[Pink Pig Time Machine by Wilfrid: March 3, 2008]
The last episode of this memoir saw me beating a retreat from Minnesota to New York as fast as the jet could carry me. Once home, I cranked up the Flamin' Groovies' best album, Flamingo, and smartened up for a San Domenico supper.
In fact, I seem to have regained my appetite after a spell in the frozen north, because I tucked a good number of restaurant meals under my belt in the following days. We'll have to hurry through them:
San Domenico first, my beloved, sleek, over-priced local, just to calm my nerves. A tasting menu:
Spelt and borlotti bean soup - a signature dish, lovely.
Seared scallops, caviar, chive sauce
Tagliolini with spinach - apparently: I remember nothing about it.
Saddle of rabbit, Puy lentils, and a julienne of vegetables with grated pecorino
Orange soufflé
There was a white wine, then a Barbera d'Asti.
On Friday, I tracked down the final volume to complete my Scribner's set of S.S. Van Dine's Philo Vance novels. I found it upstairs at the Mysterious Bookshop, a wonderful place with a spiral staircase leading precariously to the the second floor stacks. Sometimes a private door would be left open and you could see through to the owner Otto Penzler's own collection: shelf upon shelf of riches.
An early night after an unremarkable Chinese take-out. Saturday brought, according to my journal, "excessive manifestations of Valentine's Day". I visited the Tenement Museum, shopped at Russ and Daughters, then worked my way homeward via the Ninth Avenue food stores.
This is one night of the year where couples are best advised to dine at home, and singles are practically obliged to do so. I did:
Sturgeon, whitefish salad, toasted bagel pieces, cornichons
Roast chicken with tarragon, pommes Lyonnaise
Fromages
A 1993 Aloxe-Corton AC from L. Latour, and then a glass of honey-flavored liqueur with my new Philo Vance novel.
A very good dinner transpired at L'Absinthe, once the coast was clear of roses and hearts.
Tête de veau, poireau vinaigrette
Venison and foie gras pie scattered with black truffles, root vegetables
Fromages
Yes, pie. With truffles. And another Latour Burgundy, a 1er Cru Beaune.
Midweek I ticked off a nearby restaurant which is hardly worth a mention: Da Tommaso, which is still serving mediocre Italian food on Eighth Avenue. Indeed, the pasta e fagioli is still on the menu, but the calf's liver is not.
Le Gigot was rather nice, that cosy nook over in the village which certainly used to serve an acceptable version of old-style French bistro food (I haven't returned in years).
Paté de campagne
Confit de canard, pommes purées
Crême brulée
They offered a Blandy's madeira, the 10 year-old Malmsey, with pudding. Okay, dessert, but you have to call it "pudding" if you're drinking madeira.
This is turning into a route march - I must have been hungry.
Redeye Grill: Alaskan King Crab legs and a glass of Moët
El Pollo (a Peruvian joint in SoHo, I think): menudencias fritas (a plate of chicken necks, gizzards, hearts, etc.
Jezebel (ersatz New Orleans with live jazz): chicken livers in a spicy sauce, followed by catfish with grits and okra.
Shun Lee Palace: the only thing worth mentioning, a stew of tripe Hunan-style.
Lola (another place with loud music - not my choice): Wellfleet oysters, veal chop.
And to wrap up, a couple of good dinners:
Lutèce: my first visit to this New York legend, Eberhard Müller having replaced owner André Soltner in the kitchen.
Poached salmon mousse - classic, exquisite
Lentil soup with black truffles
Osso buco, tarragon rice
Fromages
A '92 Aloxe-Corton "Les Bressandes" seemed called for.
And JoJo, such a fine, reliable restaurant in its day. A simple supper of seared foie gras and the crusted lamb loin.
Delightful nightlife in this packed ten days or so too: Eartha Kitt's legendary Café Carlyle show - I ate an unbelievably rich chicken hash with foie, cream and black truffles - and the extraordinary Little Jimmy Scott at Iridium. I think he dropped the "Little" when he turned seventy. I first heard him singing on Lou Reed's Magic and Loss album.
This gossamer-toned, butterfly-handed jazz singer with a sense of timing which would make Frank Sinatra nervous must be seen to be believed: and in his eighties, he's still touring. he played the Time Warner Center last week.
The Mysterious Bookshop relocated from midtown a couple of years ago; same good selection of old and new in slightly less atmospheric premises - web-site.
Mr Scott has a lively web presence too - right here.
