Ruth Soldiers On. Frog Pond Tales. Hip on 14th Street. Arturo's Table. Hugs for Sirio.
Dear Friends and Family,
Were you, like me, staggering around in shock over yet another blow to civilization? Well, maybe the twilight of
 the LeRoy reign at Tavern-on-the-Green is not a cosmic punch in the guts, but the loss of Café des Artistes was deeply sad for those of us who knew it in its prime, freshly revived with Hungarian certitude by George Lang. And the unexpected death of Chanterelle is like losing one's youth. Now whenever anybody says "Gourmet" I feel rage and sadness. So wanton a killing. Gourmet, founded in l941 by Earle MacAusland for "the honest seeker of the summum bonum of living." Is that us? If not, who? I got my first subscription in the 50's and kept each copy - they followed me from Detroit to New York along with my books. I cooked too - I remember a puffy, cheesy faux soufflé poured on top of crustless bread that starred in my brunches. Mostly I devoured the photographs at night under the covers, feeling the same heat I got from sneaking a copy of Forever Amber.
Suddenly S.I. Newhouse doesn't look at all like the benevolent Sugar Daddy of media institutions we supposed him to be. He has chosen the populist Bon Appetit over the less accessible, more complex, perhaps out-of-reach fantasy of Gourmet. Of course, I'm overjoyed for the survival and triumph of my friend, Bon Appetit editor Barbara Fairchild. But I would have thrown a few hundred million at making Gourmet a quarterly or given it to Ruth as a farewell gift if she could find backers. Citymeals-on-Wheels will miss Ruth's spirited personal and editorial support, the magazine's generous funding.
And what a good sport Ruth is, unlike me who had a tantrum and long-simmering rage when I got fired. How civilized she is, how cheerful, setting off to publicize the new Gourmet cookbook (not a penny in royalties for her, she confides) and starring in the Ruth TV show which may take on a life of its own. I read somewhere Condé Nast severance for their pets is $5 million. I do hope that's true.
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Frog Pond Tales
With Lutèce, La Cote Basque, and La Caravelle all six forks under, it's thrilling that La Grenouille thrives. Owning the building helps the bottom line, of course, and owner Charles Masson's youthful makeover - opening up the facade with glass, tossing out the stuffiness of tuxedoed captains, even finally translating the menu, once all in French - designed to torture three decades of the naïve.
"La Grenouille is notorious for ending all arguments over how many angels can dance on the head of a pin," I wrote in a l969 New York review. the answer is: room for two more. 'It is partly a financial imperative,' M. Masson Senior confided to me then. 'It is also an aesthetic imperative. The
 ladies love it. Atmosphere is primordial. There is nothing more dreary than a restaurant so spaced out you feel you are in a place of, how you say
'worship?'"
Bruised from the season of loss, it is healing to walk into La Grenouille this past Tuesday as guests of glamorous devotees. There is a line to get in the door, a wait to surrender coats, a queue cooling it before being ushered to seats. Both rooms are full, folks packed as intimately as anchovies, tables barely an inch apart, in the mode of Père Masson. Faces out of Grosz - "We're pickled but we're alive!" - with a scattering of the vibrant middle-aged and even some young, visiting the Twilight Zone.
It's unprofessional for a critic to show compassion, a sin in the blogosphere. But I find myself not wanting to write anything that might question the town's affection for this last bastion of quenelle de brochet and the house's classic Provençale frogs' legs ($12.50 supplement). We're playing out a ritual here. The captain can barely contain his enthusiasm for tonight's turbot and it's good enough. I suppose in a sea of sauce. Our host's wife regrets forsaking her usual Dover sole. I'm not going to tread on the unfathomable delight in praline soufflé, $9.75 extra on the $92 three course dinner. I am polishing off my chocolate cake, amused to get the same cookies that were once
 denied to me as a denizen of Siberia in the early days. It's an apparition of La Grenouille, so be it.
The happily indulged early birds have cleared the room by 11 but it's good to see a crowd at the bar - a smart innovation I recommend for the discounted bar menu lunch with its satellite view of Frog Pond drama. 3 East 52d Street between Fifth and Madison Avenues. 212 752 1495
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Who Says the Meat Market is Dead?
It's sounds like a delicatessen but Abe & Arthur's has quickly become a hive of hipsters and towering heel totterers. If you need to be first in your crowd to land somewhere groovy, join the swoon and bring a flashlight to read the menu. I don't think I'll be able to get the Road
 Food Warrior back. It's not that he doesn't love those juicy sliders and the scallops on cauliflower
almond puree. It's the tortuous din and the feeling of not belonging. Still I can imagine evenings ahead in soulless bistros when I will long for the house's marvelous popovers and chef Franklin Becker's calculated comfort food - luscious crab cakes and splendid macaroni and cheese. Want to read more? Click here to read "Not Your Grandfather's Dish." 409 West 14th Street between Ninth Avenue and Washington. 646 289 3930
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Arturo's Table
His closest pals call him Arturo because no one we know has quite totally absorbed Italian soul like he has. My longtime friend and co-conspirator, Arthur Schwartz says he comes by his Neapolitan nature by birth - weaned on the ziti con ragu of the downstairs neighbors in Brooklyn where he grew up. And he shares his passion with students at the classes he leads with the Baronessa Cecilia on her farm in Salerno. I just got a copy of his new cookbook, The Southern Italian Table (Clarkson Potter $32.50). If you have
the ambition to attempt true Neapolitan pizza, the rules from the guru of Naples are here. I'm eager to try bread and tomato salad as they do it in Naples and Salerno -
 dipping twice-baked bread into salted water. Perfect for this time of year is his squash with sausage sauce for pasta or to use as a flavoring for risotto. He's also high on his lentil soup with sausage and broccoli rabe that Cecilia's 10 year-old grandson tells him is squisita.
"As I'm is not a baker, I love Zia Delia's Date Cake," he says. "It's more of a confection than a cake. I also love Zia (Aunt) Delia, who is 89 years-old and cooks every day even though she has only herself and her companion to feed. She has no children, but if a niece or nephew comes by, they can't go home without food." Click here to buy Arturo's book now from Amazon.
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Hugs for the Fabled Ringmaster
Sunday's celebration of Le Cirque's 35th year was really a big hug fest for Sirio Maccione as well as a benefit for Citymeals-on-Wheels. A starry crew of alumni had come to cook with the current top toque, Craig Hopson. Alain
 Alegretti, Iacopo Falai, Michael Lomonaco, Alex Stratta, Bill Telepan and Geoffrey Zakarian did a walk-around feast as a prelude to David Bouley's crab, Daniel Boulud's truffled scallops in black tie, and Hopson's marvelous lamb. Sirio sat with Town & Country's Pamela Fiore on his right and police chief Raymond Kelly on his left. With wife Egi singing, grandchildren richocheting, Marco's dog being lugged across the room, and a trail of guests shooting the kitchen action, the evening took on a mad Marx Brothers air. Daniel Boulud directed two dozen chefs plating, then led the kitchen équipe out to roast Sirio over crème brulee and chocolate stoves by Dieter Schorner and Jacques Torres. It was surely the loosest and sweetest fundraising love fest I can recall. That's Sirio holding the ankle of the pretty young thing at the next table.
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Photos of La Grenouille and its salmon tartare blini and Abe & Arthur's interactive tuna may not be used without permission from Steven Richter. Click here. Fork Play by Gael Greene copyright 2009
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