[Pink Pig Time Machine by Wilfrid: October 26, 2007]
Blowing the dust from the pages of another volume of memoirs, I see with a sigh of relief that glamor returned to the Pink Pig's daily round as November 1997 approached.
First up, I organized a reception in The Remington Room at the 21 Club - so called, if it isn't obvious, after the Frederick Remington cowboy pictures which ornament the walls.
When one directs festivities, hors d'oeuvres don't get eaten, so it was on to an after-party supper at the suitably swish Pierre Hotel.
Well the Pierre itself was certainly swish - it remains so today, in an old-fashioned way. The restaurant, Café Pierre, didn't fail the swank test either - I could swear the waiters wore white gloves. With a flute of Louis Roederer, I enjoyed a simply tagliatelle with lobster, asparagus and morels.
The next evening, guests were interested in a New York steak dinner, and I took them to what I regarded as the fairly reliable Post House. I remembered dining on a sumptuous prime rib there on my first visit, a year or two before. This time, I ordered the strip steak black and blue, preceded by oysters. The wine was a recent Guigal Gigondas.
Turning the glamor knob down a notch or two, Sunday saw a wintry trip to Coney Island. I was playing tour guide again, and in fact this was my own first visit. It has certainly revived in the last ten years. Out of season, it was nevertheless more downbeat than one might have expected; a stretch of ramshackle junk stores selling broken electrical items on the sidewalk opposite the "attractions"; the latter silent, of course. Nathan's revived spirits with clams, hot dogs and even a chili dog.
A further restorative was a modest dinner that evening at San Domenico, which was fast becoming my regular local retreat. They added thinly sliced foie gras to the beef carpaccio, and followed this with a duck breast.
Later that week, a tour of Greenwich Village piano bars - and there used to be a few - landed me at the little bistro La Metairie. If my memory serves, this corner retreat was festooned and decorated with duck memorabilia; the location now hosts a Mexican operation called Diablo Royale, about which I know nothing.
On this occasion, La Metairie aspired to more than the usual Gallic staples by proposing some black truffle dishes. I started with a spaghettini of foie gras, scattered with the little black flakes. A similarly seasonal venison dish with cranberries, chestnuts and mashed potatoes followed, inexplicably leaving room for bread pudding and rum sauce. The AC Nuits-St-Georges was a '93.
Finally, I ran slap into the Hallowe'en Parade. A splendid pageant, from which I've ever since been deterred by the impossibility of extricating oneself from the crowd and finding a drink, although I see I somehow made it to the former Lion's Head for refreshement (at the time doing business as The Monkey's Paw). Disgusting Chinese take-out from The Westside "Chef" - and to bed.
Five Manhattan dinners next week; the week after, back to London. Stay tuned.
