[Pink Pig Time Machine by Wilfrid: March 1, 2010]
I do remember an excellent review of Max Ernst's career at the Greenberg Van Doren gallery. Annoyingly, I have no particular recall of a champagne reception at the St Regis, but I imagine it was very enjoyable. Anyway, both happened ten years ago this week.
I also made it back to Tribeca Grill for a straightforward and satisfying dinner of braised duck ravioli followed by a huge hunk of sirloin, black and blue. Together with some cheese, this seems to have lined my stomach for a long night at Jimmy's Corner - an odd choice of bar, you might think, after dinner in Tribeca, but it seems from my diary I had visitors in tow and was bent on showing them the city's highlights. Jimmy's Corner at three in the morning surely qualifies.
Despite these rigors, I managed a walking tour of downtown for my guests in the morning, then a further tour of the nighlife after dark. Smith's Bar (which is not what it was), Danny's (sadly gone), and the Famous Wakamba Bar (indefatigable).
The next evening, a dinner at Eleven Madison Park, still in the hands of Kerry Heffernan. After a crisp pig's foot to start - yes, they were occasionally to be found on Manhattan menus in the '90s, I ate fish for once, a hearty portion of monkfish cooked in a casserole. That didn't stop me ordering a '96 Burgundy - the monkfish was robustly sauced.
Next morning, oh glamor, Concorde (also now sadly gone) to London, and a spot of caviar for breakfast. Actually, caviar service on Concorde was especially good value because it was served in the jar - and there were always people who didn't like caviar, so you could usually stuff a couple of leftovers into your pockets.
A quick trip, of course, but you still lose the day. Not much to do except browse among the pubs of Soho until a reasonable dinner hour. J. Sheekey, that splendid fish restaurant in a back alley off Shaftesbury Avenue. Lobster mayonnaise to start, then a whole roast sea bream, and herring roe on toast as a savory. No, since you ask, I didn't have a bottle of red with this. A carafe of Bourgogne Aligoté seemed appropriate.
Tragically, next day was devoted to work. I was left to arrange a working dinner in the evening, and it occurred to me that I'd not visited City Rhodes. Gary Rhodes, for those who don't know, was a star of British cooking in the 1990s, an authentic celebrity chef. He made a name for himself first in the kitchen, at the Greenhouse in Mayfair. Just as well, because his television personality, when it arrived, was every bit as overblown as Emeril at his most cartoonish. Gary's persona was that of the cockney punk with wildly spiked hair. Shows and books led to restaurants of his own, notably City Rhodes and Rhodes in the Square.
Before Fergus Henderson was much heard of, Gary Rhodes was busy putting the oddball and awkward dishes of British cooking back on fine dining menus. And so, after a smoked haddock tart to start, I ordered his signature faggot - a big, seasoned meatball of ground pork and liver, and never regarded as a delicacy. Rhodes, though, stuffed it with foie and served it with a cream of foie gras sauce.
A pig's trotter next, with a fine ham farci, mashed parsnips, and a bottle of Gigondas to stand up to it. Cheeses to put me to sleep.
Next week: London in March.
