[Pink Pig Time Machine by Wilfrid: November 2, 2009]
Ten years ago, the World Series was done and dusted by October 27, not just about to start. One could turn one's attention to other things - to fine dining again, and the approaching ghoul and goblin season. I got back into the restaurant groove at Peacock Alley.
Peacock Alley is, of course, the formal dining room of the Waldorf-Astoria hotel, set off the main lobby, and fairly secluded by hotel standards. Secluded has also frequently meant quiet, as in empty. Given chef Laurent Gras' recent success in San Francisco - the Fifth Floor - and now Chicago - L.20 - it's remarkable how little attention he garnered during the three or four years he spent pumping life into the Peacock Alley menu. He was never short of ideas, only customers. I remember, for example, long tasting menus in which each course showed off two - and only two - ingredients. On this occasion, he was dipping into historical cookbooks for game recipes.
After a glass of Moet, the show began will a rather late-in-season chilled tomato palate cleanser. Then a Fall consommé with whisps of pheasant, braised veal shank, a few mushrooms and a delicate dollop of cream. Next, terrifically inventive, a fricassée of wild mushrooms...and clams, with a floaty lemongrass foam.
Back to basics with Scottish partridge stuffed with foie on a lentil sauce - a preparation he credited to Brillat-Savarin. A '93 Vosne-Romanée for that dish. Then Beaufort, Reblochon and Pont L'Évêque with a tomato chutney. No dessert. Fantastic cooking, very much under the radar at the time.
The next day a lunchtime treat at Caviarteria with a friend who was always a keen accomplice in wreckless overspending. A tasting of sevruga, osetra and beluga, with a carpaccio of Kobe beef on the side, and a glass of Taittinger. The sort of lunch which left you hungry by four o'clock, but cleaned your wallet very effectively.
The next evening, after cocktails at Madam X on Houston (these were the days when any strong mixed drink counted as a cocktail), dinner at the unassuming little Soho bistro Frontière, a spot I'd become fond of before I settled in the city (the address is now occupied by Shorty's.32). I don't remember much about the stewed squid, but the roast venison and cabbage was the sort of dish the kitchen prepared simply and well - a bottle of Bandol was a correct accompaniment. The chocolate terrine must have been a concession to my guest, but it provided an excuse to order a glass of Bonny Doon's vin de glacière.
Hallowe'en arrived on Sunday evening, following the usual totally unexpected clock change, and I did get somewhere near the parade. Hard, of course, to see anything without paying the price of being stuck in the crowd for several hours - and with no refreshment. I seem to have ended up in that rather drab Third Avenue pub Plug Uglies at the end of the evening. Not much else to distinguish it from any other Hallowe'en - the only thing which seems to change, year by year, is the preponderance of costumes reflecting the most recent super-hero movie.
November beckons.
