[Pink Pig Time Machine by Wilfrid: July 28, 2008]
At some point, one begins to turn these dusty old pages with trepidation. Summer of 1998 was, it seems, a season of interesting comings and goings, and there are people I haven't seen for years and truly miss. But on a high note, let's start with Les Halles!...
...the restaurant allegedly commanded by the gonzo of gastronomy himself, Anthony Bourdain, although how many dinners he ever supervised there we shall never know. In 1998, Kitchen Confidential was two years down the road, and Les Halles was simply a busy, well-liked, pretty reliable French steakhouse - with the added attraction of Armand Carré's excellent butcher's store in the front of the house.
My diary actually says "great meat display", and I had never heard of M. Carré back then (he later ran The French Butcher on Second Avenue - where he is now, I wish I knew). I launched hungrily into pork rillettes, and followed this with a pied de porc pané - never a common dish on New York menus, and here a little heavily breaded and doughy. Fries, salad, and a bottle of Tavel, in honor of Liebling, to cut the gelatin.
A couple of nights later, I greeted a dear friend from England, and took her to a swift supper at Chelsea's Le Singe Vert, followed by a late show - her clock was on European time - at Catch a Rising Star. Thursday was a mixed day of sightseeing, commanded partly by my guest's interests. After inspecting Central Park, and musing on the Unicorn tapestries - temporarily on show at the Met rather than the Cloisters Museum - we attended the only game of basketball at the Garden I've ever witnessed. Being out of season, it wasn't professional either: but I suppose if you enjoy giraffe-like young men manoeuvering in a tight space...
China Grill offered a predictable experience that evening: Sashimi-quality tuna oddly prepared as tempura, then huge portions of lamb spare ribs, and spiced duck and duck spring rolls.
Most of the next day was spent in blazing heat, trekking around Miss Liberty and Ellis Island. After cocktails at the Plaza - I am still living on 57th Street, you recall - a trip out to the River Café for dinner. I confess that I've been reluctant to return to this restaurant since the events of September 11th, 2001 irrevocably altered the view. But that gets years ahead of the story.
Watching the sunset over the canyons of New York: seared quail on hominy with a miniature cheese soufflée; sturgeon on a white wine-mushroom sauce; baked apricot Charlotte laced with L'Explorateur. A 1995 Talbott chardonnay. The food and the setting seems a lifetime away.
Boy, did I spend some money on cabs back then, because after-dinner entertainment occurred at Don't Tell Mama's on West 46th.
And the week rolled on, through a lunch at Vong (charred lamb salad, grouper with fried lettuce), dinner at Aquagrill (oysters, lobster tail, mussels, winkles, etc.), supper at Tapika - the long-gone upscale cowboy joint off Eighth Avenue (New York strip with succoutash); aptly enough coming to a close with a political satire on 42nd Street, the Capitol Steps company in "Unzippin' My Doodah!". Bill Clinton seemed amusing enough at the time.
Like I said, it all seems a world away.