The restaurant where Fae and Jim held their birthday/anniversary party was the Gramercy Tavern on East 20th, just off Fifth Avenue, and a couple of blocks from famous Gramercy Park, one of only two remaining private parks in New York City. In very London-like fashion the black-iron-fenced park sits in the middle of a residential square, with only the tenants of the buildings all around it able to purchase keys to the gates. Larry, Mary Beth and I arrived downtown a bit early for showing up at the party (and Fae had been firm: don't come early), so Larry had our cab stop at the park, and we walked two-thirds around it, admiring the handsome, elegant old buildings lining the four sides of the square. We were most taken with a rather hideous Victorian Gothic structure of dark red stone that, according to an information sign we discovered at the park, is one of the oldest apartment buildings in New York.
The place I would most like to visit is The Players Club, located at Number 16, in a building dating from 1844. (The 1840s is when the square was first developed. Townspeople were skeptical, but the developer knew people would soon be moving "this far north." Twentieth and 21st Streets! Yes, indeed, they kept moving all the way to 198th Street...) Anyway, Number 16 is where the actor Edwin Booth lived (a statue of him stands in the middle of the park). After his brother, the infamous John Wilkes, assassinated Abraham Lincoln, Booth's family, and actors in general (for John Wilkes had also been an actor) were held in very low esteem. In an effort to mitigate this negative attitude, Booth decided to form a social club in which members of the theatrical world would mix and mingle with successful businessmen and others. He had his home on Gramercy Park redone, so that it could be used as the "clubhouse," just reserving the upper floor for his personal use. Supposedly it is full of all kinds of theatrical memorabilia, and being a lover of the theatre as I am, I'd love to take a gander.
Some of the famous members of The Players have included Mark Twain (an example of how you don't have to be an actor... a "player"...to be a member), John Barrymore, playwright Eugene O'Neill, James Cagney, Gregory Peck, Jose Ferrer, Lynn Redgrave, Timothy Hutton (those last three were all president at one time), Walter Cronkite, Kevin Spacey, Judy Collins, Angela Lansbury, Sidney Poitier, Tony Bennett, Carol Burnett, Dick Cavett, Hal Holbrook, Robert Vaughn, Christopher Plummer, Ethan Hawke (one of the younger-generation members), Peter O'Toole and ex-James Bond Roger Moore (you'll notice a number of Englishmen in there, so obviously you don't have to be an American, either.)
A walk of a couple of blocks west on 20th brought us to the Gramercy Tavern. Online reviews of the place refer to it as "rustic but elegant," which seems something of an oxymoron to me, but it is quietly elegant, and I suppose all the pieces of old wood furniture scattered here and there could be called rustic. The walls are painted sand which makes a nice contrast with the brown-stained wood beams across the ceiling in the main dining room, the long, heavy brown drapes in the doorways between the several dining rooms. The color scheme also contributes to a sort of country feel. But the place is certainly not my idea of a tavern.
As to the food, of course it was good -- my sea bass in marinated cucumbers and yogurt sauce was gently cooked to perfection -- but in my nitpicking restaurant critic mode I have to mention that the drink the waiter brought me was not the Wild Turkey over ice I asked for but Wild Turkey with water over ice (this mistake astounded me). And the salad -- an attractive heap of arugula and turnip greens with sweet garlic-saffron dressing -- was a little bitter. The "sweet" dressing was not enough to offset the bitterness of the greens. This also surprised me, like an experiment that was not quite successful. And finally, I took issue with the fact that coffee was not served until most people had finished their dessert. Perhaps this is commonly done, but to me it makes more sense to provide coffee and tea with the food, rather than after. The warm chocolate bread pudding, by the way, was wonderful!
One thing that impressed the hell out of me was how many people they had serving. It made me think of those royal dinners, with a server between every two chairs. But ours were a little more informally dressed, no white gloves. All in all it was lovely party, beautifully done. The sort of thing one needs to go to every couple of years or so, to keep ones hand in.
Showing posts with label New York City. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New York City. Show all posts
Friday, August 14, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Poli kala
One of the supreme pleasures of life for me is experiencing a new, good restaurant with friends, a pleasure I have enjoyed all too rarely here in Maine. I got to do it twice on my trip to New York. The evening of my arrival my friends and I, with two other friends of theirs whom I was meeting for the first time, had dinner at Periyali, a popular and acclaimed Greek restaurant on W. 20th, in what is called the Flatiron district (after one of the many architectural gems of New York City, the Flatiron Building).
The restaurant is housed in a not unusual NYC location, the basement of its building. You walk down a few steps from the sidewalk to get to the entrance, and they have a table in the tiny paved "yard." They asked us if we wanted to eat outside, but Fae and I agreed it was a bit muggy for dining al fresco. Instead, we were led down the length of the casually elegant, low-ceilinged, white-painted main room to what I thought of as the sun room. It seemed to have been built on, as one might add a sun or garden room, and had a skylight through which, I announced to the people at the table about halfway through our meal, one would expect a body to come plummeting from the building above, in a good thriller movie.
The food and drink were excellent. We were fussing about what wine to order, the wine menu having been passed to Fae's husband Jim, the resident wine expert, but I said we were in a Greek restaurant so really should have a Greek wine (reminiscent of my determination to have a German beer at Richard's German restaurant...after all, when in Rome...), and Jim professed he knew nothing about Greek wine. The waiter encouraged us to have a Santorini wine, but having been to a wine tasting at one of Santorini's wineries years ago, and having dumped all but one of the samples into the bushes, I was skeptical. However, the waiter assured us we need only try the one he was recommending -- if we didn't like it, it would go out to the kitchen (and, as Jim said, become the by-the-glass wine for the evening). So we all tried a sip, and all liked it. My present frustration has to do with not being able to specify exactly which Santorini wine it was. All I know is that it was pleasantly dry, with decent body, and "Santorini" could be clearly seen, written in an arch around the top of the label.
I had the lamb chops (I was disappointed that the waiter, who looked Greek, didn't understand me when I tried brushing off my pronun-ciation on the Greek name of the dish, paidakia thedrolivano) which were delicious, though I could have stood another chop. We were all eating off the Restaurant Week menu -- prix fixe of $35 for an appetizer, entree and dessert -- which may have resulted in slightly smaller portions. Perhaps when you order from the regular menu ($31, just for the entree) you get three.
Others had the swordfish, the charcoal-grilled shishkabob of filet mignon, the salmon in a flaky crust with spinach, and the lamb shank, all pronounced excellent. My appetizer was a small slice of spanikopita (spinach pie) with salad greens. It was better than any of the spanikopita I had in Greece -- and I had it frequently, since it was a favorite "fast food" item. This wasn't the least bit heavy, or greasy; really perfection.
As was the evening, even with the typically mad cab ride uptown to the apartment where I was spending the night.
The restaurant is housed in a not unusual NYC location, the basement of its building. You walk down a few steps from the sidewalk to get to the entrance, and they have a table in the tiny paved "yard." They asked us if we wanted to eat outside, but Fae and I agreed it was a bit muggy for dining al fresco. Instead, we were led down the length of the casually elegant, low-ceilinged, white-painted main room to what I thought of as the sun room. It seemed to have been built on, as one might add a sun or garden room, and had a skylight through which, I announced to the people at the table about halfway through our meal, one would expect a body to come plummeting from the building above, in a good thriller movie.
The food and drink were excellent. We were fussing about what wine to order, the wine menu having been passed to Fae's husband Jim, the resident wine expert, but I said we were in a Greek restaurant so really should have a Greek wine (reminiscent of my determination to have a German beer at Richard's German restaurant...after all, when in Rome...), and Jim professed he knew nothing about Greek wine. The waiter encouraged us to have a Santorini wine, but having been to a wine tasting at one of Santorini's wineries years ago, and having dumped all but one of the samples into the bushes, I was skeptical. However, the waiter assured us we need only try the one he was recommending -- if we didn't like it, it would go out to the kitchen (and, as Jim said, become the by-the-glass wine for the evening). So we all tried a sip, and all liked it. My present frustration has to do with not being able to specify exactly which Santorini wine it was. All I know is that it was pleasantly dry, with decent body, and "Santorini" could be clearly seen, written in an arch around the top of the label.
I had the lamb chops (I was disappointed that the waiter, who looked Greek, didn't understand me when I tried brushing off my pronun-ciation on the Greek name of the dish, paidakia thedrolivano) which were delicious, though I could have stood another chop. We were all eating off the Restaurant Week menu -- prix fixe of $35 for an appetizer, entree and dessert -- which may have resulted in slightly smaller portions. Perhaps when you order from the regular menu ($31, just for the entree) you get three.
Others had the swordfish, the charcoal-grilled shishkabob of filet mignon, the salmon in a flaky crust with spinach, and the lamb shank, all pronounced excellent. My appetizer was a small slice of spanikopita (spinach pie) with salad greens. It was better than any of the spanikopita I had in Greece -- and I had it frequently, since it was a favorite "fast food" item. This wasn't the least bit heavy, or greasy; really perfection.
As was the evening, even with the typically mad cab ride uptown to the apartment where I was spending the night.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
New York, New York, It's a Wonderful Town
This past weekend I made a whirlwind trip to New York City, to attend the combination birthday/ anniversary party of a couple of old friends. I know Fae and Jim from when I lived in Boston, but they now live in California. Fae is from New York (ah, those mobile Americans), and goes back to visit nearly every year. This year they decided to throw this big party while there, and invited me. This girl does not turn down the chance to go to a party...or to visit the City.
I hadn't been in New York in many years, and found it as exciting and stimulating as ever. One thing that struck me was how many jillions of cabs there are on the streets, surely more than when I lived there (admittedly, a long time ago). It is absolutely great to be able to walk out to the curb, hold up your arm, and in less than a minute have a cab pull up.
However, riding in those cabs can be a truly hair-raising experience. These guys drive like maniacs on the lam from the asylum. Why there isn't an accident every three minutes is beyond me, the way they flit from lane to lane, squeaking in front of each other with maybe a quarter inch to spare. Lots of horn honking. And think of driving like that for hours on end, six days a week! I think the bravest people in New York are all the people riding around on bicycles -- in that mad traffic -- and the second bravest are the cabbies, who contribute heavily to the madness.
I love the variety to be found amongst these madmen of the streets. In a total of five cab rides (I felt like I was in a Woody Allen movie, always taking a taxi, whereas when I lived there I, like most people, went everywhere by subway), my drivers included a man from Pakistan, who had been driving a NYC cab for ten years and assured me the police were too hard on taxi drivers, a man I guessed to be Korean who was very ready to call it quits for the day ("I drop you off, I head for the [Queensborough] bridge."), a Caribbean islander with that distinctive accent, a black man of indeterminate background, and a skinny white kid in Goth dress with spiked hair.
I was surprised to learn that for the past few years there have been bicycle taxis, official name, pedicabs. My god, shades of southeast Asia. Guy peddling away, a passenger lolling in the little carriage in back. The woman who was telling me about them said she'd seen one in which the passengers were a grossly fat man and his wife, and I couldn't help thinking the fellow was either a sadist or incredibly thoughtless. On the other hand, another woman who was listening said, it was probably the sort of fare a sensible pedicab driver would pass on. I myself can't imagine asking another human to peddle me around.
I saw one of these throwbacks to another time and place, unencumbered by any sort of passenger, on my drive uptown to the apartment of Fae's brother, who was kindly providing me with lodging for the weekend. This was on 8th Avenue, on the edge of the theatre district. The pedicabs are most prevalent, I was informed, up around Central Park -- like the traditional horse-drawn cabs -- which was the very area we were approaching. When I had boarded my own cab, down in the West Village where Fae & Jim were staying in a tiny, borrowed apartment, and told the fellow where I wanted to go on the Upper East Side he'd asked me, "Which way you want to go?"
"The fastest way," I'd said, and he'd laughed, and whisked me up 8th Avenue, then across the middle of Central Park along the green, green, stone-walled Transverse Street. thus transporting me effortlessly from the West Side to the East (the street was thick with taxis utilizing this traffic-light-free shortcut).
Tomorrow I'll tell you about the restaurants.
I hadn't been in New York in many years, and found it as exciting and stimulating as ever. One thing that struck me was how many jillions of cabs there are on the streets, surely more than when I lived there (admittedly, a long time ago). It is absolutely great to be able to walk out to the curb, hold up your arm, and in less than a minute have a cab pull up.
However, riding in those cabs can be a truly hair-raising experience. These guys drive like maniacs on the lam from the asylum. Why there isn't an accident every three minutes is beyond me, the way they flit from lane to lane, squeaking in front of each other with maybe a quarter inch to spare. Lots of horn honking. And think of driving like that for hours on end, six days a week! I think the bravest people in New York are all the people riding around on bicycles -- in that mad traffic -- and the second bravest are the cabbies, who contribute heavily to the madness.
I love the variety to be found amongst these madmen of the streets. In a total of five cab rides (I felt like I was in a Woody Allen movie, always taking a taxi, whereas when I lived there I, like most people, went everywhere by subway), my drivers included a man from Pakistan, who had been driving a NYC cab for ten years and assured me the police were too hard on taxi drivers, a man I guessed to be Korean who was very ready to call it quits for the day ("I drop you off, I head for the [Queensborough] bridge."), a Caribbean islander with that distinctive accent, a black man of indeterminate background, and a skinny white kid in Goth dress with spiked hair.
I was surprised to learn that for the past few years there have been bicycle taxis, official name, pedicabs. My god, shades of southeast Asia. Guy peddling away, a passenger lolling in the little carriage in back. The woman who was telling me about them said she'd seen one in which the passengers were a grossly fat man and his wife, and I couldn't help thinking the fellow was either a sadist or incredibly thoughtless. On the other hand, another woman who was listening said, it was probably the sort of fare a sensible pedicab driver would pass on. I myself can't imagine asking another human to peddle me around.
I saw one of these throwbacks to another time and place, unencumbered by any sort of passenger, on my drive uptown to the apartment of Fae's brother, who was kindly providing me with lodging for the weekend. This was on 8th Avenue, on the edge of the theatre district. The pedicabs are most prevalent, I was informed, up around Central Park -- like the traditional horse-drawn cabs -- which was the very area we were approaching. When I had boarded my own cab, down in the West Village where Fae & Jim were staying in a tiny, borrowed apartment, and told the fellow where I wanted to go on the Upper East Side he'd asked me, "Which way you want to go?"
"The fastest way," I'd said, and he'd laughed, and whisked me up 8th Avenue, then across the middle of Central Park along the green, green, stone-walled Transverse Street. thus transporting me effortlessly from the West Side to the East (the street was thick with taxis utilizing this traffic-light-free shortcut).
Tomorrow I'll tell you about the restaurants.
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