[Pink Pig Time Machine by Wilfrid: May 26, 2008]
I see I came home to a taxi strike back in May 1998, and a good deal of rain too.
But I did eat food prepared by Saint Mario for the first time, enjoying a quiet dinner at Batali's small village trattoria Po.
White beans rolling off the bruschetta; a typical Batali dish of papardelle with lamb ragu and fresh mint (a step in the direction of Babbo's mint "love letters"); then breast of guina hen with shallots and, instead of the usual mostarda of mixed fruits, one of rhubarb. Traditional but inventive, and new season rhubarb showed up again as the garnish to the panna cotta.
The evening ended with a curious set at The Oaks piano bar: Melvin "Badasss" Van Peebles delivering his "ghetto gothic" soft soul funk with a small band.
Speaking of curious, we come now to the case of Mark Nadler, someone who was to entertain me richly and repeatedly over the next few years. Whether because of the steady dwindling of the city's piano bars and carabet spots, or because he has been working at his national profile, Nadler is not the Manhattan supper club fixture now that he was around...well, the turn of the century. In fact, he's recently been previewing his newest show in Chicago.
Anyway, I came across him in early 1998, hosting a weekly show, somewhat misnamed "The Boradway Hootenanny" in the agreeable but underused upstairs room at Sardi's. This show was a regular marathon. Nadler seated himself behind the grand piano on the tiny stage early in the evening, and hammered the keys for four or five hours straight. If you sat through the entire proceedings, the evening would begin slowly with piano music and ballads; then as the night wore on, the stiff cocktails slid down his thirsty throat, and various Broadway chums showed up, the atmosphere would grow from refined to raucous, ending with Nadler tap-dancing on the piano stool.
It was quite the riot. Generally, I would turn up for the last few laps, eat supper, and work through a few whisky sours. A bitter-sweet memory this time around: according to my journal, his guests included not only K.T. Sullivan, Michael Gillette, and Christine Pedi, then of Forbidden Broadway, but the charming jazz singer Susannah McCorkle, who sadly took her own life a few years later after a long battle with depression.
Only laughter, ten years ago, though, with Nadler singing "S'Wonderful" to the tune of "Rhapsody in Blue".
The picture on the main page of his web-site conveys the mood.
A warm Saturday afternoon brought me to the Ninth Avenue Food Festival for the first time. And first time is best with this kind of occasion, repetition wearing thin over the years. I enjoyed morcilla from the Old San Juan, oysters from the Sea Breeze shucking machine, and Millie's pierogies. A casual dinner that evening: sirloin at Wollensky's Grill.
A Sunday evening supper at my swanky local, San Domenico. Vitello tonnato with their freshly roasted veal, then some roast baby goat scented with rosemary and partnered by soft polenta. The work week was highlighted by my own preparation of chicken gizzards casseroled in red wine with carrots, one of my favorite dishes, along with a 1993 Gigondas.
Finally, a dinner at Chez Josephine, the theater district stalwart run by one of the legendary Ms Baker's adopted children. I was lured, of course, by the boudin noir, served with onion compote, shredded apple and pommes frites. This was Frenchily preceded by a fricassée of escargots.
And thus fortified, to the Hootenanny yet again: guests this time including Karen Mason and Gary Lyons. With unnecessary frankness, my diary suggests I arrived home both late and drunk.
I shall sober up, though, for a trip to D.C. Next week...
