[Pink Pig Time Machine by Wilfrid: March 17, 2008]
Following the slightly disturbing gourmanderie of the previous two episodes - a round dozen New York restaurants and a side-trip to Lisbon, I am relieved to find I took a break.
At home, too. If you can call a fortieth floor apartment on 57th Street with sweeping views of downtown and New Jersey home, anyway. Soundtrack of choice, Cabaret Voltaire, The Message.
This was a period in my life when I spent about a third of my nights in hotel rooms. A domestic interlude was welcome. And it kicked off with a gift from my homeland, the great Eddie Izzard at the Westbeth Center. I am prepare to aver that I discovered Mr Izzard - a claim made slightly less impressive by the fact that he was discovered by the national press about two weeks later in any case.
I interviewed him for a now-deceased publication called City Limits, then a competitor of London's Time Out. I argued with the editor that he should be on the cover, and the feature story I was assigned should be about him. She demurred, and had me shoe-horn highlights from the interview into a general review of the London comedy scene. She was wrong and I was right.
Back then, Eddie was killing small audiences late every Saturday night in a small theater space he'd discovered in the complex that is known as the Raymond Revue Bar in Soho. One of Soho's only two or three legitimate strip clubs, the Revue Bar presented naked ladies (as E.L. Wisty used to call them) in its main space, and comedy and off-beat cabaret in the smaller performance area. A creepily red, womb-like bar was shared by both, which made for some interesting audience mixing during intermissions.
Izzard called his show "Raging Bull", and it was as much about his MC-ing as about the guests. I went most weeks, and was in pain from laughing. He was bound for fame of some kind, but I didn't know then that he had the capacity to grow into one of those rare comics who could hold an audience, solo, for two or three hours. Dave Allen (who I saw), Ken Dodd (who I never did), could do this.
So could Eddie, as he ploughed through an evening about Star Trek, Easter eggs, computers and the famous singe dans l'arbre. Dinner followed at Florent, a Meatpacking stalwart threatened today with closure. After a year in New York, I was still pining for black pudding, so I kicked off with the famous boudin noir served over onions and apples. More pig to follow, a chop with garlicky mash and turnip greens. A bottle of Cahors, and tucked up in bed by 1.30am.
Bear with me, as I am eating at San Domenico almost weekly now. It's five minutes from my apartment, and a - just about - affordable luxury. Snails wrapped in pancetta - which I don't recall seeing on the menu again; rack of lamb with "milk-baked" potatoes (a kind of gratin, I think); sorbets; date pudding.
I next found time for an evening at home, and seem to have spent it opening bottles. A Sancerre, a 1993 Savigny-les-Beaune 1er Cru, Les Lavières, and a drop of Pineau des Charentes. I lined my stomach with a tarragon-flavored veal stew and some Münster cheese.
More entertainment the following evening - a cabaret showcase which had a long run at Don't Tell Mama, "Jamie LeRoy and Friends". I remember it was filmed and shown on cable too. And a terrific line-up: Melba Moore, that animated blues shouter Baby Jane Dexter, and another veteran Eric Michael Gillett. What could be more New York?
A liverwurst sandwich at Carnegie Deli, for one thing, and I've never needed to order another. The sheer size of it was unnerving, everything else about it unremarkable. Truth is, I had tourists in tow, and next evening they insisted on subjecting me to Little Italy. A veal chop at Benito One.
Oh dear. Never mind: next week, my first encounter with Gray Kunz at Lespinasse.
