FORK PLAY November 2, 2010
Brooklyn Bowl. Aureole. Hurricane Club. Bar Basque. Devi Delivers. Mehtaphor. KatieRoseCakes.
Dear Friends and Family,
This was a week to remember. I got carded by the security guy at Brooklyn Bowl. "Are you kidding?" I asked.
"No, I gotta see your I.D." he said. I handed him my MTA senior subway card. "Okay," he said, "You're in."
I'm still smiling.
*** Our colors this week are Macintosh and Golden Delicious. ***On the Town
Even eating out six nights a week, it's impossible to keep up with the splash of restaurant launches this fall. Of course  I miss almost everything else in a city where each night provokes a 1000 press releases. I know everyone but me is off at screenings and festivals, weeping and sighing at the theater, watching their friends buy a new Warhol, lying through their teeth at galleries and poetry readings, buying the book anyway and getting it signed. But Wednesday was different. I felt like a real New Yorker, a culture vulture, for an entire evening, caught up in the standing ovation at "Scottsboro Boys" - the powerful and moving new Kander and Ebb musical at the Lyceum. Afterward, as we walked south in a surround of flashing lights, I almost tripped, drunk on the manic exaggeration of Times Square.
From our table in Aureole's front room I could still see a halo of neon. The four of us had come for papas fritas with chorizo, powdered with aged manchego dust, to dip into saffron aioli, and burgers all around. The grilled meat on its couturier toasted bun was even better than I remembered - rich and juicy with thick slices of applewood smoked bacon, white cheddar and pickled ramp dressing. Not to forget, the perfect macaroni and cheese alongside. The only thing missing from a magical evening was a horse drawn carriage to carry us home and a chinchilla throw to keep us warm. In another life I was Suzy Parker. 135 West 42nd Street between Broadway and Sixth Avenue.
***
If You Want Me, Just Whistle
I was a fool for pupu and fruity tropical drinks with tiny paper parasols in Trader Vic's heyday - an d mine. After a night out with a grey wolf feeding me bacon-wrapped chicken livers and Mai Tais, I could always tell myself I only went all the way because I was quite obviously tipsy. So I was primed to love the Tiki revival at the Hurricane Club. I got right into the mood with a chile-spiked rum drink and Samoan deviled eggs, digging the shadowy dim, the artful reflection of palms that reminded me of "Casablanca" and the waiters in white dinner jackets looking like Cesar Romero and Humphrey Bogart.
The Road Food Warrior complained that everything was too spicy, even his luscious black bean lamb chops au poivre, but the rest of our quartet was totally smitten with dinner - especially the crunchy little squares of Peking pork to wrap in steamed Chinese buns with the usual Peking duck fixings. Two weeks later I went back to taste more. You'll want to know what we ate since it might be I ordered the best dishes on the menu. Click here. 360 Park Avenue South at 26th Street.
***
After Many a Summer, Big Ambition
After a summer of a thousand pizzas and burgers, restaurateurs are daring to be ambitious again. Jeffrey Chodorow gave his deputy Terry Zarikian leave to go for serious luxury at Bar Basque. Is it too red? I don't mind.  Red seems sexy to me. But baseball on the giant screen over my shoulder is definitely a wet blanket. The three men at my table kept sneaking a look at the action. Fortunately the mackerel, calamari two-ways, the veal cheeks and remarkable paella were good enough to distract them. I had my back to the screen, the better to appreciate handsome china, custom-made (red) steak knives and the last of the soccarat - the rice that sticks to the pan in a well-made paella. Check out "Seeing Red at Bar Basque" by clicking here. Eventi Hotel 851 Sixth Avenue between 29th and 30th Streets.
***
Devi Delivers
Since my friends Suvir Saran and Charlie Burd bought a farm in a faraway corner upstate I rarely see them. Suvir can be found from time to time at Devi - the charming spot on East 18th where he and partner-chef Hemant Mathur perfected their elegant Indian tasting dinners. I have always said a critic should have no friends but I am a sorry  example of vulnerability. Suvir, the great cook and caterer, was already a character in the drama of our lives before he actually became eligible for a possible review. Devi's small tastes of many things played out with elegance and artistry and it's where I go, the perfect retreat for visiting vegan nieces.
Saran has been working on a new menu. "You must taste the vegetarian Sloppy Louis (Pav Bhaj), a Bombay street food. Like an Indian chili, with lime, cilantro, hot chilies. It is decadent and delicious," he emailed between shooting photographs for his newest cookbook. He's also perfected a crispy fried shrimp that is gluten free "and tasty too" with a peanut slaw.
Last week, we finally got together for dinner and in the middle of a stunning if not stupefying preview of dishes designed by Fabio Trabocchi for Villa Pacri in the Meat Market, Survir announced that he and his Devi partners had decided to give a portion of every check for the entire month of November to Citymeals-on-Wheels - a way of giving thanks and sending holiday meals to the city's frail needy homebound. I was astonished and thrilled and cheered and warmed and even a little teary. I think about these invisible New Yorkers living just blocks from my desk and yours, especially around the holidays when being alone must be unbearably lonely. They have come to count on us because they have no one else. I shall hope that Suvir's loving gesture goes quickly viral, inspiring other restaurateurs and food merchants to do the same. 8 East 18th Street between Broadway and 5th Avenue.
***
Unleash that Mehtaphor
I remember Jehangir Mehta's unusual desserts at Compass when it first opened, especially a sensuous tapioca prequel to dessert. When he broke out on his own at the tiny Graffiti with a hot plate in a closet in the East Village, I sat on a board between two exposed struts and ate I can't remember what, fearing it would not last a month. How wrong I was.
Mehtaphor, in the Duane Hotel, seems spacious in contrast but it's tiny too - a narrow space with abbreviated two and four tops, unyielding banquettes with pillows that  take up too much room, sheer curtains from Ikea and a long communal table. Gracious servers in soft mango-colored drawstring blouses slither through and Mehta himself emerges from the kitchen to welcome us.
No question the chef has devoted fans. Two of them are with us tonight and they are saddened that pop rocks and pineapple granita overwhelm the oysters with unwelcome sweetness.
Our friends clearly want to love everything but onion seed shrimp kebabs with green papaya raita are not even slightly loveable and the loveable orange ginger shrimp ceviche seems skimpy. Not even onion chickpea fritters can rescue the banana leaf cod from the blahs. I sense they would happily disappear under the table rather than discuss it.
But then instantly crunchy truffle goat cheese crab pizza restores our confidence. Guacamole sorbet is not as ridiculous as it sounded on the very good beef tartare. The big beautifully caramelized lamb shank with garlic sweet potatoes makes all of us happy and the graffiti burger with garlic fries and chipotle mayonnaise is a winner. The Mehtaphor sundae shows the chef working at his strength: his own rum raisin ice cream with chocolate sauce and BB-like crunchies on top. Mehta also sends out a goblet of Kahlua coffee cream, one of his four $7 dessert cocktails, with four fat straws. My call: Mehtaphor is good for the neighborhood. 130 Duane Street.
***
Katie Rose Cakes
In earlier days I had personal assistants who stayed for years, at least till law school graduation. But recently a chorus line has been tap dancing quickly through my office on the way to elsewhere. A concierge in a grand apartment building. A front-of-the-house executive in restaurant management training. An intern at a big city monthly. At least no one has written "The Devil Wears Red Hats" yet. I knew that Kaitlin Barthmeier had become the personal assistant to Michael Anthony, chef at Gramercy Tavern. Then a friend told me she was also Katie Rose Cakes. A graduate of the Culinary Institute of America's pastry program, she has always wanted to find a way into the world of cake.
Last week she came by to give me a tasting of her tiered wedding and party cakes - just as she would if I were auditioning her service.
Kaitlin brought three frosted layer cakes, each in its own box, cake plates, forks and a slicing knife, serving me one slice at a time. Her subtle almond cake with fig and almond filling was my favorite. Her fudge-frosted chocolate cake with apple and apple pie spices, adapted from a recipe of her fiance's grandmother, was the slice I couldn't stop eating. But even her white cake was moist and complex with its lemon filling and cream cheese frosting. All princess brides want a Sylvia Weinstock wedding cake but some brides are Cinderella, laid-off, still suffering the Madoff syndrome, or in search of reality. Kaitlin does flowers too.
Photographs of Aureole's burger, the Hurricane Club's tropical drinks, Bar Basques sexy red ora, Suvir Saran, and our server at Mehtaphor may not be used without permission from Steven Richter.
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