[Pink Pig Time Machine by Wilfrid: November 2, 2007]
No, I wasn't hooked on the green fairy, back in November '97. This is simply the tale of my progress from a bistro lowlight to an enduringly good New York-French brasserie.
And indeed, we begin our ascent among the foothills of Chez Napoléon, an ancien régime all of its own on the outskirts of the theater district. In the same family for nearly fifty years now, it oozed a sort of downbeat authenticity - and I think I had recently read A.J. Liebling's Between Meals, and regarded inexpensive Parisian bistros from the 1930s as my acme of fine dining. (In fact, brushing the dust from the page, I see I'd spent the afternoon watching a video of Les Enfants du Paradis. That explains a lot.)
Anyway, old and frumpy the dining room at Boney's certainly was. Some pork rillettes followed by an unremarkable boudin noir with apple sauce did not live up to my Left Bank dreams. Surprising though it now is to look back, cheese was rarely offered in New York French restaurants in the 1990s. There was some at Chez Napoléon, but since my notes say only "fromage" we shall never know what it was.
The next evening, after a brief inspection of west side dives (The Wakamba, Smith's, etc), I stepped slightly upmarket with another visit to Osteria del Circo. I very much liked a pasta dish served with a wild rabbit ragu. This was followed by tomatoey tripe in the Roman style.
An expense account occasion took me to the bold, flashy new Greek fish restaurant, Estatorio Milos. Unprepared for the style of dining, we found plenty of large, fresh fish heaped on ice trays, for sale by the pound. We were a small party, and the fish were huge and expensive. They still are. I managed to find a suitable entrée, a piece of halibut accented with capers.
An extensive Schiele exhibition at MOMA, and a thoughtful comparative showing of Mondrian and Ad Rheinhart at PaceWildenstein, punctuated my consumption. Then on to Limoncello in the Michaelangelo Hotel, a space reincarnated this year as Insieme. These really were the days before online food forums, and I was led here by a glowing Gourmet review, doubtless by David Rosengarten. The yellow-lit room with its chirpy fishing village murals was sparsely populated in any case. Oysters preceded an okay risotto.
Packing the pounds on, lunch next day was at Vong. This was then a good restaurant; it later became very tired, and I am almost suprised it survives. A wide selection of appetizers was ordered: little bits of marinated quail, lobster spring rolls with a tamarind sauce, shrimp and scallop satay, some sushi. The main dish was an excellent crisp squab served over noodles and festooned with fresh chives. Champagne was drunk.
And finally we reach the summit. My first visit to a restaurant which became part of my regular rotation for a long-time: L'Absinthe. Here was the cuisine grand-mère Liebling might have recognized, alongside a raw bar and a list of more modern dishes.
Jean-Michel Bergougnoux, a Lutèce alumnus, has now presided over this reliable kitchen for more than ten years. Despite the UES prices, and occasionally slow service, L'Absinthe remains about the best place in New York (outside of Balthazar, perhaps) to find traditional French cooking. I adore whelks, fresh in their shells, although here they go by the more euphonic French name, bulots. I ate them with mayonnaise, and washed them down with Veuve Clicquot.
From the traditional part of the menu, poularde truffée pochée followed - delicate, pale hen served over creamy mashed potatoes. A pre-selected cheese plate could be ordered, and I discovered the sad necessity of asking the kitchen to hold the salad; the vinegary dressing crept across the plate and spoiled some of the cheese. With an Aloxe-Corton AC from 1993, this was a memorable supper.
Off to London next week.
