[Pink Pig Time Machine by Wilfrid: December 21, 2007]
Embarking on the neo-Proustian project of recovering memories of food and other fripperies, week by week from ten years ago, I realised I would eventually run into some existential doldrums.
And we are on the brink right now, because I well recall that late December 1997 was the time I became just about as ill as I've ever been. Don't worry; nothing to make you squeamish, and indeed in the scale of things the illness was not serious. It was, however, terribly persistent.
But we'll commit ourselves to the dusty pages of history and tell it as it happened. A few days before Christmas, then, and off to see fisticuffs at the Garden - in which flamboyant British-Yemeni featherweight champion Naseem Hamed defend his WBO title against local WBC champion Kevin Kelley. Naseem, annoying leopard-skin pants and all, thumped Kelley in four rounds. This was one of the last professional fights I saw - dispirited by paying heavy ticket prices to sit a mile away from the stage and watch twenty minutes mayhem in the far distance.
Verbena next night - my first visit to the quiet Irving Place oasis, with the usefully heated garden (it's now Sarma Melngailis's Pure Food and Wine). Warm terrine of oxtail with caramelised onions and a turnip purée sounds like a good seasonal start, and this was followed by a boudin blanc with baked apple and mashed potatoes. Verbena, the lemony herb, showed up as garnish to the crème brulée.
I can only imagine that youth and zest permitted me to carry this load to Nightingale' on Second Avenue for a late show by The Fleshtones. The Nightingale Lounge today attempts to be a swanky little joint, with a hint of velvet rope. Ten years ago it was a beer-sodden rock den, the band essentially setting up in the middle of the bar. Fleshtones performances were always animated, but they surpassed themselves this time by leaving the bar at the end of the set still playing, and climbing into a taxi. The unfortunate driver took them around the block, they emerged, riffing away, and re-entered the bar to finish the song. Rock gods.
An abrupt trip to Chicago followed the next morning. I've never done justice to the restaurants in that city, because visits have always been short notice. I finished up dining at Un Grand Café, a casual adjunct to the well-regarded Ambria (since closed). The room had all the trappings of a Paris brasserie, but the food was underwhelming; baked sea scallops followed by one of many poorly executed, undercooked cassoulets I've been served over the years.
I was back in Manhattan the next day, enjoying a surprisingly good supper at a casual little Italian near my apartment, Bricco - good mainly because they had some nicely roasted kid (okay, young goat) on the menu, served over cous cous. I preceded this with a comforting bowl of borlotti beans and tripe.
The next day saw the beginning of my untergang. I remember believing, back in 1997, that I was likely to be resident in New York for no more than one or two years. My mentality, then, was partly that of a tourist, and in any case I can think of no better excuse for my decision to go and see the Radio City Christmas Spectacular. It was not, I assure you, an obsession with the Rockettes.
Maybe the rock-and-rolling Santa had something to do with it, but I started to feel bad before the interval. I then discovered, to my abject dismay, that no alcohol was available on the premises. Giving up my pricey seat, I headed for home and prostration.
We'll squeeze a posh Christmas dinner out of the gloom - next week.
