[Pink Pig Time Machine by Wilfrid: April 14, 2014]
A life of extremes. First, on a cold night, to the Knitting Factory to see a band which gave me some scars back in the old days (that's another story). Then to the one of the city's best restaurants. And finishing the week in an izakaya.
I like variety.
Mark E. Smith, poet and bon vivant, was touring with his latest version of The Fall ("If it's me and me goldfish on stage, it's The Fall," he's been known to say). But he's suffered another kind of fall. I was puzzled when he entered the Knitting Factory, picking his way slowly across the dance floor toward backstage, surrounded by bodyguards. Not usually the man for an entourage.
I was even more puzzled when the set started--and continued--with him sitting behind a desk, littered with lyric sheets and microphones. It turns out he'd broken his pelvis, but decided that the show must go on. And apart from his sedentary position--which at least made it hard for him to fiddle with his musicians' amplifiers--it was some show. "New Big Prinz," "Hey Mr Pharmacist!," a storming cover of The Move's "I Can Hear the Grass Grow."
I smartened up for Bouley a couple of evenings later. This was a period when everyone I knew ate a Bouley a lot. It had re-opened in the distinctively arch-windowed, two dining room spot on West Broadway which had been the more modest Bouley Bakery. Despite some odd light fittings, and occasionally curious service, it was attempting to re-establish itself as one of the town's top tables.
What's more, we knew at least one chef in the kitchen, and were regularly offered off-menu dinners.
After flutes of Louis Roederer:
Amuse of avocado, mackerel, apple and mint
Sea urchin, lemon sorbet, soy milk, tofu cubes
Warm Japanese tuna
Maine lobster over a baby eel salad
Hen egg, young garlic soup, summer truffles, croutons
Seared foie gras
Baby pig, potato purée, sauerkarut
A flood of desserts.
Yes, dessert service was always absurd on these occasions; countless selections, right down to big bricks of white chocolate ice cream cake. The main wine of the evening, B. Levet's 1996 "La Chavaroche" Côte Rotie--further evidence of my new infatuation with Neil Rosenthal imports.
A pause for some home cooking on Easter Sunday. I don't remember this, but my diary tells me I stuffed a boned lamb leg with preserved lemons, parsley, thyme, and garlic, and roasted it; so I suppose it must be true. It was served with roast potatoes, fresh peas with mint, and a mâche salad. Flan and habichuelas con dulce for dessert. Cava and a Rioja with the meal.
And finally, some casual dining. I'd long been an aficionado of Angel's Share, the concealed cocktail bar overlooking Third Avenue, which was once the only place (perhaps outside of some grand hotel bars) to get correctly made cocktails. To find the unmarked door of the bar, you pressed your way through a young crowd waiting to be seated in the Village Yokocho izkaya. I thought it was about time I ate there. A curious collation of small plates:
Fried squid legs; deep fried crab with mayo and mustard; spicy cod roe; grilled sardines; yellowtail neck; eel liver.
Pause for breath.
Chicken gizzards, heart, tongues, and whatever else, on skewers; belly pork and radish stew; pig's foot. Dessert: sweet rice with soy bean.
Next week: back to Alain Ducasse.
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