Salt Warning. Who's on First. Clyde Scores. No Madding. UNESCO Tribute. Café China. Trucking for Citymeals.   

Dear Friends and Family,  

       I wish I could make a dent in the stubborn addiction to salt I detect in most chefs. I remember complaining once to Ryan Skeen, in his brief stint at Five & Diamond, that the prawns were too salty to eat. He was standing at the pass to the tiny kitchen. "But we love salt," he said, picking up a fistful and throwing it into a pot.

       Donatella's pasta cook has the salt gene too. We brought our neighbors who'd never been to her pizzeria on Eighth Avenue last Friday because it's on our list of favorites. We asked for the pizza extra crisp - it was so good we ordered a second. Everyone was pleased with the chopped vegetable salad (even though its raw white carrots were too woody to chew). We shared a small black cocotte of first-rate eggplant parmigiana Donatella sent as an extra. But the gnocchi with pesto was unbearably salty. I complained and the waiter cheerfully took it away. "Can you redo it with no added salt?" I asked. How naïve of me. What could the chef do? Mix a fresh batch of pesto sauce? I don't think so. The dish he quickly brought back was still salty.

       I asked not to have any added salt at our treasured once-a-week hangout. My order of zuppa mia did not taste of salt abuse, but that night's special, a fabulous chunky bean soup, did. I hate to think that was why it was so marvelous. The mixed salad of the day was a salt lick. Cesare, calling the line that night, took it back. A second version was fine. At a business lunch a few days later, a few of the dishes were much saltier than need be. "What would happen if you just cut down the salt in each dish 10 percent?" I once asked him. He smiled that sweet daffy smile of his. That, "you ditzy dame" smile.

       Since we eat out six nights a week, I am a captive victim.

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       Fork Play's green banner today could represent asparagus (local stalks have yet to arrive). Instead, our colors aim for the Mexican flag in honor of Cinco de Mayo. Yes, the red could be bolder but my PA likes the way this red echoes my hat in our logo.  

      

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You Ate It Here First 

   

       You would have learned about the spiritual uprising at Empellón Cocina (105 First Avenue) by reading my BITE on March 5, weeks before Pete Wells got around to celebrating it in last Wednesday's Times. Now, I suspect, it could be months before you can get a table after 6 p.m. I wrote about RedFarm (529 Hudson Street) August 29, five months before the Times' rave - too early some bloggers snarled, but it was already thrilling the day it opened, after a month's warm-up with friends and family. If you'd read my BITE then, you could have rushed down before the lines became forbidding, long before Wells chimed in on March 7.

 

       Crowned the new critic after Sam Sifton got booted to a top role upstairs, Wells chose Wong for his first review January 3. A pointed decision. He scattered two stars from on high with intimations of bliss - and the tight little shop (7 Cornelia Street) couldn't handle the storm. I told my readers about Wong September 19, and again November 17, when I confirmed that the place was as good as my first early impression. You could have had your choice of tables for a while, at least on a weekday. My pleasure in an evening at Café China also could have been yours days before Wells' two star bow yesterday (Times Dining May 1).  

 

       Of course, the food world waits on edge to see what the Times will do. I open the Wednesday dining section eagerly myself (intrigued, if not mystified by some of the faraway little places Wells favors.) I'm just reminding loyal followers of BITE on InsatiableCritic how privileged you are to get early global warnings. And for those who've not stopped by recently, there's your reward - in the know before anyone else. Check out my Vintage articles too when you've got a few minutes to reminisce.  

  

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 Clyde Scores    

       There, impossible to miss as you drive up improbable Tenth Avenue, is Walt Frazier times 25 in a staccato of bigger-than-life photo panels, stretching from 37th to 38th Street. The name on the door - Clyde Frazier's Wine and Dine - tickles me too. Wine and dine, not beer and burp. The design, by Pritzker award-winning architect Thom Mayne from Morphosis (a Knicks fan, it turns out, even taller than Frazier), is a hoot too. Wall to wall, floor to ceiling Walt, with cutouts of his custom made suits hanging from the ceiling and 56 flat screens above the bar and the kitchen. According to Ark Restaurant boss Michael Weinstein, partner with the Knicks legend here, Walt stops by every night he's in town after the game. The dandy likes big plaids, cheetah spots and fish, simply done.

 

       It's not easy to narrow our order. Starting with snacks, we want them all. Chanterelle owner-chef David Waltuck, Ark's new executive toque, has created a hit parade menu of everything Americans like, with Asian nuance and his own Chinese picks. Red stars signify Clyde's favorites. Click here to find out mine so you'll know what to order. 485 Tenth Avenue.

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       No one would argue with UNESCO's listing the Gastronomic Meal of the French as "Intangible Cultural Heritage." I smiled, trying to imagine what would be America's. Protest Marches, The Mosh Pit, Texting Under the Table?

       To celebrate the honor, New York Consul General of France Philippe Lalliot joined with Omar Kahn, a well-heeled and irrepressible gourmand and Senior Partner at Sensei International, to put on a dinner.

      Are you imagining a roster of France's top chefs, the usual media bigs, plus perhaps local champions of French spirits? Too obvious. Although turning to Le Bernardin's Eric Ripert, our treasured French import, might seem obvious too. Ripert brought in David Bouley, an American who never minded being mistaken for French. Bouley served an "Oeuf Organique de Connecticut" in a comte cheese nuage crisped with Mimolette. Ripert's "Homard du Maine" was perfection poached bouillabaisse-style. Christian Delouvrier, the often overlooked ambassador of French deliciousness, did squab with exquisite petits pois de Printemps. David Waltuck, who knows everything about sublime sweetbreads, was perhaps the most whimsical choice (his and Karen Waltuck's pioneering Chanterelle so sadly defunct). It was he who insisted they serve cheese as well. Adrian Marcia made a dazzling selection and the Succès Noisette and macarons were by François Payard.

       Surprisingly, the 42 seats were not dominated by the usual suspects. I spied a few media icons, some wine gurus (for treasures like Le Blanc de Blanc of Le Mesnil, Corton Chrlemagne, Chateau Margaux, and a lofty Hermitage from M. Jaboulet), Ariane Daguin, and Allan Chapin, whose Café Le Perche in Hudson provided remarkable breads. The shock was seeing a dozen students from Universities and professional culinary programs scattered among us, dazzled if not shocked themselves. "After all, they will carry on this heritage," the Consul General noted.

Connect to me at twitter.com/GaelGreene.  

               Fork Play copyright Gael Greene 2012.