We're lucky to have been to the city once before this year (for? a wedding...) and did the whole Manhattan thing, staying in a stylish downtown hotel, eating and drinking our way through the lower east side. This time, we were hosted in much more comfortable confines in an actual neighborhood (Sunnyside, Queens) where real people live (and shop at Korean grocery stores). Many thanks again to Roth for her generous hospitality.
The bus from Newark deposited us at Grand Central Thursday evening, and after a drink near her workplace and another at home, we ventured out to a neighborhood joint called Quaint. The place certainly lived up to its name, serving Contemporary American in a casual, intimate setting with just enough hipster cred to make us 30-somethings feel like we should be spending some cash but not like we were under-styled. Bonus: Spanish festival that yielded the first score of the evening, a nice bottle of Malbec from Mendoza. I know that's not Spain, but it's at least hispanohablante.
We ordered and shared, and we were all in agreement on the meal. The Tilapia was clearly there because one must have fish. Why it had to be frozen fish in a perfunctory presentation (not to mention more than a little dry) is beyond me. The "grilled hanger steak" was good, despite the fact that it was clearly a sirloin, perfectly grilled (with a nice crosshatch, even), and served with mashed potatoes kinda like you'd expect in a neighborhood where there are bars and funeral homes on every block.
The winner of the night, though, was the special: braised beef ribs. How many times am I going to write about this dish? Well, it seems every restaurant in the country is serving it. It's kinda the touchstone for American cooking these days. That said, these guys pulled it off nicely, unpretentiously, and on every bit the level of some of the more celebrated eateries that feature it on their regular menus. It was too dark for picture, so you'll have to take my word for it, but we were so pleased (and not a little bit drunk) that we ordered dessert and brown liquor from the compact but inviting bar. I'll be honest, I don't even remember what we got, but I do remember that it was good...
Friday our hostess had to work, so we made arrangements to go into Manhattan and meet up with Stretch, who would be arriving from Philly by train around lunchtime. We had some delicious sandwiches at an old favorite in the Village, French Roast.
In my previous life as a recording engineer, I would go to NYC at least twice a year to work with one or another of our artists in the city. RB (wedding #5 earlier this month) and I made many wonderful culinary discoveries on these trips, and much of my understanding of urban living and eating is informed by those experiences. On one such trip to record a "classical crossover" record with Dennis Keene and the Voices of Ascension, we were treated to a wonderful meal by the maestro after the last session at the bistro at the end of the block from our venue, the Church of the Ascension on 6th St and 5th Ave. That bistro was French Roast. The evening ended at a, sadly, now-defunct shall we say "cabaret" called the Oaks, where the evening was hosted by a very talented and convincing Ethel Merman.
In order to kill time between meals, the three of us moved on up to the east side to experience some culturification. The Whitney Museum had been a blank spot on our cultural maps, and the timing was such that we were treated to two wonderful exhibits: a fantastic retrospective of William Eggleston including not only his photography but also his more rare video installations and a revelatory presentation of the "Paris Years" of Alexander Calder.
Make no mistake that the pieces from the permanent collection were both seminal and cohesive, well-displayed in a wonderful spae, and very much to my taste (maybe with the exception of the large number of Hoppers), and that the Eggleston exhibit was haunting and eerie despite it's incredible palate of bright, enameled colors. The Calder exhibit showed how he arrived at the style we know and revere him for while providing a unique look into his humanity, warmth, and humor that we rarely get to see of great creators. From the celebrity busts that greet you upon arrival, to the loving drawings made for magazines, through the painstaking recreation of his circus filmed in the 50s while performing for his grandkids, and finishing with the wire sculpture of the pigs in flagrante delicto, we saw an artist presented with the depth and dimension appropriate for the man that coined the term "mobile."
On another of those recording trips, RB and I stayed at the Gramercy Park Hotel. My mentor, John Eargle, told us stories at the time of the former glory of the place: three martini lunches in the 60s when that was acceptable behavior, just like the nap that followed. In the 90s, that glory had faded, and it is great to see it restored in its current incarnation, even if it does price me out.
The best thing about that location was the discovery of a restaurant (a "bouchon") a few blocks down that was open until the wee hours when we finished our sessions, offered great late-night food, and had a stunning bar. In the mornings, they had real rich, French-roast coffee (not that burnt crap you get at Starbucks). With the City Crab neon as our beacon, we could stumble back from the Village in the cold spring night and fall into the warm embrace of tea lights and wooden chairs where brown liquor and melted cheese could salve our weary souls.
On this cold, cold Manhattan November evening (below freezing for sure), the three of us disembarked from the subway at 23rd and Park looking to climb back into that warm embrace. Le Express has been a destination on just about every trip to NY since RB and I discovered it ten years ago. Those of you following the links will note that it is owned by the same folks as French Roast. We didn't find that out until about two trips ago!
We had a wonderful meal, starting off right with cocktails and charcuterie. Our waiter was a bit distrustful of us, dressed as we were for the weather and, therefore, camping more than a meal on Park Ave, no matter how far south.
Main courses consisted of the heavy French fare one would expect of cold travelers. Stretch had duck a l'orange, moist and juicy thanks to the well-rendered layer of fat protected by the sweet, crispy skin. I had the special, a perfectly braised lamb shank that fell off the bones and into a dark, rich sauce countered by deliciously bitter greens.
BoW had the trotter crépinette which made us wonder if it's just the pig that is so magical its feet are delicious or if we've just lost something as a culture that we can't eat the feet of all animals. When paired with a delicious Medoc, it became clear that braised meat and Bordeaux is now my preferred method of suicide.
We had dessert, but by that time, I was drunk with food. And wine. And gin. So I ordered Scotch, and it was good.
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