After the curtain fell on Madam Rose, we went to Junior’s for dessert; my sister had an Irish coffee and cheesecake while I paired Wild Turkey with red velvet cake. I guess I was feeling Southern. In any case, it was as good as the one I made for my dad’s birthday and I ate every bite.
We drew out the evening some by walking through the Theater District and Times Square, mocking the people in “I [heart] New York” t-shirts who talked loudly about their plans to be sure everyone nearby knew they were on vacation. Sadly, this seems to be an American affliction.
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Thursday morning I felt like cooking. Well, I had some leftover corned beef and pastrami from the Second Ave. Deli and when they packed it to-go, they included slices of rye bread so we could make new sandwiches of it (name me one other restaurant that does that).
I went to a grocery a few blocks away and bought potatoes, eggs, and butter, made a hash with the leftover meat, and scrambled some eggs and toasted the rye bread to go with. It was a nice breakfast and one that was filling enough to hold us for a while.
After washing up, we headed downtown to Chelsea. We walked around a bit before heading to the Chelsea Market. There we visited Buon Italia for pasta and a chunk of Callebaut chocolate, Bowery Kitchen Supply for a few olive wood cooking utensils, and T Salon for some very swank tea.
T Salon is pretty up-market, with no teas that aren’t loose, and a large booklet with all the available teas listed by type (but without a price list). Some of the more popular teas were already packaged and on display shelves, so I turned a few over to get an idea of price—nothing less than eighteen dollars for eight ounces. We told ourselves that eight ounces of tea does go a long way and started making our selections.
We chose an Earl Grey with lavender flowers, an Earl Grey that had a slightly toasted, caramel scent to it, a first-flush Darjeeling and a Ceylon with rose petals for my mother, and a Chinese Yunnan. Only one of those teas was in the same price range as those I’d peeked at—thank God for Visa. (I put the tea in the hotel safe with the Yankees tickets.)
After what is arguably the best chocolate and lemon gelati I have ever eaten, we moved further downtown to Soho. I skipped Yellow Rat Bastard since I was still feeling the sting from the tea and felt I should not shop for myself. Instead we went to Purl Soho, and bought Mom three skeins of a merino wool and silk blend yarn, so she can make herself a scarf.
Despite the gelato, I was hungry, so we headed to Katz’s Deli. My sister wanted to try their knishes, and I knew I would have to finish them, so I limited myself to a hotdog and some coleslaw. And half-sour pickles, of course.
The woman in Junior’s was right—Katz’s doesn’t do knishes especially well. In fairness, the plain potato was decent enough if not as crisp as it could have been, but the sweet potato knish was a disaster. The filling was a heavy wad of sweet potato with nothing (such as eggs or milk) to lighten it, and the crust was thick and not even remotely crisp—it was a doughy glob. The hotdogs, coleslaw and pickles were mighty fine so it was still a good lunch.
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That evening we had a reservation at Becco, one of Lidia Bastianich’s restaurants. I have a few of her cookbooks and have learned a great deal about the art of Italian food from her, so I was looking forward to a dinner cooked under her supervision, as was my sister who told me this was the one place she would not leave New York without dining at.
Becco was conceived (with the assistance of Lidia’s son Joe) as a lower-price alternative to her East-side eatery Felidia. He thought people who watched her TV series and bought her books, but could not afford to eat at Felidia, should have another option.
The menu was scaled-down a bit, more affordable wines were offered, and a fixe prix menu was added. It is not in the cheap eats category, but a hundred dollars (plus tip) bought us an excellent dinner, with stellar service.
As soon as we were seated, they asked if we had theater tickets so they could make sure we were out in time for the curtain. When I said no, they asked if we’d like it to be a leisurely dinner and I indicated I would. Four waiters worked our table, making sure water glasses were filled, crumbs were wiped away, and that the correct silverware was there for the next course.
They started us with a plate of coarse bread, a puree of white beans, and rosemary breadsticks that tasted exactly like mine should have (I think I must be out of practice). We ordered drinks—a Becco Sidecar for her (made with Grappa and Limoncello rather than brandy and lime juice) and a Mitro-hattan for me; mine tasted remarkably like a Sazerac.
She had the prix fixe which includes either antipasti or Caesar salad to begin (she went with the salad) and three pastas for the main course. I chose grilled calamari salad and rather than an entrée, a selection of all their vegetables side dishes. Both salads were good, but my calamari was particularly so; the squid was grilled and tossed with arugula and lemon and olive oil—it tasted so fresh it was practically alive.
My sister’s plate arrived with tiny portions of three daily pastas to taste, and the waiters passed through the room, replenishing her plate as she liked. There was spaghetti in a simple tomato sauce, rigatoni with broccoli and fresh pepperoncini, and the third was not pasta at all, but creamy polenta topped with a meat ragu. It was, I reluctantly say, better than any ragu I have ever made.
My main course included a platter with four dishes: Braised broccoli di rape, various mushrooms quickly sautéed, slices of carrot and parsnip cooked in butter, and fava beans and peas cooked with fresh mint until very tender; in case that wasn’t enough, there was a side-plate of garlic mashed potatoes. I was in vegetable heaven.
I paced myself as best I could as I was determined to eat dessert, but between all my vegetables and the bites of that glorious polenta and ragu I kept stealing, I wasn’t sure I could do it. But I did. I chose a chocolate zabaglione mousse that was paired with an Italian sparkling wine, and my sister ordered a selection of gelati and a cappuccino.
The mousse was just firm enough to be sliced—cake-style, but when it entered my mouth it just melted away and left behind the taste of dark chocolate and Marsala. The sparkling wine was slightly sweet and seemed an odd choice, but after a second sip, it made sense to me, and I lingered over my mousse enjoying the contrast between bittersweet and sweet.
It was lush ending to a lush dinner, and while I really didn’t have a single bad meal in New York, this one was dazzling. I should have stolen a menu.
