FORK PLAY AUGUST 27, 2008
Glommin' Grom. Passage to Bagchia. Amanda's Lamb.
Dear Friends and Family,
I do have a certain ambivalence about fat, you may have noticed. I revel in it and quiver before it with fear and  delighted anticipation. I would never want it to be thought that I deny myself gourmandlich joys: fat, salt, sugar, the stuff of life. But I guess I do measure out wanton indulgence: taking a year to get to Cold Stone Creamery. And months to acknowledge Pinkberry, two blocks south of my keyboard.
"What! You haven't tasted that fabulous Italian ice cream. Glom. Guam. Guan. It's near where you live." Our friends who keep track of New York's cuisinary tides have driven in from far, far Red Bank, New Jersey, for dinner downtown with us. Now they are driving us home.
"Grom. Yes," I respond. "It's there, I know. I just haven't braved the queue." I have to admit I amaze myself that I have somehow managed not to explore Grom three short blocks north of where I nurse many a midnight craving. How long has it been there? I'm Googling. April, 2007. Am I really the Insatiable Critic or what? How many times have I passed it by, coming home from dinner at Celeste. Last week when I suggested perhaps we should check out the line at Grom, the Road Food Warrior refused to cross Broadway in the danger zone.
"Someone has to protect you from yourself."
I had eaten three-quarters of my own 13 inch pizza, a first for me (and just because a pizza has arugula on top doesn't mean it's dietetique or low-fat), followed by a small cheese sampler that arrived unbidden when we asked for the check, followed by a triumphant Carmine to document the provenance of each blob. Not exactly the prime moment for yet more butterfat.
Now whipped on by New Jersey's champions of la dolce vita I notice that at least on this Monday in August at 10:47 p.m., there are just five people ahead of us.
"What flavor do I want?" I murmur as I study Grom's menu.
"First come the free tastes," Red Bank Frank instructs.
I'm likely to go for chocolate so I should taste the flavor of the day I decide, caramela sugar and salt. I take the small tasting spoon from an efficient young woman, unsmiling but non-judgmental. I let the dollop drop on my tongue. Oh-oh. Oh dear. My mouth comes alive with the creamy melting of burnt sugar and after that the gentle lashing of the salt. Instead of a small cup of extra-noir chocolate sorbetto with Ecuadorian chocolate chips, I must go bi-partisan: half extra, half caramel.
I don't really want to distract from the creamy lushness and that deep baritone of bitter chocolate but I suppose I have to taste a tiny nubbin of Steven's limone - "sfusato lemon from Amalfi," it says on the menu. (After all, it's my job). My head snaps back! It's like an electrical shock; pure perfect lemon, barely touched with sugar. No wonder he is so unmoved by my caramel, numbed to its subtlety.
I wonder how long he can keep me on the other side of the street after this.
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Little Lambs Eat Ivy
We were known for our ambitious little dinners and the treasures in the wine cellar below, my then husband Don and I, on weekends in our little church on top of the hill outside Woodstock. I kept a leather-bound scrapbook noting the date and what I served. Guests would sign, sometimes adding a sketch, a poem or a superlative.
Actually I was inspired by Craig Claiborne who told me his accountant had suggested he keep a guest book with menus so he'd have a record for deducting business entertaining expenses. Over the years Craig collected a series of gorgeous books, full of drawings and memories. He definitely invited more artists than we did.
You could also see what you had served your guests the last time and not repeat, Craig told me. One day I thought about that, flipped the pages and realized that we always repeated. We served lamb. Rack of lamb. Leg of lamb. Stuffed lamb shoulder. Even crown roast of lamb. What reminded me just now of my guest book, lost somewhere in storage, is the two lamb photos here. Though my then adored husband has gone off to other lambs, the Road Food Warrior and I uphold the tradition, rarely resisting lamb.
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Passage to Bagicha
Indeed, at Bagicha we are both very pleased with the ginger mint lamb chops from the tandoori oven (five chops for $22) as well as my marvelously rare and flavorful salmon Malabar tikka and the excellent kulcha and layered paratha breads. You might want to give the place a try,  even though the glass-topped back room is a little gloomy and the wooden chairs desperately need padding.
Nevertheless it's well worth considering if, like me, West 79th Street is your neighborhood.
Alas, the staff seems distracted by some crisis when we arrive and no one comes near us till finally I got up to beg for water and menus from a woman who seems distinctly put out by my aggressiveness. But finally a confident, well-drilled, concerned waiter arrives, promising cushions will be bought and insisting we want to order from the house's new Chaat Festival menu. Glancing at all the usual murky sound-alike vindaloos and jalfrezis on the inventory of predictable Indian dishes, I agree. Street food snacks, linked here as Chaat, all priced at $9.95, Festival or no Festival, are a way to start, although I am not sure why we should pay $9.95 for these samosas given that samosas on the menu are only $4.95. "These are the samosas you want," our waiter insists.
And they are good, two giant size turnovers stuffed with potato, tomato and white peas, drizzled with yogurt and tamarind and crunchy things with modish slashes on the plate. It's more than enough for four, as is the small mountain of Juhu Chowpatty Bhel Puri (rice puffs, diced onion, tomato and tamarind), mounted stylishly too. But a coupling of idly and del vada, the vegetarian lentil dumplings I normally love, are tough and dry as corrugated board. Still, even though chicken breast is always boring for me, it is juicy in its pleasant tomato sauce and I sense there is a chef back there, somewhere, cooking with his heart.
226 West 79th Street 212 362 1767.
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Amanda's Lamb Loves Rosemary
At The Harrison, Amanda Freitag has moved into the kitchen where summer reveals her passion for the farmer's market - a luscious offering of melon soup with toasted pumpkin seeds, aristocratic radishes in anchovy vinaigrette and julienne of beets on tangy robiolina cheese with pistachio vinaigrette. But it's her addictive duck-fat fries and her thick, caramelized English cut of lamb we'll be going back for. Rosemary-scented (but not excessively), meaty, rare, and difficult to carve off the bone, my resident carnivore wants another try at mastering it. Was it really that good and so challenging? Yes. Read more on the joys  of summer nights at The Harrison.
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Cracking the Code at Morandi
Check out how Roberto churns the crowd at Morandi these supposedly laid-back August evenings and follow my lead to get the best of Allegretti, now before the post Labor Day crush.
In 1969 I borrowed a finicky niece from Michigan to see if I could set her off on a gourmand trail. Finicky? This moppet wouldn't even eat pizza because she didn't like cheese. Read "Haute Meal for Pamela" in my vintage articles and discover how to get a picky 10-year-old to eat oeuf en gelée and quail.
If you enjoy FORK PLAY, send it to a friend. If you hate it, send it to an enemy. I don't mind.
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Photos of limone ice cream cone at Grom, The Harrison lamb, Chef Amanda Freitag, Bagicha tandoori lamb and Morandi steak may not be used without permission from Steven Richter.
Gael Greene Copyright 2008
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