor, and he quoted Senator Elizabeth Warren: “Democrats are the party of working people.” Last year, Kevin McCarthy, the Republican leader in the House, said, “The uniqueness of this party today is, we’re the workers’ party.” Senator Marco Rubio talks of “working-class values.” Etc.

What is the “working class,” anyway? Who belongs to it? What are their values? Does everyone in this class share the same values? That would be a little odd, wouldn’t it?

In any event, old, old stories, never to end.

Let’s talk chicken feet. I ate some, for the first time, in New York’s Chinatown a week ago. I mentioned this in a column on Wednesday and even supplied a picture.

A reader writes,

Ordered them in a Chinese restaurant in San Francisco a few years back. The waiters listened to my order and walked off laughing. After three requests, the manager walked over and asked whether I was ordering chicken feet, with a surprised look on his face. I told him yes and why did the wait staff keep laughing and walking away? He said because most people who look like me don’t know what they’re ordering, so the waiters did not think I was serious. I convinced him and they brought the feet — delicious.

One more:

Since you have joined the ranks of the feet-eaters, you will likely appreciate this story. My grandfather grew up during the Depression/Dust Bowl in our small Oklahoma town, and he always alleged that his allotted portion of the chicken dinner was the “scratchers.” He occasionally joked that he was going to cook them for me, but I always wondered whether his chicken-foot story was a tall tale. It wasn’t until a few years after his passing that I saw a large package of fresh scratchers at the Walmart meat counter. After that, I had no more doubts. I still haven’t been able to bring myself to try them, though.
It warms my heart to see that impoverished Okie cuisine is now part of your diet, Jay, and I can only hope that baked raccoon is next.

In a blogpost this week, I spoke of forte. In the sense of expertise — “Technology is not my forte” — the word is traditionally pronounced “fort.” In the sense of loud, the word is pronounced all’italiana: “fortay.”

A reader writes,

Mr. Nordlinger,
Your musings today on “forte” reminded me of one of my favorite musician’s stories (probably apocryphal), and I thought you’d probably appreciate it. In the jazz era, when big bands were king, a bandleader became frustrated with a trumpet player at a rehearsal. He stopped the band mid-song and scolded the player, telling him, “You’re playing too loud!” The player looked down at his chart, shrugged, and said, “Well, it says ‘forte.’” To which the bandleader responded, “Yes, but you’re playing fiftay!”

Love it, love it. Thank you to one and all.