At last Le Bernardin dinner before makeover: memories of Maguy and Gilbert.

       Ever feel inexplicably left behind? That was me this Labor Day weekend. All our rich and connected pals were sailboat hopping in Maine, gazing at the Mediterranean from a grand villa in Venice or dancing the usual inane Hampton tango. I want to say that the Road Food Warrior and I were deliriously happy luxuriating in the delicious serenity of Manhattan summer weekends. I want to say it, but, in fact, we often felt lonely, abandoned and really stupid for not buying that shack on the beach in Amagansett when it was on the market for just $300,000 in 1993.

        True, we could streak downtown on deserted streets and score weekend tables at hot spots that normally would sneer at us. And…was I imagining it? The silence at 5 o’clock Saturday night on West 73rd Street enveloped me, as tranquil and mysterious as a back street in Vence.  I guess it was good to practice making a “go-bag” and only spending $98.00 on survival rations at Fairway in case the power failed, then to escape Hurricane Irene’s selective whack.

Brooklyn Farmacia’s perky crew look like a Saturday Evening Post cover. Photo: Steven Richter

       With similarly real estate-less friends we drove to Char No 4 in Brooklyn (196 Smith Street).  We were not impressed with fried rice balls, thick-cut bacon or the chopped pork sandwich with mustard barbecue sauce - not being boozehounds like the usually reliable gourmand who recommended it to us. The bar has a Smithsonian-worthy collection of 150 American whiskeys and a passion for bourbon.

        In desperate need of a sensuous sweet as our nightcap, we set the GPS for 513 Henry Street and were instantly charmed by Brooklyn Farmacia’s & Soda Fountain's loving recreation of a vintage icon – with its peppy young crew straight off a Saturday Evening Post cover.  The house-made lime soda was maybe the best pop I ever sipped, but I couldn’t persuade our Hong Kong-born companions not to order an egg cream. I think this New York invention is something you have to be born to. Of course they were disappointed, expecting a milk shake or an ice cream soda.  I took a sip. It wasn’t even a very good egg cream.

A mosaic of summer tomatoes elevates mere salmon to an ecstatic high at Jean-Georges.

       As I have written, I’ve already been faithful to Jean-Georges more years than I was to my darling ex-husband. And at his namesake place in my neighborhood I always experience at least one sensory revelation at lunch, still the biggest bargain in town.  But on a particularly steamy July day, the kitchen provided a dizzying roller coaster ride into sensory bliss. Compressed watermelon with Thai spices and a Roquefort bubble.  Velvety raw scallop slices on crunchy risotto crostini. An intense citrus rush of lemon foam, turbulent below the sea trout sashimi. Barely gelled Scottish farm salmon, a tangle of smart flavors, sweetness and tang from crushed tomatoes, tiny cherry tomatoes peeled and whole, tomato water slurred with olive oil, shards of toasted croutons piled on top. When my lunch companion piled me into a taxi, the exhaustion I felt was not unlike the ecstatic fatigue after a stolen afternoon in a hotel with someone else’s mate. (Dare I suggest you download the new ebook of my 1976 novel Blue Skies, No Candy to understand exactly what I mean?)

Eric Ripert and Maguy Le Coze conspire to keep Le Bernardin’s eminence  . Photo: Steven Richter

       The final dinner at Le Bernardin (151 West 51st Street) before it closed for a makeover during the August vacation provoked similar gasps. What happens to escolar, an esculent white tuna, in chef-owner Eric Ripert’s whimsy, never ceases to thrill me. A summer Saturday and yet the tables kept turning till after 10 pm. The staff was beside themselves, almost too attentive, but that’s why the house that Maguy and Gilbert Le Coze built, and Ripert has honored and energized, remains the city’s best restaurant. 

Fusilli with red-wine braised octopus. Actually Marea’s pasta portions have grown.  Photo: Steven Richter

       You’d never believe the rich rabble had left town en masse for the summer weekend from the looks of the gathering at three star Marea (240 Central Park South) one July Friday evening. I had to enlist a lunch habitué to get us a table in the “fully committed” house.  Everything about that evening made me feel I was in a three star restaurant racing for four – except the distraction of being at a table flanked by waiter supply stations.  From proper lighting and outsize sprays of orchids, to lardo-wrapped sea urchin (I peeled away the pork fat, of course) and whipped cod with potato to eat on toast, to small sweet nubbins of raw Pacific langoustines and my must-have: house-made fusilli with red wine-braised octopus and bone marrow. Wildly expensive, of course, but worth it.

Kowloon filet mignon tarts from Chef  Ng’s vast dim sum repertoire. Photo: Steven Richter


       If the new and dazzling savories by dim sum wizard Joe Ng at Red Farm’s (529 Hudson btw 10th & Charles) extended friends and family tastings most of August are any indication, the new season already has a winner. When Chinese guru Eddie Schoenfeld finally opened the door, acknowledging that the menu was still a work in progress, there were already hundreds of callers claiming dibs to just 44 seats in the tiny, charmingly rustic setting.  In my greediness, I managed three tasting and can’t wait to go back for another go at the duck and Fuji apple wrap (tomatillo is the secret ingredient),  yuzu-wasabi shrimp, the adorable little Pac-man dumplings, and mushroom-vegetable spring rolls with flying swirls of fried noodle crisps pretending to be chrysanthemums on top. Imagine a Chinese restaurant that only uses dark meat chicken. That’s what made the crunch-wrapped mountain of Red Farm salad so spectacular.

        I was already in a lather when I walked into Frankies 570 Spuntino (570 Hudson at 11th) because I’d walked past it three times, then realized it was still hidden behind a barricade. At first I thought the two Frankies had taken on Serge Becker ways – hide your place where no one can find it, then have a secret list of who gets in. No, no, no. Wrong. In fact, it was the first night. The place wasn’t finished – ConEd had not yet turned on the gas – and it wouldn’t open officially till the day after Labor Day. It was too soon to really judge what’s cooking. But I like the vibe and love watching the heat waves over the West Village.  It’s at the top of my list to go back.

Smartly draped hostesses are the early floorshow at Miss Lily’s. Photo: Steven Richter

       Of course Serge Becker wants us to believe he’s too grown up for Serge Becker tricks himself.  When Anna Wintour failed to keep his new Miss Lily’s Favorite Cakes  (132 West Houston) from parking on the edge of her neighborhood’s private garden, her campaign did get Becker to tame his plans for a private club next door.  Miss Lily’s is cute too, decked out like a Jamaican diner, with a trio of hostesses as stylish as the mannequins that flock in with the late crowd. Come for the floorshow, fuel on the goat curry and oxtails.  I’d reserve now if I were you.

After all the freebies and a popover, BLT’s hanger steak is enough for 2. Photo: Steven Richter

       My discovery that two could share a steak dinner with all of its spectacular freebies at BLT Steak (106 E. 57th btw Park & Lex) for not much more than the price of a burger rated a salute.  My guy and I indulged in the chicken liver amuse, a charcuterie tray and popovers as big as basketballs – all giveaways - then split a Caesar salad and the hanger steak.  I worried the house might not like hordes piling in to follow my lead.  But BLT tweeted a welcome to all penny pinchers. I imagine they’re counting on some cheapskates not being able to resist the rib-eye or a good bottle of red wine.

Crowds grew all summer as word got around about South Edison. Photo: Gael Greene

       I can’t say friends were exactly fighting to land us as houseguests, but we did get out to the Hamptons just before Memorial Day to review restaurants for Plum Magazine. I loved that South Edison (17 South Edison, Montauk) had not succumbed to terminal chic and that chef Todd Mitgang’s cooking - a cross between rich comfort and daring creativity – was as good as remembered from late in the season last year. Splendid fluke sashimi with glazed baby turnips, crispy shallots and chili jam, and a generous side portion of wondrously lumpy grits with guanciale and aged cheddar live up to my motto: too much of a good thing is just enough. Braised chicken leg in a deep bowl with a puddle of  kale, tomato and piquillo jam could have been designed for a dark meat chicken fan like me.        

       When we escaped the skyscrapers of debris on my desk for two weeks in August at the shore with loving friends, I was sad to revisit Foody’s (760 Montauk Highway, Water Mill) so highly rated in the Plum piece, on an off day. But elsewhere I ate well more often than not, and did a reading from my new ebooks, Delicious Sex and Blue Skies, No Candy at a sold-out dinner at Almond in Bridgehamtpon.

Southfork Kitchen’s food is as sophisticated as the room is rustic. Photo: Steven Richter

       Chef Joe Isidori, a Long Island native, impressed me at Southfork Kitchen (203 Bridgehampton/Sag Harbor Turnpike, Bridgehampton) with its garden out back and philosophy of serious local, organic when possible, sustainable stuff. The kitchen is as sophisticated as the space is warmly dark and primitive. After a couple of sense-staggering dishes – compressed melon with raw scallops, slow-cooked farm egg in a corn and green bean-chili butter emulsion with smoked blue point oysters on the $68 prix fixe – I found myself hoping Isidori will find an off-season following to keep the place thriving.

Almond in its new Bridgehampton space has a surprise in the John. Photo: Steven Richter

       Friends said I wouldn’t like the crowd at The East Hampton Grill (99 Main Street, East Hampton – this year’s hot address), but Sunday night looked very our crowd to me. And I gave in contentedly to an aggressively cheesy iceberg lettuce wedge, ribs and the house’s busy burger with shoestring fries.  Linguine with a peppery white clam sauce, meatloaf and yet another burger were as good as I remembered from last year, when the heat was on at the other grill, The Grill on Pantigo (205 Pantigo on Montauk Highway, East Hampton).

Perfectly roasted chicken from Nick & Toni’s wood oven feels like home again. Photo: Steven Richter

       It was like coming home again at Nick & Toni’s (136 North Main Street, East Hampton), from Bonnie Munshin’s welcoming hug to the rich as Croesus buttery lobster sliders, a gift from the kitchen that made up for the 40 minute wait for a table. Well, it was Saturday night and we had just wandered in. That’s outrageous enough. And we were competing with the fiercely entitled hordes. That was everyone else there. Predictably, Steven had the Caesar and his favorite rigatoni pasta. I could barely finish a thigh of my wood-oven chicken with chunks of chorizo. I could happily have made a dinner of just the buxom local potatoes – I imagined I could taste the terroir of a Sagaponack field.