Posted by Cameron on 11.10.06 6:48 AM
You can pick your friends—the saying goes—and you can pick your…um… poison, but you can’t pick your family. Happily, I have been blessed many times over through both blood and marriage. And so, while this Drink of the Week post is inspired by Mixology Monday #9 (bitters), it is dedicated to my brother-in-law Matt, who introduced me to a delightfully civilized drink: The Manhattan.
I had always been suspicious of The Manhattan, put off by crappy bourbon, unpredictable proportions, and those nasty, nuclear pink, jarred maraschino cherries that people actually eat instead of sticking on top of car antennas, where they belong.
But one night during a holiday visit many years ago, Matt commandeered the cocktail shaker and went to work with sweet vermouth, Angostura bitters, and Wild Turkey. I think. I’m a little blurry on the precise brand of bourbon, probably because we knocked off most of a bottle of whatever it was over the course of a gregarious evening.
In any case, my prejudice melted, and if I never sought The Manhattan out, neither did I avoid its presence. Those awful cherries, though. Ugh. Not a chance.
The next stage in my journey came this fall, when Murray of the Zig Zag Cafe promised us that if we brought a bottle of Carpano Antica vermouth on our next trip to Seattle, we’d be rewarded. When Murray speaks on things of a spiritous nature, my friends, I listen. Bottle in hand, we wafted in out of the northern night to be greeted by a Manhattan made with Carpano Antica, Rittenhouse bonded rye, and Bitter Truth bitters. Magic.
Since then, I (heart) Manhattan. It’s a drink that rewards customization with different ingredient styles and (carefully!) proportions. You’ll find recipes that recommend anywhere from one-half to two ounces of vermouth for two ounces of bourbon or rye. These days, I feel like anything less than a 2:1 ratio tastes like a shot, not a cocktail, but as I have written before, I am pigheaded, uncultured, and have displayed questionable drink-ordering skills.
The recipe below produces a very smooth drink, and is doubly appropriate for this particular MxMo, as it contains two bitter ingredients: orange bitters and Carpano Antica. The Bulleit bourbon lends body without calling attention to itself, and the fruitiness of the orange bitters (of which the Hermes is a difficult-to-find but excellent example) balances the extra bite of the Carpano Antica, which you could replace with regular sweet vermouth for increased mellitude. If you need fruit, soak dried Bing cherries overnight in whatever suits your fancy. I used brandy and…POW! Drunken Cherries.
Cheers, Matt! (And happy 5th Anniversary to you and P…)
Old Manhattan
2 oz. Bulleit bourbon
1-1/4 oz. Carpano Antica vermouth
2 dashes Hermes orange bitters
Stir with ice. Strain into a cocktail glass and garnish with a Drunken Cherry.
Drink of the Week, drinks, family, Mixology Monday, other blogs, recipes
13 Comments »
Posted by Cameron on 10.31.06 12:29 PM
San Francisco is my adopted home, and I have sworn that the day that Barry Bonds leaves the Giants is the day that I’ll buy a cap and cheer for Los Gigantes. But my sports roots are still on the East Coast, with the New England Patriots and Boston Red Sox.
As a transplanted fan, I’m always on the hunt for places to watch my teams. I haven’t truly embraced the Connecticut Yankee yet, mostly because it’s so far away from both my office and my house. With the Pats coming up against the Vikings on Monday Night Football, I thought I’d give the Hi Dive a try.
The first thing to get straight is that while the Hi Dive used to actually be a dive, it is a dive no longer. That section of the Embarcadero used to be a bit sketchy, but as soon as the Giants baseball park was built the late 1990s, SOMA started turning into condo-land. Now the Hi Dive is clean and comfortable.
It seems like a fine place to catch a drink after work, but I can’t recommend the food as anything but a sponge for alcohol. The fried calamari was strangely soft, and the burger could have been from a cafeteria steam table, even though they advertised Niman Ranch beef. Top it off with a completely uninspired draft beer selection–come on, five taps and two of them are Coors Light and Stella Artois?
I can’t recommend it as a sports viewing venue, either. There’s a large flat-panel television at one end of the room. But only two tables and one end of the bar have a truly unobstructed view.
The staff, however, was very friendly. And the Pats administered a beat-down of the Purple People Eaters. Bring on the Colts.
Hi Dive
Pier 28-1/2
(Embarcadero at Bryant)
San Francisco, CA 94105
415.977.0170
bar culture, downtown SF, drinks
2 Comments »
Posted by Cameron on 10.24.06 7:25 PM
I don’t think that I can keep up with the Queen of Hearts’ six impossible things before breakfast, but this past Saturday I had two new experiences.
Our friend Craig’s dog Koko passed away recently. The official statement read that Koko succumbed to age and infirmity, but insiders whisper that a pack of squirrels in sunglasses was seen hurriedly leaving the grounds on the sad day. Of course, squirrels do pretty much everything hurriedly, but that’s whispering insiders for you.
At any rate, we were honored to be among a small group of friends asked to gather to celebrate Koko’s life. Given Craig’s fondness for wine, I figured that there would be a bottle or two open, but I was completely unprepared for the that table that he had laid. A long-time fan and collector of Karl Lawrence wines, Craig set out an uninterrupted string of Cabernet Sauvignon that started in 1991 and ran all the way up through 2003.
It was the vertical to end all verticals–I have never seen anything like it before in my life. The wine was identifiably all of the same provenance, but it changed from year to year. Some of the changes were due to differences in mix or grape, but as we moved to ever-younger wines, the tannic spine disappeared behind a layer of fruit. It was like watching a movie of someone aging, run in reverse. It was a marvelously poetic way to celebrate the course of a life.
At last, someone raised their glass and called for a toast to Koko. We rattled the trees with our homage, and I’ll add my own here: To man’s best friend, and to family.
drinks, entertaining, family, wine & bubbly
6 Comments »
Posted by Cameron on 10.16.06 9:34 PM
When I was a kid, my mom made bread. There were years when she only made it once in a while and years when she made it every week. Her baking rhythm was inversely proportional to the sophistication of our surroundings. There was a solid year or two when we lived on a 16-acre farm in rural New Hampshire. During that time, we ate home-churned butter on home-baked bread and washed it down with whole, unpasteurized, unhomogenized milk (from whence came the cream that spawned the butter).
Mom’s bread was rustic, and not in any big-bubbled, artisanal, sourdough fashionista sort of way. She used whole grains and honey and god knows what else, and one slice would see you clear through marching up the hill and back down again, especially if that slice was carrying a load of cheddar cheese and had just spent some quality time in the toaster oven. Serious stuff, my friends.
Serious, and for a young lad exposed to all the temptations of a modern industrialized society, all too easy to take for granted. You have no idea how I longed for white bread in those days. I dreamed of Wonder bread, layered with Oscar Meyer bologna and processed American cheese, dressed with Heinz ketchup and yellow mustard.
I never really had a chance at being a baker. One summer, while working at a bistro in Portsmouth, NH, one of the part-owners began to teach me how to make croissants. I stuck with him for a while, but I was soon distracted by being a teenage boy in a seasonal vacation town. Hell, Guns ‘n’ Roses Appetite for Destruction went huge that year, and I could never square getting up at oh-dark-thirty to fold dough with late-night dart games fueled by weed and beer.
These days, we buy our bread. The closest thing that we have to a house loaf is the pain de mie that Acme Bread sells at the Ferry Plaza farmers’ market in SF. Despite the pretentious surroundings and occasional bursts of hipper-than-thou attitude from the purveyors, it’s damn good bread. It’s the sort of white bread that I’d imagine my mom would have made if she’d put her mind to it: a tight, even crumb balanced by a crust that’s chewy without being overbearing.
Note: This post is in honor of World Bread Day 2006
baking, family, farmers markets, shopping
3 Comments »
Posted by Cameron on 10.13.06 10:22 AM
Valentyn Shtefano may be the toast of Uzhhorod, Ukraine, but upstaging a bride on her wedding day is bad form. After seeing this photograph, we wonder if Mr. Shtefano might one day wish he’d chosen a different venue for his food/fashion debut.
Click on the pic to see Viktoriya’s dress made out of cream puffs by her husband Valentyn, take a close look at her expression, and then come back and give us your best photo caption.
dessert, levity
4 Comments »
Posted by Cameron on 10.11.06 6:48 PM
Girls, the next time your man (of any gender) gives you the tiniest bit of lip about shopping excursions worth the name — and I mean the kind that require provisions and a Sherpa — you just take Medea Jones’ advice. Saddle him up for a field trip like the one we did last Saturday.
Start at The City Beer Store, a new-ish spot down on Fabulous Folsom: Less Scummy, More Yummy! (and that one’s a Medea Jones original, sealed with a kiss, lovey, so remember that you read it here first). Your faithful correspondent has previously pined on these pages for the bodacious Seattle beer scene and the absolutely fab Bottleworks. Well, color me amber with glee!!! City Beer is too cute for words and it’s just jam-packed with little and big bottles of malty joy, all begging to be taken home. Everything is sold as singles, and the boys there encourage experimentation. Not like that, presh!!! I mean you get a discount if you mix and match your purchases. Love the funky concrete loft decor, (Ed. no, really, it’s a converted live-work loft) and the three taps — soon to be five — pouring draught beer. It’s a store! It’s a bar! It’s a store and a bar!
Pause! Breathe! Wave! Blow kisses! Touch the pearls for sincerity! Wave!
On to the next destination, the gritty, downmarket BevMo on Bayshore for a little atmosphere and some things that a girl just needs…like a bottle of Clear Creek Pear Brandy for Falling Leaves and a shopping cart full of wine! Special to Mr. Windbreaker Man, lashing four one-gallon jugs of Gallo into the milk crate on the back of your powder-blue moped: Those are just the weekly rations, aren’t they? Call me. We must party.
Where next? Why, Blackwell’s Wine & Sprits in The Avenues! Now, there was a time when I’d never venture west of Park Presidio unless it was for a really hot pickup roller derby match. But not any more, chickadees! A frantic cross-country quest for Carpano Antica at the end of September put paid to that. Cue scene from A Nightmare on Booze Street. Yours Truly is on the mobile with who-ever:
“Um, HI! I’m looking for a bottle of Carpano Antica. Do you have it?”
“Yes, I’ll wait.”
“Hi! I’m looking for a bottle of Carpano Antica?”
“Carpano Antica.”
“It’s a kind of vermouth, I think.”
“No, I don’t know what you do with it, honey, but I hope I’ll find out!”
“Well, my friend said if I showed up with a bottle he’d make it worth my while.”
“Yes! Ha ha! An offer you can’t refuse!”
“4-1-5…Wait, why do you need my telephone number?”
“A-N-T-I-C-A.”
“V-E-R-M-O-U…oh, never mind!”
But then I found Blackwell’s, way-y-y-y-y out on Geary, where Gary and Tristan simply saved my life. So, zip zip zip and we’re back to the present, or at least the more recent past, when we visited again. Tristan recommended some wines for when the spirit is willing but the pocketbook is weak: very lovely, very French. I went all wobbly in the knees again on beholding the wall of booze. I’m on a complete bourbon kick these days and honestly, I’m stacking the bottles sideways in the closet, my foil-wrapped cherry bon-bons. I screwed up my courage and limited myself to a bottle of Bulleit (very chic on the custom cocktail circuit — mixes well, but bo-ring alone…. OOPS! Did I say that?), and one of the 15-year-old Pappy Van Winkle, which is simply impossible to find but is my Favorite Bourbon Of All Time, aside from the Sun King, of course.
There! A plan for a happy Saturday! I’m exhausted just writing about it. Mitzi, fetch the English cucumber slices and fill the bath with raita. I must regain my strength.
Love and kisses,
Miss Thing, Medea Jones
The City Beer Store
1168 Folsom Street
San Francisco, CA 94103
(415) 503-1033
BevMo Bayshore
201 Bayshore Boulevard
San Francisco, CA 94124
(415) 648-1233
Blackwell’s Wines & Spirits
5620 Geary Boulevard (between 20th and 21st)
San Francisco, CA 94121
(415)386-9463
beer, drinks, shopping
8 Comments »
Posted by Cameron on 10.09.06 2:31 PM
Leftovers are the very fabric of happiness. Half the fun of Thanksgiving dinner is making cold turkey and stuffing sandwiches the next day.
I’m grooving on the leftovers of Saturday’s dinner: braised beef short ribs that Anita bought from Bristol Farms last week on spec, knowing that I’d make good use of them. I used a really simple treatment and they rewarded me by tasting absolutely wonderful. We ate them Saturday night with polenta and roasted brussel sprouts.
The real party started Sunday, though, when we made sandwiches from the leftovers. Pulling apart the meat was just the start. I had about a quarter-cup of the sauce left over that, refrigerated, set up like meat-wine jelly. Demi-glace, more or less, only without the tomato. Perfect for spreading on bread with a little mayo.
The First Braised Short Ribs of Fall
- 2.5# beef short ribs
- 2 medium onions cut into half-inch slices
- 1 medium carrot roughly cut (3/4-inch chunks)
- 1.5 c full-bodied red wine (e.g. syrah, zinfandel)
- 2 c chicken stock or broth
- 4-5 sprigs fresh thyme
- Olive oil
- Salt & pepper
- 2-4 T butter
Preheat oven to 225 degrees. Liberally salt and judiciously pepper the short ribs. Haul out your dutch oven or other large, deep, heavy, ovenproof pot. Heat the pan over a medium-high flame until it’s way too hot to touch. A droplet of water should bounce off the bottom of the pan. Really hot. Pour in 2-3 tablespoons of olive oil. Maybe even four. Enough to coat the bottom of the pan with style and grace. Let the oil heat up.
Turn on your hood. Open the windows. Close the door to the living room. Genuflect. Crank the flame up to afterburner and USING TONGS, gently lower the ribs into the pan and sear all sides until a good brown crust appears. Do not crowd the pan. Sear the ribs in batches if you have to, but keep that pan Top-Gun hot. Don’t burn the meat, but don’t wimp out on the sear: if it just looks gray, you’re not done yet. Keep your kitchen clean (ish) by covering your pan with a spatter guard. As you finish the ribs, remove them to a plate. Nice and brown all over, right? This whole affair will probably take 10-15 minutes.
After the meat is done, dump in the onions and carrot with a half-teaspoon of salt. Sweat the vegetables until the onions are translucent. If you want a sweeter sauce, you could go until they’re golden. Pour in half the stock and half the wine. Use a wooden spoon to loosen any browned bits sticking to the pan. Put the ribs back in the pot along with any juice that’s pooled on the plate. Add the rest of both stock and wine slowly, stopping if the liquid level threatens to submerge the meat. At least 1/4 of the typical meat-and-bone mass should be poking out above the liquid. Add the thyme. Bring to a low boil, cover, and put in the oven and cook for three hours or until you can have your way with the meat. It should be soft and falling off the bone, easy to pull apart (see bonus note below).
Put the meat on a plate and tent it with aluminum foil. Pour whatever is left in the pan through a strainer, and then get the resulting delicious liquid back on the stove in a skillet or saucier. If you didn’t go the way of the extra bonus note, you’ll want to skim as much fat off the top as you can.
Reduce the defatted liquid over medium-high heat until it’s thick enough to coat the back of a spoon. Kill the flame and stir in a couple of tablespoons of butter. Taste while holding onto the counter top so that when your eyes roll back into your head you won’t fall over. Adjust the seasonings. Add more butter if you think it needs it. Plate the meat and drizzle some sauce over it. Don’t blow all the sauce on your guests. Save some that you can put in the refrigerator and spread on sandwiches after it gelatinizes.
Bonus note: You can make this recipe both more tasty and easier to handle by executing it over the course of a couple of days. After the meat has cooked, cool the pot and then refrigerate. It will be fine for a few days. When you’re ready to serve, skim the congealed fat, reheat gently until all is liquid again, and then continue as above.
cooking, meat, recipes
Comments Off on Concentrate
Posted by Cameron on 09.24.06 9:08 AM
It’s Wednesday, the last night of NYC Without Reservations, and I’m completely ashamed at how relieved I am. Between the time zone difference, a full day in a strange office with heavy deadlines, a couple of late-night social commitments, and the dedication of my free evenings to foodie jaunts, I’m completely exhausted. Cue soundtrack of The World’s Smallest Violin playing, “My Heart Pumps Purple Piss For You.â€
Nevertheless, duty calls. I’ve been strategizing an assault on tonight’s destination for months. When we lived in Seattle, Anita and I were introduced to the most amazing bar in the world: The Zig Zag Café, where Murray, Ben, and Kacy mix drinks with the same care and creativity that goes into a great meal at a fine restaurant. Seduced by the art of the cocktail, we’re constantly on the lookout for more of the same, although the Zig Zag sets a very high standard.
So tonight I step off the subway at Bleecker and aim down West Houston street. I keep a sharp eye out, and it’s a good thing: there’s no sign overhead, only a glowing logo etched into an otherwise unremarkable smoked glass and aluminum door. Just as I get close enough to make out a vestibule and a man inside, he pulls the door open to welcome me to the Pegu Club.
A short staircase transports me to a tastefully lit place for cocktails. I drift across the main room, drawn by the bar glowing at the far end. About halfway there, the hostess intercepts me. I ask for a seat at the bar, but it’s full. I can sit at one of the knee-high tables lining the banquette on either side of the room. I am vaguely—no, make that seriously—disappointed. A great bar is like a sushi restaurant: the experience depends on being close to the action.
The hostess must see my face drooping like a Warner Bros. cartoon. Before I can get a word out, she chirps earnestly, “I’ll sit with you!†She’s obviously joking, but the oddness of the offer and her bright, matter-of-fact delivery make me laugh as I take a banquette seat.
I decide to start with the namesake drink, the Pegu cocktail. But seconds after I place my order, the hostess re-appears. “Come with me,†she says. I follow, and she tells me that I am to stand just…here. “These folks are getting ready to go,†she murmurs. “I told you that I’d take care of you. Now, you hover.†I make like a hummingbird and, sure enough, two people on the near end of the bar pack up and split. I slide into one of the seats that they leave empty, and it’s showtime.
The bartender nods a welcome. Later in the evening, I‘ll learn that his name is Phil. In the meantime, I watch him work, smoothly swiveling between drinks and chatting with the group on my right: two men and one woman. I wonder if I need to re-order when my Pegu cocktail appears, made by another bartender who appears to be dedicated to mixing for the rest of the room. The cocktail is served in a coupe glass—a bowl-shaped receptacle that you see champagne served out of in old movies.
I sample the drink and am surprised that the complicated ingredient list winds up tasting like a slightly bitter Cosmo. The coupe glass doesn’t help—it funnels the drink right down the center of my mouth instead of allowing it to spread out across my tongue.
I’m definitely having trouble hitting stride tonight. Phil the bartender is working hard and focusing on the people that he knows. When he needs ice for the shaker, he holds the bar’s large ice cubes in his hand and cracks them by hitting them with a bar spoon. At one point he pulls down a few of the bar’s trademark tinctures for a curious couple. I trade a couple of sentences with a man sitting next to me, but he pulls up stakes and heads out, so I focus on my drink and on watching the room.
I’m feeling a little lost when the hostess swoops in with a big smile, happy that she was able to deliver on a promise. “Who’s your new best friend?†she asks, laughing a little. “You are,†I agree, and thank her for the seat at the bar. Her name is Stephanie and over the course of the next half-hour, we chat while she cares for the room. She takes the train into Manhattan. She knits and has a friend in Westchester buy her special yarn for half what it costs in the city. She calls Westchester “upstate New York†the way that Californians call Colorado “back East.†She’s a talented hostess—the awkwardness drains away, and I begin to feel comfortable in the space.
I’m ready for my next cocktail and ask Phil to recommend something with bourbon. “Boozy?†he asks, “And will rye work?†Fine. He starts mixing and I start wondering: Rye, chartreuse, maraschino, lemon juice. One sip and I feel like I’ve dipped my tongue in a packet of saccharine. It’s intensely, unpleasantly sweet.
Phil and I are each equally taken aback at the other’s reaction. “Sweet?†he asks, amazed. “I’ve never had anyone react that way to that drink.â€
“Yep,†I confirm, “Way too sweet.†And I’m thinking: you mix two sweet cordials with citrus and an inherently sweet liquor and you’ve never had anyone tell you that it was sweet?
Phil thinks for a minute and proposes a Corpse Reviver #2. Never had it, but I’m game. He produces a small, chilled glass that looks a bit like a cropped martini or a cordial glass. It catches the attention of the regulars. Apparently when this bit of hardware comes out—Phil calls it a “Nick and Nora†glass—the man is not messing around. The Corpse Reviver #2 is tasty and it packs a wallop. It is definitely not sweet.
While Battle Cocktail has been raging, I’ve fallen into conversation with one of the men in the threesome to my right. While they work on Sazeracs, I learn that they’re out for his brother’s birthday. I mention San Francisco and Seattle, and everyone knows the Zig Zag. We talk shop. I argue educational priorities with his girlfriend. The night spins away.
Except…Phil and I never really get on the same page. My next drink is another citrus-laden number that’s kinda one-dimensional. I ask for a Vesper to clear my palate, and it’s my last of the night. Of all the cocktails, the Vesper is the only one that really works in the coupe glass. For a moment, I feel like James Bond in Monaco.
It isn’t until I’m paying the tab that I realize that at some point Stephanie vanished, having established the correct vibe. I track her down on the way out and thank her for making me feel welcome. At a great bar, what comes in the glass is only part of the magic.
bar culture, drinks, NYC, travel
3 Comments »
Posted by Cameron on 09.23.06 10:05 AM
It’s Tuesday evening of NYC Without Reservations, and I’ve suffered a setback: I’m at the wrong damn address.
I was aiming for Veritas, but I’m at 42 East 20th Street, and there’s no sign of…oh wait, there it is. It does my ego no good that I’ve already paced around for five minutes and called information before I see the Veritas sign on the other side of the street. It’s only about 900 feet tall with white lettering on a black background. Good thing I wasn’t trying to chew gum while I was walking, or I’d have ended up in traction.
Setback number two. Perhaps if Scott Bryan was a regular reader of Married…With Dinner, he would have held a space at the bar in case I showed up.
Back on the street, I see an expanse of glass glowing warmly across the way. Now I understand. Fate directed me to my dining destination, but I was too stubborn to listen. I submit to the tides of the universe and accept 42 East 20th as my destiny. Veritas be damned. I’m going to eat at Gramercy Tavern.
When I breeze into the tavern’s front room and see the packed bar, my confidence wavers for just a moment. But sure enough, there’s one open spot down at the end by the waiter station. To seal the deal, it’s under a canopy of leaf-covered branches springing from a bucket. After my encounter with the aggressive plants at Babbo, I’m beginning to feel a bit like Stanley thrashing his way through the jungle underbrush in search of Dr. Livingstone. I could wait for another space to open up. Instead, I take it as a sign and pull up a stool.
A cheerful bartender hands me a menu loaded with historically styled ways to get wasted. Old-school cocktails are what all the cool kids are drinking, I guess. I haven’t seen this many smashes, fizzes, and the like since I was at Bourbon & Branch. I choose a Gin-Ginger Tonic, and discover that my booze sense has lead me astray. The drink itself tastes okay, but it’s delivered in a foofy, long-stemmed glass packed full of crushed ice. Gads, man. What’s next? A paper umbrella and a slice of pineapple? Even if the presentation is historically accurate—which I doubt, but I’m a drunken scholar, not a drink scholar—you have to draw the line somewhere. At the very least, put a picture of a pansy or something next to the menu listing to warn the unsuspecting patron. I hope that this isn’t a trend.
I tuck the glass into the crook of my arm and drink quickly, trying to keep a low profile. Quick visual review: Bald guy with earrings and a soul patch in a pressed shirt sitting under a tree’s worth of foliage, furtively sipping a sweet drink out of a pimp glass. I’m absolutely positive that this not what my father had in mind when they said, “It’s a boy!â€
Rattled, I scan the menu for something to prop up my fragile masculinity. I find a filet mignon with balsamic onions and pureed potatoes. For the opening course I abandon my principles and order a salad. Nothing else sounds appealing and I need the roughage after last night’s adventures in guts and butter. Nevertheless, I have to get a grip on myself. Maybe I should down shots of whiskey between courses. I resolve to order everything in a very deep voice.
The salad turns out to be a pleasant surprise. I never used to pay much attention to over- or under-dressed greens, but it’s something that Anita always notices, and now I do too. My house salad is skillfully dressed, and if the lettuce mix is pedestrian, it’s also tender. A light touch of fresh dill makes the dish sparkle. The filet arrives, I tear in, and I’m smiling wryly by the end of my first mouthful. It’s a nice bit of meat and properly cooked, but after wallowing in beautiful tri-tips and dripping, marbled cuts of rib-eye from Prather, I’m spoiled. The potato puree on the other hand, is so good that I’d slurp it off the plate without the benefit of knife and fork if necessary. The little pile of thinly-sliced balsamic onions atop the filet is divine.
The crowd at the Tavern is ecumenical. A pride of tan, power-suited men at the opposite end of the bar call out to friends and wave silvery martinis. A tableful of parents and young children behind me gives way to two women in informal knit tops working their way through dinner and a bottle of champagne. Two seats down the bar, an elegantly featured young woman orders a cheese plate and a glass of wine and then lingers over it for the duration of my stay, scribbling notes. I can’t catch what she’s writing, but it’s something about food. One of the floor captains spots her and the two embrace happily. She’s been recently promoted to host at (I miss the name), and is having trouble finding her rhythm, especially handling VIPs when they make difficult reservation requests. The man sitting between us orders fish and a glass of white wine. He calls the bar staff by name, banters with the woman expediting drinks for the waiters, and then chats up the newly promoted hostess. They talk about food and eventually the French Laundry, but not Per Se, as far as I can hear.
I finish with a cheese course and a discovery. I’m again seduced by a robiola, accompanied by a soft, amazingly nutty blue, and a powdery, parmigiano-esque cheddar from Vermont. The discovery comes with the wine. Doesn’t it always? Carrying the wine from the main course over into the cheese course has always felt natural, but it’s usually a red and I’m rarely happy with the combination. This happened at Babbo last night, so I try a different route and am rewarded. I ask for something white and sweet-ish, and the bartender recommends a gewurtztraiminer that I think tastes of apples. He seems unconvinced, but he’s happy enough that he found something I like. The taste of apples and cheese makes me think of autumn, but the greenery over my head and the warmth of the evening as I leave still say summer. Maybe we have a few days left.
bar culture, NYC, restaurants, travel
2 Comments »
Posted by Cameron on 09.20.06 3:31 PM
It’s Monday evening, the first night of NYC without reservations. I stroll purposefully down to Washington Square Park and step through the door at Babbo at around seven. The bar and front tables are full and there’s just one couple sipping wine by the door. A quick chat with the host and the next open spot at the bar has my name on it. I try to find an inconspicuous spot to stand and end up by the doorway, dodging the overzealous greenery stashed at head level. Sly and the Family Stone penetrates the air. While I wait, a man walks in dressed as if the Ralph Lauren Polo box arrives in the mail every three months. “Oh,†he mutters. “Looks kinda crowded,†and darts back out, the way you do when you go somewhere all the time and you’d just as soon just grab a hot dog down the street as wait a half hour for dinner. I hate him. He is evil and probably unkind to animals. I am instantly, passionately jealous.
Salvation. My seat is available. Immediately I am confronted with the extensive wine list, but I am hopelessly uncultured and ignorant of Italian wine, and the only name I recognize is Bastianich. Grasping at straws, I point at a likely white and ask the bartender for a description. Among other things he says, “Minerally,†which when used in reference to white wine is akin to saying, “Al-a-kazaam!†to my taste buds.
It is probably due to a deficiency of character that the more exclusive the restaurant, the more powerfully I am drawn to any offbeat meats that appear on the menu. So, like Vincent Vega at Jackrabbit Slim’s, I run my finger down the menu muttering, “Offal, offal, offal,†until I score. It doesn’t take long; Signor Batali is known for his fondness for barnyard variety. I order warm tripe “alla parmigiana†to start, followed by beef cheek ravioli in crushed squab liver sauce.
When the tripe arrives, I am relieved that I didn’t go for three courses (the lamb’s brains pasta was bleating my name). It is an heroic portion of innards and I tuck in with abandon. The tripe is mildly but not aggressively funky, and the red sauce is smooth and sweet, shot through with occasional sage leaves and chunks of soft, thoroughly cooked carrot. The texture of the tripe reminds me of hand-shaven dan-dan noodles. The wine works with the dish, keeping everything light and bright.
I ask for another wine recommendation to accompany my beef cheek ravioli, and the bartender pulls down a bottle that he says was opened for a reserve tasting. Montevertine 2001. Again, I am uninformed and foolish, but it tastes great. It’s a chianti grape, but there’s none of the lurid, screaming cherry attack late in the palate. How civilized. Not cheap, but very civilized. The beef cheek ravioli are very slightly disappointing. The filling is delicious, as is the sauce, but the pasta itself is not quite right. It’s faintly tough, although I’m particularly sensitive to pasta that’s a little too al dente.
As I eat and drink, the wine retains some mystery. There’s something missing that I can’t put my finger on. The absence isn’t unpleasant, but it’s noticeable. Finally I figure out that I’m not getting the boozy punch that my feeble palate must now be accustomed to after years of drinking huge, alcoholic, New World wines. I mention the difference to the bartender and he nods. Of course.
Eating at the bar of a fine restaurant is a little bit like watching a concert from the first row. You can enjoy the show like everyone else, but you also get glimpses of the artists (and sometimes their supporting cast) at work. You get to share some of the tiny, unacknowledged dramas that pepper every live performance. My bartender asks one of the waiters if the customer wants to taste a particular bourbon. “Oh no,†sighs the waiter. “He wants me to taste it for him and tell him if he’ll like it.â€
Somewhere between the tripe and the ravioli the room starts getting more crowded. By the time I’m halfway through the ravioli the place is packed. Behind me, an expensively-dressed foursome in their fifties loudly complains about the delay in outer borough accents so thick that I have to smile. Where is Dr. Higgins when you need him?
Over my shoulder, a man asks for a glass of cabernet and a glass of pinot noir. “We don’t have anything made from either of those grapes,†says the bartender, “But we have wines that taste similar.†The man takes a wine list and begins a debate with his female companion that’s obviously going nowhere useful. The bartender listens for less than a minute, then pulls down a bottle of wine and pours tastes for the couple. They’re happy with his choice and settle in to wait for their table. The bartender sets up a glass in front of me and pours another taste. “This is what I would have recommended if you hadn’t gone for the Montevertine,†he says. A few minutes later, he shows up with another bottle and another glass: “You’ll see that this one is more alcoholic. It’s made from grapes grown high up on Mount Etna.†Truly, I am still foolish and uncultured, but I am now also master of universes both known and unknown. I belong here. I shall borrow a corkscrew and carve my name on the bar and that will serve as a marker until a brass plaque can be ordered.
Another couple presses in on my right and the man asks me about the wines in front of me. I tell him what I know and we commiserate over our lack of Italian wine-fu. “When we were in Italy,†he says, “The best wine was whatever was being made locally.†I nod understandingly, as if I’ve been there. Italy. Of course. The man continues, musing regretfully about the Italian wines that they’ve drunk here in the States that haven’t been up to snuff. “I mean, they’re good and all,†he allows, “But are they worth $250 a bottle?†Again, I nod. Indeed. What can one do? Excuse me, I think that’s my Ferrari the valet is bringing around. Ciao.
The cheese course is wonderful: robiola, Coach Farms Finest, and taleggio latte crudo. There’s no way that I can manage dessert. I’m pretty sure that my feet don’t touch the sidewalk all the way back to the hotel.
bar culture, Italian, NYC, restaurants, travel, wine & bubbly
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