[Pink Pig Time Machine by Wilfrid: October 19, 2007]
Sometimes you just want to forget about eating out, because such a high percentage of meals are at best unmemorable, and one isn't actually a bad cook oneself.
I seem to have had one of those weeks in October 1997.
From scratchings in the journal it looks to have been a bad week all round. Tired and crotchety, is how I read myself, and the handful of dinner experiences can't have improved my temperament.
I think the highlight of the week was seeing Jimmy Glenn, owner of the superb Jimmy's Corner bar on West 44th, deal with a difficult, stoned and fractious customer. I can quote Nik Cohn on Jimmy from memory: "under threat, every muscle tenses." The sweetest of men, Jimmy is a former heavyweight boxer, a long-time trainer, and cut man to world champions. You don't want to argue with a man who trains professionals in the art of hitting someone really hard. On this occasion, he simply loomed large and whispered "Don't be doing that here". Exit the grumbling stoner.
I can put it off no longer. Chelsea Bistro and Bar, a cosy-looking and popular neighborhood joint, served me the most dismal meal. First, there was the mystery of the cooking smell during dinner. Mystery? Yes: there was no cooking smell during dinner. No food aroma at all. A bad sign. A brandade, in the form of a warm cod and potato mousse, was tolerable.
The cassoulet "de canard", however, is memorialised in my diary with the words "no flavor". Unforgettable. A dish of just-cooked al dente beans, topped with crispy fresh vegetables and pieces of rare chewy duck, none of which seemed to have met each other prior to being plated. It was the first of many such appalling cassoulets I've encountered in New York, where it seems to be regarded by many as a standard of spa cuisine, requiring nothing more than fresh ingredients and brief cooking. An ordinary Vacqueyras washed it down, and what could sound duller than the chocolate gateau which followed?
The curse of Wilfrid pursued this restaurant down the years, and it is now an unprepossessing Mexican called Tequila's Chitos. Who Tequila is, and why we should be interested in her chitos, I can't imagine. I drowned my sorrows in whisky, and wasted Sunday altogether.
Heartiness was some consolation at Costa Del Sol, the old whitewashed Spanish restaurant on Ninth Avenue. The interior was actually rather charming: functional and unpretentious, and not unlike a restaurant actually in continental Europe; and some salty, garlicky fried potatoes were just the thing such an everyday restaurant might serve as an appetizer.
Pulpo alla Gallega was actually good, but adrift in a small lake of olive oil. The paella is described in my notes as "huge", which makes me wonder whether it wasn't a dish for two. It would be neither the first not last time I had inadvertently ordered a double portion for myself. Chicken, musslels, chorizo, scallops, clams and plenty of shrimp are noted, but the rice seemed to have been boiled.
As with the cassoulet, this was the first in a long line of disappointing paellas - improperly cooked rice usually the culprit. A white Rioja, of course, from Paternina.
Next in this procession, Deniz a la Turk, on a far-flung Eastern corner of 57th. This was one in a series of relatively short-lived Turkish restaurants opened in New York by Orhan Yegen, a character perhaps well described as irrepressible. He is currently to be found, unless things have changed, at Sip Sak.
Deniz (ocean) presented fresh fish, along with a lengthy menu of Turkish specialties. My memory has always been that the fish was pretty good, and it follows that neither I nor my memory are to be trusted. Good grief, I ate the lamb - long-cooked inçik with a pilaff and vegetables - and since I remembered it as fish, I'd better say no more.
Finally I threw in the towel and held a dinner party for friends. The food was good, and there were some nice bottles too:
Fritons de canard (Perrier-Jouet Grand Brut NV)
Sole Alice (Bourgogne-Aligoté AC, 1993)
Epaule de veau farçi à la Gasconne (Aloxe-Corton "Les Valozières" 1er Cru, 1989)
Salade. Les fromages (Acacia Pinot Noir, Carneros, 1995)
Les fruits (Chateau Lafaurie-Peyraguey, Sauternes 1er Cru, 1985)
That filled our boots. What horrors will next week hold?
