[Pink Pig Time Machine by Wilfrid: November 29, 2009]
Obliged to zip over to London, ten years ago this week, I was determined to make it home for Thanksgiving.
Sunday began with late brunch at Miracle Grill in the Village - steak and egg fajitas and corn bread - then packing for an overnight flight. I took Mariani's very good biography of Hart Crane with me - The Broken Tower.
A long day working on Monday, then after drinks in a city wine bar called The Bottlescrue, dinner at a place called Lola's about which I remember precisely nothing. It seems to exist still in Upper Street, Islington, and my journal records that, after a frisée salad with lardons and poached eggs, I moved on to seasonal game: roast partridge with cabbage. Chablis and Châteauneuf-du-Pape to push the bill up.
Another twelve hours of toil the nect day, and late dinner with friends at the Lavender Restaurant, down Clapham way. Grilled mackerel salad - mackerel seen much more commonly on London than New York menus - then braised neck of lamb with roast potatoes. Nothing could be more characteristic of London bistro eating ten years ago, and the same might be said of the wine, Australian Cab-Shiraz.
Meetings the next morning, and that was London done. A dash to the airport, sandwiches and champagne for lunch, then late back to New York. I must have bought the turkey before I left, because I made a supper of the liver cooked in cream with onions before retiring.
Thursday, my third Thanksgiving as a New York resident. It rained gently, and I must have done a lot of cooking; Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys as soundtrack. I believe the wild turkey came from Quattro Farms at the Union Square greenmarket. It was served with cranberry sauce, baked yams, some kind of succotash and mashed potatoes, followed by apple pie with ice cream. A Californian chardonnay with the turkey - probably a gesture to my guests, as it strikes me now as an odd choice.
Next week: a venture upstate.
