Craig's Legacy. Pampered at Primola. Food in Film. Wong Again. Raising a Gourmand. 

Dear Friends and Family,  

       The NY Times woke up one morning and realized it owed a big debt to Craig Claiborne. It was almost 50 years to the day that the fussy, unassuming ex-sailor singled out an obscure Chinese restaurant, Tien Tsin in Harlem, for its fine kitchen, and confirmed what we early foodies already knew, that Marchi's was unique among Italian spots for its fixed no-choice daily menu.

       The half-centennial of this quiet launch of Claiborne's "Directory of Dining" in the Times women's pages might have gone unsung had it not been for the imminent arrival of Thomas McNamee's "The Man Who Changed the Way We Eat" (Free Press $27), jarring Craig's heirs with its dark vision.

       In his obsessive search for the narrative and interior motivations of Claiborne, nearly forgotten, if not completely unknown to new generations of chefs and those-by-food-obsessed, McNamee found an often bitter and angry man. Craig's intimates who shared his triumphs and the fun he orchestrated had earlier been appalled at the bleak images in "Contentment's Elusive Recipe," Frank Bruni's op-ed piece based on the book. Did Bruni ever spend an hour with Claiborne?

       "It was one of the most offensive, presumptuous, disrespectful, and mean-spirited articles I read in a looooong time!" a friend emailed from retirement in Sante Fe. "Shame on the NYTimes."

       Pete Wells homage in the May 9 Times Dining along with Jacques Pépin's appreciation and Bryan Miller's memoir of not-much sought to make amends. They could have asked me.

       I didn't samba in Craig's kitchen, but we shared many weekday meals in the Hamptons (before our weekend obligations arrived). One Tuesday, he made fried chicken his way for me - no crumbly batter, half a cup of freshly ground pepper was the secret. It was diabolically hot and devilishly crisp. I can't remember how he fried it, maybe it was Crisco, possibly lard. He served fresh string beans too. Haloed in butter and not al dente.

       What a thrill to be in the rowdy band of chefs, cookbook writers, and friends, invited to Monte Carlo for Craig's 70th birthday weekend, put together by Alain Ducasse and iconic publicist, Yanou Collart. (They ended up suing each other when he sent her a bill for the dinner and she sent him a bill for her flackery.)

       For a man playful enough to hang a photograph in his powder room of Paul Bocuse French-kissing his ear, that delirious weekend must have been a joy. Impossible to feel insecure and angry with all the newspaper brass and Broadway idols cheering him on, the galaxy of Michelin stars joining the feast, and the bouillabaisse brunch on the beach the next day. Look at the joy on his face in the Times photo. He is tickled pink, maybe even pickled pink.  

       Okay, he did like to drink. He often made me join him for a stinger after dinner in Amagansett. A stinger is a seductive cocktail. Fortunately, or maybe not, I'd rather have a hot fudge sundae. Sex and disco dancing were my drugs.

       In the end he was lonely and abandoned. But read McNamee's book. If you were one of his pampered pets, it may make you angry but you might want to know more than you know. If you're recently born and came late to our town's obsession with eating, a little archaeology will inform you. "The Man Who Changed the Way We Eat" was not Ferran Adria. It was Craig Claiborne. Buy it now. And for more on Craig's time and my times with Craig, read my memoir, "Insatiable: Tales from a Life of Delicious Excess." Click here to buy it.  

***  

       I slipped into a postage-stamp-size two-top opposite a friend on a busy Saturday night at Wong. The place was still in red-alert mode since Pete Wells singled it out with two stars for his first review as the Times latest Big Fork. Mea culpa: I called Simpson Wong for the privilege of getting a spot. So much for surprise or anonymity.

       Thus it was that Blake Joyal, Wong's devoted and gifted right hand, was on our case. I ordered my favorite shrimp fritters, turnip cake and egg foo young (sic), wanting to dazzle my companion on his first touchdown here.

       Without much ado, waiters began to deliver surprises - the evening special, brother-in-law's twice cooked duck egg, simmered and fried and nesting in shredded Russian kale, with intoxicating perfumes of shrimp paste, key lime, lemon and garlic. On its noggin, a candlenut timbale. The soft aromatic cheese on the perfectly cooked asparagus was paneer - setting off a discreet riot of textures.

       There was a delicate tile fish too, baked in foil, with radish, onions and clams, their juice stirred into a heady cocktail of lime, soy and fish sauce.

       But the dish that haunts me at least once a day since is the soft-shell crab - glorious to behold with its blistered skin, the little salad of spring greens and flowers, and rivulets of brown butter with dashes of liquids from the chef's palette surrounding it. I have never eaten a soft shell crab that crisp, its skin like glass. A few obsessive variations in the usual tempura do it, Joyal says. I haven't been able to order soft shell crab since, not wanting to compromise the memory. Well, of course, it was much too much, but when you think how easily one might be killed crossing Cornelia Street, you don't want to miss anything. 7 Cornelia Street. 212 989 3399

Connect to me at twitter.com/GaelGreene.  

               Fork Play copyright Gael Greene 2012.