[Pink Pig Time Machine by Wilfrid: July 22, 2o13]
Back from that extended and very enjoyable London-Edinburgh-London-Madrid circuit, I settled right back into New York dining with dinners uptown, midtown, and downtown.
I also got obsessed with poached chicken.
A simple amuse of smoked salmon with dill and cream cheese, then some sweetbreads, a roast squab, and--guess what?--cheeses. Pity my diary doesn't tell me which ones, but Sancerre and Gigondas helped it all along.
Looks like it was a hot week, and at home I was serving cold chicken. On one day, "coronation chicken," that old fashioned preparation of poached chicken in a yellowy curry sauce. The next day, more of the same bird tossed in a salad. I may be one of the few remaining people who think chicken is as good (and can be better) poached as roast. It tastes more like chicken.
Anyone remember McHale's? It was one of the classic theater district bars, with spectacular neon signage. It closed in 2006, but three years earlier I was hunched over the bar dealing with a cheeseburger deluxe. In the (long forgotten) days before fancy-burgers, McHale's, along with the Corner Bistro and Molly's Shebeen, was one of the few places to go for a good experience with a hefty meat patty. I was walking down Eighth Avenue this week, past the unrecognizable re-furbished Smith's, and thinking how much had changed; how many bars we've lost.
McHale's was a good one.
Next up, Grand Szichuan, with a party of food-worriers: and let me absolutely candid and tell you that, ten years later, I can't remember which of the many Grand Szichuans this was, except that it was in midtown. I don't think it was on the west side, but I can't be more precise. There has been a bunch of 'em.
And further confirmation, I'm afraid, that the sichuan pepper is not for me. Spicy food? Yes, it was, and I can deal with spicy. I grew up eating vindaloos in England. What I can't handle is the way this evil little fruit stuns the taste buds, making even water--to me--taste like battery acid. It wrecks food. Many, of course, would disagree, and there's only one way to find out whether it's just me, or if prolonged exposure to the spice would overcome the problem. But I don't fancy trying it.
Nevertheless, I could perceive appealing food through the anaesthetic haze. Rabbit with sweet potato cakes; rice flour cakes stuffed with minced meats; pepper soup with tilapia; stir-fried shrimp; chicken with mushrooms; spicy tofu. How was the wine? Be serious.
Finally, an encounter with a Lower East Side operation which was arguably ahead of its time: Tenement. This was an attempt to build modern dining around riffs on local specialties, but it wasn't quite delivered with conviction. Pierogies with caramlised onions, fine--but a pork chop? Then chocolate mousse and South African wine.
A good idea, but we needed to wait a few years for kung pao pastrami.
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