[Pink Pig Time Machine by Wilfrid: Decembr 7, 2009]
I can claim to have been diligent these last ten years in getting to sundry remote corners of at least four of New York's five boros. I have been lazy, however, about traveling upstate. To say nothing of visiting New Jersey.
Ten years ago, however, I thought a post-Thanksgiving break was called for and booked a suite at the Alexander Hamilton House - a sort of Victorian boutique bed-and-breakfast - on a bluff above the Hudson River. I had identified and reserved two dinner destinations for the trip, but fearing an absence of bars in the neighborhood (or even an absence of neighborhood in the neighborhood) I filled my bag with whisky and champagne. I am not very good in the countryside.
The first evening ended at Xavier's in Piermont (I think there were two Xavier restaurants ten years ago - now there's a chainlet). Arriving, I was irresistibly reminded of Rover's in the suburbs of Seattle. A rambling old house converted into formal dining rooms, with formal service, and a menu resistant to fashion. It hasn't changed much today: coconut still makes exotic overtures to savory dishes, and there are chiffonades and mousselines and tuiles to spare. And why not?
Ten years ago, I dined on coconut crusted shrimp with a mustard sauce, a suitably autumnal pheasant dish with two carbs - wild rice and herbed spätzle - anda Grand Marnier soufflée. Tradition with knobs on. The wine was a Daniel Rion Nuits-St-Georges, 1995.
After Alexander Hamilton's breakfast, the details of which are lost to history, I nursed the onset of a headcold through a trip around Van Cortlandt Manor, where serfs were baking gingerbread in Dutch ovens for the edification of visitors. I trudged back through the mud, and eventually past a shopping mall where Chinese food was taken for lunch.
After broaching the champagne, the evening's destination was Crabtree's Kittlehouse, an unlucky choice in the circumstances; not through any fault of the Kittlehouse, but because my thundering cold left me ill-equipped to enjoy the main attraction, the 65,000 bottle wine cellar. It was an attractive experience, nonetheless, watching the autumn rain drizzle on the garden outside the two hundred year old timber house as I settled on a 1988 Corton Clos du Roi from Prince Florent de Merode, the subtleties of which were bound to be lost on me.
A dish of oxtail and foie ravioli were followed - in what I identified as an upstate touch - by a helping of chef's salad. Lamb with a mustard crust and wild mushrooms seemed an appropriate match for the Burgundy, as were the cheeses from Egg Farm Dairy. A grand meal, I should think, and I only wish I'd been able to taste it.
The return to New York didn't shake the cold, and the rest of the week passed in lethargy. A blanquette de dinde was made from leftover turkey. Then on Friday I mustered the energy to go and see the Christmas lights at Rolf's German restaurant, about ten yeards from my front door. I ate rollmops, because I like them, and then roast goose with red cabbage, potato dumplings, chestnut stuffing and apple sauce. It being Rolf's, pilsener was the order of the day rather than Burgundy. Rolf's goose and suckling pig were always quite good, and you never left hungry, but the ski lodge ambience tended to deter me year round.
Next week Toronto beckons.
