Such was my dream. I awoke with a tremendous sense of well-being. Suddenly I was optimistic. Everything was clear. My uncle’s statement reverberated to the core of my very existence. I went to the kitchen and started to eat. I ate everything in sight. Cakes, breads, cereals, meat, fruits. Succulent chocolates, vegetables in sauce, wines, fish, creams and noodles, éclairs, and wursts totaling in excess of sixty thousand dollars. If God is everywhere, I had concluded, then He is in food. Therefore, the more I ate the godlier I would become. Impelled by this new religious fervor, I glutted myself like a fanatic. In six months, I was the holiest of holies, with a heart entirely devoted to my prayers and a stomach that crossed the state line by itself. I last saw my feet one Thursday morning in Vitebsk, although for all I know they are still down there. I ate and ate and grew and grew. To reduce would have been the greatest folly. Even a sin! For when we lose twenty pounds, dear reader (and I am assuming you are not as large as I), we may be losing the twenty best pounds we have! We may be losing the pounds that contain our genius, our humanity, our love and honesty, or, in the case of one inspector general I knew, just some unsightly flab around the hips.
Now, I know what you are saying. You are saying this is in direct contradiction to everything—yes, everything—I put forth before. Suddenly I am attributing to neuter flesh, values! Yes, and what of it? Because isn’t life that very same kind of contradiction? One’s opinion of fat can change in the same manner that the seasons change, that our hair changes, that life itself changes. For life is change and fat is life, and fat is also death. Don’t you see? Fat is everything! Unless, of course, you’re overweight.
1968
“The Trout Babette was awful, but the Heimlich maneuver was excellent.”
TWO MENUS
STEVE MARTIN
KING’S RANSOM
Paducah, Kansas
Fine dining at its best.
Fried-butter Appetizer
Butter, cream, fat, lard, shortening, palm oil, drawn-butter dip.
Greaseballs
Four greaseballs served flaming hot in your hands (grease, balls).
Cow Organs Charlton Heston
Steaming entrails and freshly slaughtered virgin cow brains, marinated in lard. Find the bullet and eat free!
Maybelle’s Vegetarian Special
Ham, ham hocks, pork rinds, butter, eggs. Ask for Bac-O-Bits!
Double Height Rib-eye Steak
Cooked in its own juice while alive, served with hot buttered metal screws, cardboard.
Egg-yolk Omelette à la Mitt
Yellow hearts of egg folded into an omelette. Cooked and served inside a boxing glove.
Our Banana Split
Fried ice cream, butter, double-cream-infused banana, whipped cream, cherries in red dye no. 2, triple-fudge chocolate sauce, pancakes, cow fat.
Heartwise!
SYNERGY
Beverly Hills, California
Phone: Yeah, right.
Air Salad
Dehumidified ocean air on a bed of fileted basil.
Egg-white Omelette
Egg whites, pumpkin seeds, Vitamin C, nonfat cheese buttons, aerated yogi urine.
Spaghetti à la Nerf
Our natural eggless spaghetti, cooked in desalted Caspian Sea water, simmered in oliveless olive oil, and sprinkled with parsley skins. As light as a Nerf ball!
Filet of Sole
Sole.
Chilean Sea Bass
The Patagonian toothfish is overfished, so try our soya-based lo-fat substitute, swimming in hot water. Soy, water, gelatin added for viscosity. Garlic vapor. A natural face-lift dish.
Our Banana Split
One banana lying in its own skin, covered in chocolate, on a bed of arugula. A cheesecloth mouth condom is supplied to enable you to taste the chocolate without swallowing.
Hemlock Tea
Try our depoisoned herbal infusion.
2000
“I wonder would you be good enough, the next time you get your adrenaline flowing, to bring me a glass of iced tea.”
THE ZAGAT HISTORY OF MY LAST RELATIONSHIP
NOAH BAUMBACH
AASE’S
Bring a “first date” to this “postage stamp”–size bistro. Tables are so close you’re practically “sitting in the laps” of the couple next to you, but the lush décor is “the color of love.” Discuss your respective “dysfunctional families” and tell her one of your “fail-safe” stories about your father’s “cheapness” and you’re certain to “get a laugh.” After the “to die for” soufflés, expect a good-night kiss, but don’t push for more, because if you play your cards right there’s a second date “right around the corner.”
BRASSERIE PENELOPE
“Ambience and then some” at this Jamaican-Norwegian hybrid. Service might be a “tad cool,” but the warmth you feel when you gaze into her baby blues will more than compensate for it. Conversation is “spicier than the jerk chicken,” and before you know it you’ll be back at her one-bedroom in the East Village, quite possibly “getting lucky.”
THE CHICK & HEN
Perfect for breakfast “after sleeping together,” with “killer coffee” that will “help cure your seven-beer/three-aquavit hangover.” Not that you need it—your “amplified high spirits” after having had sex for the first time in “eight months” should do the trick.
DESARCINA’S
So what if she thought the movie was “pretentious and contrived” and you felt it was a “masterpiece” and are dying to inform her that “she doesn’t know what she’s talking about”? Remember, you were looking for a woman who wouldn’t “yes” you all the time. And after one bite of chef Leonard Desarcina’s “duck manqué” and a sip of the “generous” gin margaritas you’ll start to see that she might have a point.
GORDY’S
Don’t be ashamed if you don’t know what wine to order with your seared minnow; the “incredibly knowledgeable” waiters will be more than pleased to assist. But if she makes fun of “the way you never make eye contact with people,” you might turn “snappish” and end up having your first “serious fight,” one where feelings are “hurt.”
PANCHO MAO
“Bring your wallet,” say admirers of Louis Grenouille’s pan-Asian-Mexican-style fare, because it’s “so expensive you’ll start to wonder why she hasn’t yet picked up a tab.” The “celeb meter is high,” and “Peter Jennings” at the table next to yours might spark an “inane political argument” where you find yourself “irrationally defending Enron” and finally saying aloud, “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Don’t let her “stuff herself,” as she might use that as an excuse to go to sleep “without doing it.”
RIGMAROLE
At this Wall Street old boys’ club, don’t be surprised if you run into one of her “ex-boyfriends” who works in “finance.” Be prepared for his “power play,” when he sends over a pitcher of “the freshest-tasting sangria this side of Barcelona,” prompting her to visit his table for “ten minutes” and to come back “laughing” and suddenly critical of your “cravat.” The room is “snug,” to say the least, and it’s not the best place to say, full voice, “What the fuck were you thinking dating him?” But don’t overlook the “best paella in town” and a din “so loud” you won’t notice that neither of you is saying anything.
TATI
Prices so “steep” you might feel you made a serious “career gaffe” by taking the “high road” and being an academic rather than “selling out” like “every other asshole she’s gone out with.” The “plush seats” come in handy if she’s forty-five minutes late and arrives looking a little “preoccupied” and wearing “a sly smile.”
VANDERWEI’S
Be careful not to combine “four dry sakes” with your “creeping feeling of insecurity and dread,” or you might find yourself saying, “Wipe that damn grin off your face!” The bathrooms are “big and glamorous,” so you won’t mind spending an hour with your chee
k pressed against the “cool tiled floor” after she “walks out.” And the hip East Village location can’t be beat, since her apartment is “within walking distance,” which makes it very convenient if you should choose to “lean on her buzzer for an hour” until she calls “the cops.”
ZACHARIA AND SONS & CO.
This “out of the way,” “dirt cheap,” “near impossible to find,” “innocuous” diner is ideal for “eating solo” and ensuring that you “won’t run into your ex, who has gone back to the bond trader.” The “mediocre at best” burgers and “soggy fries” will make you wish you “never existed” and wonder why you’re so “frustrated with your life” and unable to sustain a “normal,” “healthy” “relationship.”
2002
“Really, couldn’t we have one with less joie de vivre?”
YOUR TABLE IS READY
JOHN KENNEY
You do not seize control at Masa. You surrender it. You pay to be putty. And you pay dearly…. Lunch or dinner for two can easily exceed $1,000.
—From the Times’s review of Masa, a sushi restaurant that was given four stars
Am I very rich? Since you ask, I will tell you. Yes, I am. I happen to be one of the more successful freelance poets in New York. The point being, I eat where I like. And I like sushi. As does my wife, Babette.
Unfortunately, we were running late. This worried me. I had been trying to get a reservation at Masa since 1987, seventeen years before it opened, as I knew that one of the prerequisites of dining there was a knowledge of the future. I also knew of the restaurant’s strict “on-time” policy. Babette and I arrived exactly one minute and twenty-four seconds late. We know this because of the Swiss Atomic clock that diners see upon arrival at Masa.
The maître d’ did not look happy. And so we were asked, in Japanese, to remove our clothes, in separate dressing cabins, and don simple white robes with Japanese writing on the back that, we soon found out, translated as “We were late. We didn’t respect the time of others.” Babette’s feet were bound. I was forced to wear shoes that were two sizes too small. The point being, tardiness is not accepted at Masa. (Nor, frankly, should it be.)
The headwaiter then greeted us by slapping me in the face and telling Babette that she looked heavy, also in Japanese. (No English is spoken in the restaurant. Translators are available for hire for $325 per hour. We opted for one.)
And so it was that Babette, Aki, and I were led to our table, one of only seven in the restaurant, two of which are always reserved—one for former Canadian prime minister Pierre Trudeau, who died five years ago, and the other for the actress and singer Claudine Longet, who accidentally shot and killed her boyfriend, the skier Spider Sabich, in 1976.
There are no windows in Masa. The light is soft, and, except for the tinkling of a miniature waterfall and the piped-in sound of an airplane losing altitude at a rapid rate, the place is silent. We sat on hemp pillows, as chairs cost extra and we were not offered any, owing to our tardiness.
Thirty-five minutes later, we met our waitstaff: nine people, including two Buddhist monks, whose job it is to supervise your meal, realign your chakras, and, if you wish, teach you to play the oboe. Introductions and small talk—as translated by Aki (which, we later learned, means “Autumn”)—lasted twenty minutes. I was then slapped again, though I’m not sure why.
Before any food can be ordered at Masa, one is required to choose from an extensive water menu (there is no tap water at the restaurant). With Aki’s help, we selected an exceptional bottle of high-sodium Polish sparkling water known for its subtle magnesium aftertaste (a taste I admit to missing completely). Henna tattoos were then applied to the bases of our spines. Mine depicted a donkey, Babette’s a dwarf with unusually large genitals.
Then it was time to order—or to be told what we were having, as there is no menu. Babette and I had been looking forward to trying an inside-out California roll and perhaps some yellowtail. Not so this night. I was brought the white-rice appetizer and Babette was brought nothing. Aki said this was not uncommon, and then told us a story about his brother, Akihiko (“Bright Boy”), who has, from the sound of it, a rather successful motor-home business outside Kyoto.
I noticed another guest a few tables away being forced to do pushups while the waitstaff critiqued his wife’s outfit. Aki saw me looking at them and translated the words on the back of their robes: “We were twenty minutes late. We are bad.”
It was then that our entrées arrived and we realized why this restaurant is so special. Before us were bay scallops, yellow clams, red clams, and exotic needlefish, all lightly dusted with crushed purple shiso leaves. Unfortunately, none of these dishes was for us. They were for the waitstaff, who enjoyed them with great gusto while standing beside our table. They nodded and smiled, telling us, through Aki, how good it all tasted. Aki told us that this was very common at fine Japanese restaurants and urged us to be on time in the future, even though he said we would never be allowed on the premises again. He then gave us a brochure for a motor home. Babette and I were strongly advised to order more water.
For dessert, I ordered nothing, as I was offered nothing. Babette was given a whole fatty red tuna wrapped in seaweed, served atop a bowl of crushed ice and garnished with a sign reading HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, BARBARA (sic).
Our bill came to $839. Aki said we were lucky to get out for so little and then begged us to take him with us when we left. We caught a cab and got three seats at the bar at Union Square Café.
2005
“You might as well take a seat, Mr. Gallagher. There’s a Reuben sandwich ahead of you.”
“Its DNA is consistent with meat loaf.”
SMALL PLATES
“May I suggest, sir, that you brace yourself for a disappointment.”
BOCK
WILLIAM SHAWN
Shortly, now, pictures of goats will be hung up in the drinking places and bock beer will make its traditional spring appearance for the first time in fourteen years. It used to be a common saying that bock and the circus arrived together, but the circus doesn’t come until April 6 or thereabouts this year and the date for bock is March 25. The brewers have an agreement not to release it earlier than that, and if you get any before then somebody is fudging. As in the old days, they’ve calculated to brew just enough to last two weeks. And as in the old days, the custom is being kept up for sentimental reasons, to stimulate business at a slack time, and to give the drinkers something to talk about. Originally, bock was logical, though. That was in the old, old days. Before modern refrigeration, beer couldn’t be brewed in the summer, so the first appearance of the winter’s brew, usually some time in May, was always celebrated in Germany with beer festivals, and bock was the choice and special brew made for the occasion. It was and is a lager of extra strength which has been aged longer and which is richer in malt extract and hence darker than light beer but lighter than dark. The bock these days could be put out any time the brewers agreed upon, but they’ve set upon March 25.
Practically everybody knows that Bock means “goat” in German, but nobody seems to know how the brew got the name of bock. There are many legends. One is that two rival German brewers agreed to drink it out one night to see whose beer was the stronger. After several hours, one of them had to go out for a breath of air, and got bowled over by a goat. The brewer inside saw him fall and yelled “I win!” The other explained that it was a goat, and the name stuck. Another is that at the ancient beer festivals, there was a ritual which required that the guests be butted in the leathern breeches as they stood up to toast their host. Mr. Mülhäuser, Braumeister at Ruppert’s, thinks the name is derived from Einbeck, or Ainpock, which was a famous brew of the eleventh century, and which was emulated in the sixteenth century by Duke William V of Bavaria when he started a Brauhaus for his own ducal beer. Mr. Mülhäuser thinks the name started then.
The old-time posters used to get pretty fanciful about their goats. They were pictured as drinking, dancing, walking arm-in-
arm, and drawing a wagon made from a beer keg, surmounted by a lovely lady. Of the new posters, we are told that Trommer’s will probably be most like the old ones. It’s going to be done in four colors, showing a gnome on a goat which is hurdling a keg. Piel’s will have a gnome, too, riding a bucking goat and holding up a stein. Schaefer’s—who, by the way, claim an American bock-making record of ninety-two years, except for the prohibition interlude—will have just the head of a goat, smiling. The brewers are a little worried over the state ruling that their names, strictly, can’t appear on their posters when they’re displayed in places that serve hard liquor as well as beer, but some of them will probably take a chance.
1934
“More, please. Americans overeat, and, by God, I'm an American!”
DIAT
GEOFFREY T. HELLMAN
In an article on a visit we made to the Ritz a few weeks ago, we noted that Louis Diat, the head chef, was so wrought up about the forthcoming demise of that institution that Mr. Stack, its president, counseled us not to disturb him. Among other things, we wanted to ask him about the invention of vichyssoise, of which, as we mentioned, he was the originator. We let the matter slide until the other day, and then phoned Mr. Stack to see how the land lay. He told us to come on over and take a chance. This we did, and in a small office near the kitchen we found the celebrated chef, a mustached man of sixty-five with curly gray hair and large, black, bushy eyebrows, seated at an old roll-top desk. He received us cordially enough, but he was unmistakably downcast. We brought up vichyssoise at once, and he told us about its birth. “In the summer of 1917, when I had been at the Ritz seven years,” he said, “I reflected upon the potato-and-leek soup of my childhood, which my mother and grandmother used to make. I recalled how, during the summer, my older brother and I used to cool it off by pouring in cold milk, and how delicious it was. I resolved to make something of the sort for the patrons of the Ritz.” Diat worked out a soup involving a potato-and-leek purée strained twice to make it extra smooth, heavy cream, and, on the surface, a sprinkling of finely chopped chives. He named it crème vichyssoise glacée, after Vichy, then famous only as a spa, which is not far from his home town, Montmarault. Charles M. Schwab, dining in the Ritz Roof Garden, ordered it the first day it was on the menu, and asked for a second helping. Diat put it on the menu every evening that summer, and every summer thereafter. He took it off during the cold weather, but the hotel got so many requests for it in all temperatures, and at lunch as well as dinner, that in 1923 he put it on a year-round lunch-and-dinner basis, where it has remained ever since. “Mrs. Sara Delano Roosevelt, the President’s mother, who had had it here, once called me up at five in the afternoon and asked me to send eight portions to her house,” Mr. Diat told us. “I sent her two quarts and gave her the recipe, which I have since published in Cooking à la Ritz.” Diat has also written French Cooking for Americans and has just finished a third book, Sauces: French and Famous. The Ritz printed its menus in French until 1930, when the Hotel Association of New York City, of which it is a member, suggested that its restaurant business, then suffering from the depression, might pick up if it switched to English. It switched, and Mr. Diat’s soup, in its fourteenth year, became “cream vichyssoise glacée,” a kind of compromise.
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