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FORK PLAY December 16, 2009
Dancing Queen. Michael's Noodles. Café Boulud. Paris in the Rain.
Dear Friends and Family,
It doesn't always have to be about the food. Honestly. I really mean it. Why not just an adventure, a jaunt
 somewhere, an escape from the Manhattan strut just for fun? Why not, I ask you. That's Jimmy Rodriquez's new Don Coqui. Maybe you did a turn in the late 80s at Jimmy's in the Bronx, a hangout for sports stars and dancing till 4 a.m. Rodriguez went on to open the sexy whitewashed Jimmy's Uptown in Harlem, Jimmy's Midtown, and later, Jimmy's on City Island. Then the empire imploded. If you loved Jimmy - everyone seemed to - you were too polite to ask why.
In December, I learned Jimmy had opened Don Coqui in New Rochelle with his daughters Jewelle and Jaleene. Daughters? Grown-up daughters? New Rochelle? "Minimalist elegant" is how the press flack described the look, with waiters "dancing to kitchen chaos." Exactly.
Ava knows the route. With little traffic, it's 25 minutes from the Upper West Side, but then, maddeningly, a 15 minute wait for valet parking (free to you, free to Jimmy - the valets work for tips).
Our adventurers love the red wine sangria at $40 for the pitcher. (I'm not sure who ordered that second pitcher but every glass was full when we left.) Jimmy sends out tons of food as if it's all on the house - and much of it is. A modest bill arrives and we split it. Two huge platters (photo above) come piled with starters. I love the crusty dark chicken chicharron. The crisp calamari is good enough, and so are pesto-decked clams. You might want to share a so-so bowl of Puerto Rico's famed Sancocho soup with beef and root vegetables. By then, three oversize entrées - the family's signature slow roasted pork shoulder, called "pernil", a pedestrian paella that is nonetheless a hit all over the room, and quite edible skirt steak with black bean rice and chimichurri sauce - are much too much even for our six.
But then the music gets louder, 70s disco, "Dancing Queen"
 (my very own anthem), irresistible salsa, live drummers, all timed to MTV-like images on five plasma televisions above the bar. People jump up to dance: young and middle-aged, every shade of skin, lithe and hippopotamine, to the beat or in spite of it. Jimmy dances with us, then assigns lieutenants to keep us dancing. After all the aerobics, we confront cheese flan and the delicious tres leches cake without a pang of regret.
So, it's not about the food at Don Coqui (the tiny island tree frog), though chef Stephanie Hagquist tussles valiantly with "four generations of Rodriguez family recipes." Go for the genuine welcome, the contagious vibe, the cultural walkabout, the dancing. "Shortcut to Puerto Rico," it says on Jimmy's card. Exactly.
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Noodling with the Kryptonic Chef
The news flash was only that chef Michael Huynh, Empire Building Vietnamese Bad Boy, had not opened a single
 restaurant all weekend. "You don't want to open in the rain," he explains, popping into Obao, his new midtown noodle shop. He'd come from overseeing construction at the Maiden Lane Baoguette he promised to deliver in November. "I tell my wife go home. You worked enough," he confides, "but she's still there. I have to focus on more important things." Polishing up Mikey's Burgers on Ludlow for its delayed launch, for instance. About Obao: fabulous on Thursday, limping on Saturday. To read more about that, click here.
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Sipping with the Stars
Upper East Siders are discovering Bar Pleaides, Daniel's hot and dapper new cocktail lounge off the lobby of the Surrey Hotel. It strikes me as a perfect little hideaway for seduction, romantic or professional. Of course, not if you live close enough that your mate also might drop in needing a quickie (by any other name). And please hold the date January 20. That's the night Bar Pleaides will be serving mixmaster Cameron Bogue-designed drinks and Champagne to benefit Citymeals-on-Wheels - a cause Boulud has passionately embraced. Nate Appleman from Pulino's Bar and Pizzeria, Aldea chef-owner George Mendes and Jon Shook and Vinny Dotolo from Los Angeles' meatery Animal will join Café Boulud chef Gavin Graysen to provide hors
d'oeuvres. For more information or to sign up, click here to reach Citymeals.org, then click on "events and news."
I join a huddle of grapenuts in Café Boulud's private dining room for the annual wine-tasting Bacchanal of my good friends Bob and Joel. I am knocked out of my socks by the breathtakingly gossamer sheep's milk ricotta gnocchi that emerge from chef Graysen's kitchen under a cloud of truffles. And it's not just the effect of truffle lust, it's the floating pillows of gnocchi. A thick slice of supernal côtes de boeuf, meaty rare velvet, with marvelous potatoes Anna wearing a topknot of toasted marrow is better than anything I'd eaten in the restaurant itself two week earlier. Straight forward, less fussy. To read my impressions of the newly reopened Café, please click here.
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Paris in the Rain
The two of us feel far from New York's economic turmoil. Nothing in the stores is on sale. There has been no mass chopping off of heads at media empires, no newspapers evaporating. The only sign of stimulus I see is a slash on the value added tax (TVA) on certain items in luxury restaurants. What's going on here? Is it socialism, denial, compassion? Is
 France taking less of a hit? We came here to celebrate Thanksgiving with good friends who keep a grand yet cozy home-away-from-home in Paris. Worried that the two small stuffed birds they'd bought at the remarkable frozen food enterprise Picard (the chain has 570 outlets in France) might not be worthy of the holiday, our hosts succumb to a giant uncooked bird and some stuffing in an outdoor market at noon Thanksgiving day and take it to the baker, Mulot. Can he cook it in time for dinner? "Thanks for giving me so much notice," he says.
After a brisk pre-blanching and uber-roasting in the bakery oven, the bird rests chez nous. It's gorgeous and good enough if you like turkey (stuffing is my weakness) but not as juicy as the Picard bird. With determined reverence, we have sweet potatoes with marshmallows, chestnuts, and monstrously huge popovers brought from New York. Given a fabulous layered chocolate gateau from Lenôtre and delicate French cheesecake, I for one did not miss the dreaded pumpkin pie.
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Now It's Raining Truffles
Steven had never been to L'Atelier de Joël Robuchon in Paris - a short walk in the rain from our haven - and I have a name on a card to call. "Can we come at 8:30?" It is apparently the right name. Two seats at the far end of the counter are waiting in this shiny black and red canteen, one of the city's most in demand, with dinner reservations suffered only for 5:30 p.m. (I know this isn't fair. Life is not fair. I had to use that card.) L'Atelier here in Paris, with its dramatic lighting, winding counter service, decorative jars of pickles and painted apples on see-through shelves revealing the cooks at work, is smarter looking than L'Atelier New York, arbitrarily inserted into the Four Seasons Hotel's tawny architecture.
Our connection, Robuchon's right hand man, Philippe, pours Champagne. I accept just a third of a glass. (Tell that to the FTC, which requires Internet reviewers to report all
 freebies.) Smothering the spaghetti in a parachute of white truffle is his idea too. He insists we are guests. I beg for a bill, not willing to let my current lack of an expense account change my professional ways. He and I argue over who will pay for the sensational scallop carpaccio with sea urchin. The bill (l'addition) is a realistic 183E, about $270 for two, with one 10E glass of red and Steven's wonderful iced tea that our man shakes, stirs and pours from the carafe as if it were Bond's martini.
Philippe charms the duo of Japanese women next to us too, dropping off extra pommes de terre mousseline - Robuchon's signature manna, more butter than potatoes - and crying "Oishi." (Wonderful) Oishi, indeed. We split an order of langoustine ravioli - one plump pillow for each - the fabulous short ribs, and the house's beef tartare with tiny green capers, grape seed oil and hot ketchup. "No Tabasco," says Philippe. "It would linger in the mouth." The shared sorbets are perfection too. Cassis, apple, red fruit with spice, basil and lime (a revelation of balance to this congenital debunker of lawn cuttings in sweets).
***
Essential Paris
Of course we had our essential evening at l'Ami Louis, with hugs from Louis, a mammoth haunch of beef and the legendary chicken six of us shared, and not one, but two raw garlic-strewn potato cakes. At Le Comptoir I couldn't do justice to the mythic basket of charcuterie because I could only eat a third of the blood sausage, half the fatty terrine and uncountable slices of
 saucisson. I had crisp sucrine lettuce as my entrée. A feeble gesture. Our foursome at the highly touted Itinéraires marvel at the lush potato soup with circles of raw white mushroom furled on top and a whole poached egg lurking in its depths. But the black rice with "confit" of seafood disappoints and I definitely don't want coffee grounds in my chocolate cake. I remember all those years I gave up eggs - even now, the pale little egg-white scramble I whip up for myself. But these days, where there used to be a few micro greens, there is an egg. Every dish the Parisian legend Yanou and I ordered at Christian Constant's Les Cocottes boasted or hid an egg. That wonderful cream of pumpkin soup with country ham julienne. Huge bowl. "He's Alsatian," Yanou explains.
Alain Ducasses has found a new religion, Nature, and unveiled it at Spoon, spiffily revamped since my last visit. "We have tried to retrieve real and original flavors... in order to eat in a healthy, simple way... and still have fun," is the menu's billet-doux. Much to my surprise, I love the wheat soup thickened with buckwheat and the quinoa seeds casserole. And if baked apple seems too healthy, the huge plop of crème fraîche compensates.
Three of us are coddled and indulged with the snap of properly paced service at the very grand Jacques Garcia draped and tassled Le Diane in the new Hotel Fouquet's Barrière Hotel. Clearly it's prime time for big spenders. The sole de petit bateau in a roulade would cost $97.50 and I'd drop $75 for my splendid duck filets with beets and quince if
 our new public relations friend hadn't asked us to give it a try. A genteel and delicious "uptown" experience. Our friend from BonjourParis.com gets us into the feverishly hot Hotel Thoumieux, rehabbed by one of the Costes brothers and Jean François Piège, who left a two-star perch at the Crillon for this kitchen. At 8:25 it's empty. At 8:35 it's jumping, great looking people cramming in, waiters bumping my chair. "The chef likes to play with concepts," Margaret Kemp warns. She seems to love her faux pizza or maybe she's discreet - I don't - but to my surprise, I'm wild about the calamari cut-like noodles a la carbonara. The house makes its own fine little bun for the Wagyu burger topped with a mix of tomato and spices, iceberg lettuce and mayo.
I need to tell you more and I will in a Paris roundup soon. Even in the rain, we will always have dinner.
Break an egg,
Gael
***
| Photos of the appetizer platter and Jimmy Rodrigquez at Don Coqui, radish noodles at Obao, duck at Le Diane, calamari at Robuchon, a rainbow of healthy sauces to spread on blini at Spoon and calamari a la carbonara at Thoumieux may not be used without permission from Steven Richter
| Fork Play copyright Gael Greene 2009.
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