FORK PLAY July 26, 2011 Curb Your Chewing Gum. Penny-pinchers@BLT Steak. High@Miss Lily's. Soda Fountain Revival. Jean Georges Flirt. Erotica at Almond. Dear Friends and Family, 
New York City and State are crying broke but obviously Mayor Mike isn't. It must be an extraordinary high to be able to give like he does. Put your money where your mouth is, like the $50 million he just sent to the Sierra Club to fight coal-fired power plants. I can only imagine what he feels, given the glow I get when my Citymeals-on-Wheels fundraising letter brings in a million dollars to help feed the city's frail, needy shut-ins. Although that could be more an ego thrill than handing over $50 million.
I actually have an idea that could raise significant money for the city. We should start fining people who spit gum on the sidewalk. Did you know those black smudges that quickly start scarring brand new pavement are gum? If a law with teeth in it can get people to pick up a dog's turd with a plastic baggy, why not go after the spitters? Let them carry plastic baggies to stash their gum. Not my gum. My mom told me not to chew gum. Your gum.
First, we would have to collect the DNA of every New Yorker. Then we would hire the unemployed to collect DNA from the gum blobs, match them up, and send out summonses. We have your marker, Bud. Send $50 or appear in court. Unlike the guy on Facebook who rants that people who throw their gum on the street should be sterilized, I'd just go for the fine. And maybe citizen's arrest rights.
In England, outsider artist Ben Wilson lies on the sidewalk, painting colorful miniatures on discarded blobs of gum. I'm sure those little spots of color add joy to grey days in London. I'd rather New York just get the money.
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Fork Play is painted with corn colors today - rust for the new Ruby Jewel from California - Flo Fab wrote about it in the Times last week. I saw it this morning at [our advertiser] Fairway. Green for the husk, of course.  *** What does it mean when Susannah Mushatt Jones, the oldest woman in New York State, celebrating her 112th birthday at the Vandalia Senior Center in Brooklyn, wears a red hat exactly like mine? I guess it means I need a new hat. Or I'm an ageless fashionista...
*** Beating the Menu Rap @BLT Steak
No way could I resist the challenge of scoring a dinner for two at BLT Steak for under $100, tax included. I hadn't been there for a while though I remember marveling at Chef Laurent Tourondel's unique prologue before tucking into a juicy prime rib. But our friends had developed a pinchpenny tech nique and I wanted to try it. It seemed easy enough wallowing in the house's bountiful giveaways -- chicken liver mousse with toast, mythic popovers bigger than a toddler's head, a wooden board of salumi if the waiter likes you or remembers you from last time. We followed our pals' lead - sharing a Caesar and the hanger steak, a glass of red wine each, and worried that we might provoke waiter abuse or be told never to return by an overheated manager. To read more about our caper and what we ate for dessert, click here. 106 East 57th Street.
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Peeping Toms 'R' Us @Miss Lily's
Miss Lily's, a narrow island-esque diner on Houston Street, fairly sizzles with a runway of late-night chiclettes and long-haired bikers in 80's thrift shop primp. I can't swear that I am simply pleased by the robust goat curry and savory oxtails or if I'm mesmerized by immersi on in a rainbow of diversity to rival Red Rooster uptown. By the slim unreal fawn with heart shaped derrière in a striped evening gown, the mahogany show stopper in a bare red mini and young Diana Ross in black silk cutouts. Wouldn't they make a great fashion spread? And that's just the staff.
I'm stopped mid-chomp on marvelous jerk-grilled corn, gawking at the foxy scene. I can't promise the cod fritters, the curry goat and the savory oxtails are really as good as I remember because I may have been so amused by the wow and the lilt of reggae that had me bopping in my seat. Want to know more? Click here. 132 West Houston between MacDougal and Sullivan.
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Is he a chef? Is he a jerk?
We got to check out the vintage ointments among the jarred kimchee and b arbecue sauce on the shelves at Brooklyn Farmacy & Soda Fountain and watch an awesome looking take-out sundae walk by. It was only a five minute wait for two tiny marble tables our foursome could sit around. We sat front row center in the middle of an early 20th Century fantasy, a Norman Rockwell scene: everyone in soda fountain caps, young servers in suspenders and chocolate-spattered aprons, old timey font spelling out "Fresh, Friendly, Local" on the mirror, Johnny Cash "walking all alone." Perfect.
I attempted to explain to our very young Hong Kong-born friends about Norman Rockwell, Saturda y Evening Post covers, soda fountains at Woolworth's. All now defunct.
I tried to persuade them not to order an egg cream - a New York Eucharist. I think you have to be born here to appreciate it. No egg, no cream, I warned them. I used to make them for my husband: an inch of really cold milk, Fox's UBet Chocolate Syrup, a spritz of seltzer. Stir up a little foam. He looked at me as if I were a Goddess. Well, you know. Love.
I was right. Our pals were disappointed. "Of course," I said, "you were expecting something like an ice cream soda or even a milk shake." I took a sip. It was not a very good egg cream.
Maybe we got there too late. Maybe the adorable, seemingly peppy crew was running out of fizz after a demanding Saturday night. Still, they pirouetted and did a soda fountain versio n of the Bunny Dip and amused us no end. "I'm German," one said, "And I urge you to just go for it." Alas, the Sundae of Broken Dreams needed a fix, not enough caramel sauce to cushion the pretzel sticks. Even the locavore's happily-sourced Adirondack ice cream seemed anemic. I started remembering over-the-top sundaes at Serendipity. I'm not sure what they did to the sour cherry pie - I was thrilled out of my mind to find sour cherries - but somehow, in the baking or the warming, the fruit itself was compromised. Only the house-made lime soda was brilliant.
We were still there when Farmacy founder Peter Freeman, a grownup surrounded by his young c rew, came out from behind the counter, slipped off his hat and breathed a sigh. Our friends wanted to know why he had the word "JERK" on his shirt. He explained it was the honorific jerk of soda fountain lore, not the insult.
"Looks like a big night," we said.
"It's not about the money," he said. "You'd have to have a lot of these places to make money. It's about reviving the tradition, drawing in the neighborhood." Go for nostalgia's sake. 513 Henry Street at Sackett, Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn. Serendipity, as you probably know, is at 225 East 60th Street.
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Delirium at Jean Georges
I've already been faithful to Jean Georges more years than I was to my darling husband. It's my neighborhood hang. Lunch at Jean Georges , even now at the elevated $32.50 for two courses, is still a bargain and never less than  mildly orgasmic. Joining my friend Karl on July 16 brought a Grucci fireworks of taste explosions starting with the amuse: compressed watermelon with Thai spices and a Roquefort bubble, capped by a cucumber cooler that had its own torrid gel. "What did we just eat?" I asked when my brain came down from the clouds a few seconds later.
Scallops on crunchy risotto crostini with a dribble of fiery mayonnaise set off shudders of pleasure. Karl had insisted I meet him to taste what he judged to be the greatest foie gras dish in his long, passionate, high end, fine dining career. He would order the salmon with heirloom tomatoes as his second dish and I must have the caramelized foie gras with olive dust and lychee. Click here and scroll down to find out how many ohmygod dishes we shared along the way and what I thought of the exotically embellished foie gras. 1 Central Park West.
***
Sophia Loren can say, "All you see I owe to spaghetti." I'm not sure what I could say.
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Erotica at Almond
I'm anxious as I always am before an appearance, wondering how the Hamptons crowd will respond to my reading aloud from Delicious Sex and Blue Skies, No Candy at the dinner cum erotica Almond Restaurant plans Sunday, August 7, in Bridgehampton. The crowd seemed delighted, even amused when I r ead from my memoir Insatiable at the old Almond on the highway in 2006. Shall I demonstrate how to eat a fig? Dare I suggest conversation to heat up Fork Play at the table when you're with a longtime mate? How about scenarios for fantasies to act out in bed? Will I be able to find a passage in Blue Skies, No Candy without a scary four or five letter word?
I'm scheduled to read between courses of Chef Jason Weiner's French cooking - I've always rated it highly in my reviews - so there's no chance to stomp out unless you're willing to miss dessert. Dinner with wine pairings costs $65, including tax and tip and a download of either Delicious Sex, My Gourmet Guide to Pleasure, or my NY Times national best selling novel Blue Skies, No Candy. For reservations, please call 631 537 5665.
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Oops. Deleted.
"Your insight is requested for a Gastronomic Restaurant Study," was the subject line of a hopeful come-on from Carling Communications. "Dear Greene Gael," it began. "You have been personally chosen by a distinct and exclusive list of elite cuisine experts to participate in market research that will be instrumental in the launch of a gastronomic restaurant. You have been selected due to your distinct taste and gourmet expertise. Your valuable input would be much appreciated.
Please follow this link if you would like to participate in a brief online survey. Your feedback will contribute to the design of a restaurant that will be located in a major metropolitan area."
Here's my reply:
Dear friends at Carling,
My initial charge for an afternoon restaurant consultation would be $5000. And my name is Gael Greene not Greene Gael.
Let me know if you are interested in further discussion.
Yours Sincerely
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Photographs of Gael at the South Beach Loew's, Giveaways at BLT Steak, Miss Lily's pepper shrimp, the Peppy crew at Brooklyn Farmacy & Soda Fountain, and Serendipity's outrageous triple chocolate sundae may not be used without permission from Steven Richter.
Fork Play copyright Gael Greene 2011. |
