WTF with Phil Roberts

Most of the time when we dine out, we’re presented with a standard “A LA CARTE” menu – the kind that lists individual dishes with separate prices, allowing diners to order each item independently.

A la carte menus, particularly in France, are often complemented by “PRIX FIXE,” or “fixed price,” menus (also called “Le Formula,” “Set Menu” or simply “Le Menu”). Typically, they offer diners a choice of two or three courses (think appetizer, main and dessert) for less than what you’d pay if you were to order each dish separately. The offerings usually come from the à la carte menu, and you get to choose among two or three pre-selected items from each category.

And then there are “TASTING MENUS,” usually found at chef-driven, fine-dining destination restaurants like FRENCH LAUNDRY in Napa, 11 MADISON PARK in New York, or HELENE DARROZE in London. They may involve any number of small dishes, can run hundreds of dollars ($365/person at 11 Madison Park), and take hours to consume. Japanese restaurants’ tasting menus are called OMAKASE or KAISEKI, and in France they’re called DEGUSTATIONS – the more elaborate of which can include up to 30 mini-tastings.

Some tasting menus hew to traditions; others give the chef free reign to indulge his or her creativity, with no rules and few limits.

Tasting menus can be wonderful, even spectacular. Or they can be punishing – a contest between you and the chef to see who will cry uncle first.

The best ones are painstakingly created and curated by chefs to express their culinary philosophy. They may have a theme or point of view. Perhaps the menu will be centered around game or seafood. Perhaps it will be a meditation on the season, a region, or a particular ingredient. Some years ago, one of our restaurants offered a multi-course feast celebrating the magnificent flesh of the Mangalitsa pig. How about a 20-course Italian cheese tasting? Or an 18-course pastrami discovery (well, maybe not.).

The parade and progression of tiny dishes is often punctuated with absurdly wild and crazy, funny, clever, witty interpretations of familiar ingredients.  (Note the cast iron meat-grinder bolted right-to the table cranking out ground-up carrots for CARROT TARTARE, one of the 20 offerings on Madison Park’s tasting menu.)  

Joanne and I recently had a well-crafted tasting menu in London at CLUB GASCON, a smallish two-star Michelin restaurant, near Smithfield Market. Club Gascon salutes the robust cuisine of, you guessed it, GASCONY in southwest France. The strong flavors of the region did not put us off. Rather, we binged on the affordably priced ten-course tasting menu as we abandoned all dignity and surrendered to the sturdy flavors, textures and aromas from the age-old southwest corner of the Gallic republic. We managed to pleasure ourselves as we plied our way through every tiny course involving foie gras torchon, juicy free-range Landes chicken breast, duck confit on toast, and morsels of Magret duck breast with black cherries – finally ending with their signature caneles (crispy on the outside, custardy on the inside).

But…tasting menus are not for everyone…including me.

There are restrictions and rules. First off, all people at the same table are required to order the tightly structured tasting menu. You get NO CHOICES and NO SUBSTITUTIONS, with NO EXCEPTIONS. (Funny, though, often they WILL offer SUPPLEMENTS to hike the price. Want white truffles rained down upon your tagliatelle? It’s only $50 more).

Which leads me to another caveat: Tasting menus are EXPENSIVE…and possibly exploitative. Generally, everyone knows the range of how much a chicken breast or sea bass dinner might cost. But how do you gauge the appropriate price for a meticulously prepared, exquisitely presented, fifteen-course tasting menu? Is $120 about right? Or $175? How about $275 or $375?…..which leaves the restaurant free to charge black market prices. 

Dine at the Michelin three-star restaurant Guy Savoy in Paris and you’ll choose between $400 and $550 menus. Wine pairings not included.

Also, as Julia Child points out, “Not all tasting menus are great, since not every chef is a creator, and those who cannot create copy those who can.” Add to that….how quickly sizzling tiny bites of food can get cold.

Finally, with many fine-dining restaurants abandoning à la carte menus in favor of tasting menus, it can feel like a TASTING MENU ARMS RACE out there. And not everyone wants to sit through a three or four-hour endurance test – especially when they feel obligated to completely finish every last nibble of each and every course.

To wit: Several years ago, we were in Paris with friends and decided to reward ourselves with a splurge night out at LE GRAND VEFOUR, then a Michelin three-star temple of gastronomy.  To our midwestern surprise, they featured a 14-course tasting menu only. But, no problem: At a restaurant of this caliber, we expected a culinary symphony of art, flavors, timing, tempo and harmony. 

On all those counts, LE GRAND VERFOUR did not disappoint.

What did disappoint, however, was that about halfway through the meal, I felt the dreaded sensation…I WAS FULL!

Even worse, two-and-a-half hours into the meal, MY ASS WAS SORE. I asked our waiter “How much longer?” He replied, “Just a few more hours.”

Around the time of the twelfth course, we were presented with THE PRE-DESSERT. Yes, the dessert BEFORE the dessert. That was followed by the regular dessert, only to be followed by the surprise of a checkerboard of WHITE and BLACK CHOCOLATE TRUFFLES. I don’t recall if I was a VICTIM or a GUEST by that time.

At about the four-hour mark, with the PAIN IN MY ASS now spiraling out of control, came the check – and with it, sixteen one-inch-square, drop-dead gorgeous, BABY BON BONS.

Time to surrender. Time to puke. Time for bed.

Right after we get through the cheese cart.

You know, as elegant and creative and as long as the LE GRAND VEFOUR experience was, sometimes you just want a burger or a platter of fried chicken.

Now…earlier I mentioned absurd creations. Well, here’s one that’s downright CREEPY.

In Italy, nestled in the province of Lecce in the heel of the boot, LORIANO PELLEGRINO, the chef/owner of Michelin-starred BROS RESTAURANT, boasts a $300, twenty-five course tasting menu. His ego got the best of him and he’s way too full of himself. So, he has fashioned a ghoulish plaster casting of his own mouth that is the signature course of the evening. Served with no utensils, this hand-held, baseball-sized orb sporting Florian’s lips and open mouth is filled with strawberry foam. You hold it in your hand, just like French-Kissing you stick your tongue deep into Florian’s hollowed-out mouth. And you lick out the foam. YEETCH!!!! 

BTW, I’ve noticed Pellegrino isn’t alone in allowing his depraved ego to worm its way into tasting menus, especially desserts.  I’ve seen more than a few phallic representations. When I shared these penile images with folks here at Parasole, the general response was, “Oh, Phil. That’s just your SICK, FILTHY, ROTTEN, PERVERTED MIND that you think you see that kind of stuff.”

OK, I’LL SEE MYSELF OUT.

WTF

PHIL

I got to thinking about Boston the other day and the foods it’s known for, like BOSTON BAKED BEANS and BOSTON CLAM CHOWDAH. Then my mind wandered off and I thought about BOSTON SCROD. What the hell is a scrod anyway? I’ve since learned that it’s a made-up name created by the PARKER HOUSE HOTEL to refer to any fish that is the “top of the catch” and therefore the freshest of the fresh because it was caught at the end of a several-day run. Fish caught earlier in the week were iced down in the bottom of the boat, with the more recent hauls iced and piled upon them.

Scrod. What an odd name. But it stuck.

There are even legends about scrod.

I recall one that involves an extremely well-educated Harvard cab driver who picks up a businessman who’s just arrived in town. This is his first trip to Boston and he’s eager to try some of the local food…especially Boston Scrod. As he gets into the taxi at Logan airport, the first thing he asks is, “Do you know where I can get scrod here?”

The cabbie answers, “Listen, Mac. I’ve been asked that illegal question many times, in many ways, but never in the past pluperfect subjunctive.”

So, there.

Back in the mid-seventies, off the coast of Chile, there was a relatively obscure creature called the PATAGONIAN TOOTHFISH. At best, it was used for deep-fried, fast-food sandwiches or fish & chips – until Lee Lantz, a seafood wholesaler from Los Angeles, decided there might be a market for its broad, flaky flesh, buttery mouthfeel and clean, slightly sweet taste. I could sell this, he thought.

But oh, that hideous name.

So he rebranded it – jettisoning “Patagonian Toothfish” for “Chilean Sea Bass.”

It not only became wildly popular throughout the world, it landed a spot on the menu of the Michelin three-star New York restaurant, the FOUR SEASONS.

That’s the good news. The bad news is that the re-branding was so successful it led to overfishing. The once plentiful stock of Chilean Sea Bass plummeted, and today it’s carefully monitored.

Then there’s the GOOSEFISH – known today as the MONKFISH.

Why monkfish? Legend has it that, years ago, when Italian fishermen returned to port in Genoa and Naples, they were met by area monks who had taken a vow of poverty and would ask for cast-off fish.

The mysterious creature of the deep, with its huge gaping mouth, was so ugly that nobody wanted to buy it. Consequently, the fishermen gave their unwanted catch to the monks.

It turned out, however, that monkfish tails – the only edible part of the fish – were absolutely delicious: bright white, firm and meaty, with a sweet flavor and texture that could almost pass for lobster. Alain Roux, owner of the acclaimed WATERSIDE INN on the Thames in Bray, just outside of London, trumpets monkfish on his Michelin-starred menu.

Certainly, a finalist in the UGLY NAME DEPARTMENT would be the SLIMEHEAD, found in deep, dark, cold ocean waters pretty much all around the world. Fishermen cursed when that rough, armor-plated, red wretch would clog their fishing nets.

That is, until someone renamed it ORANGE ROUGHY. Suddenly a fish that was typically dried and ground up for dog food became an international favorite.

Can you imagine being in a fine restaurant where the sommelier approaches your table and says, “May I interest you in a fine bottle of Willamette Valley Pinot Noir with notes of rose petals and raspberry to complement your SLIMEHEAD?”

These days, you don’t often see orange roughy on menus. That’s because it too was overfished. Efforts have been made to restore the stocks, but it’s at best borderline sustainable.

Okay, can you think of anything less appetizing than slimehead?

Well, how about WHORE’S EGGS?

Once considered garbage ilk, these spiny, globular invertebrates of the Echinodermata phylum got rebranded as SEA URCHINS. And today they’re a delicacy whose “roe” – a euphemism for their GONADS – is prized by chefs at fancy restaurants. Inside each sea urchin are five orange, creamy, lobe-like folds with an intensely briny flavor. Sea Urchin retails for as much as $360 a kilo in Japan, where it’s served raw as sashimi or in sushi. The Japanese love their “uni” so much that it’s also at risk of being overfished.

Let’s move on to the ghastly sounding PACIFIC SPINY DOGFISH. That name didn’t last long. It was reintroduced as ROCK SALMON (even though it’s part of the shark family). It’s been likened to a mushier version of cod and is used only for fish & chips. I’m sure a generous dousing of malt vinegar and a handful of salt makes it palatable enough.

Now consider ST. PETER’S FISH – better known as TILAPIA.  The name’s biblical roots reference the apostle St. Peter, who’s said to have pulled the fish from the Sea of Galilee (the same body of water that supplied the catch for Christ’s loaves-and-fishes miracle).  Today tilapia ranks #4 among the world’s most consumed fish. Still, there are efforts to revert the name back to St. Peter’s Fish in order to appeal to Catholics and Bible Belt Christians.

Note, however, that rebranding doesn’t only apply to seafood.

Could any of you be persuaded to place an order for VEAL THYMUS GLANDS at your favorite restaurant? Probably not. But if counseled to try the CRISPY SWEETBREADS, you might just try ‘em.

Now for dessert. In the UK, you’re apt to come across SPOTTED DICK. This yummy pudding sounds like a diseased penis, but remains enormously popular throughout the British Isles despite attempts to change the name. Spotted Dog?  Railway Cake? Even the British Parliament dining hall forbade the name on their menus. They tried “SPOTTED RICHARD” for a time. Guess that they’re back to?

And now, perhaps the most offensive name of them all: NUN’S ASSES. They’re pert, round, firm pink candies in the shape of – STOP RIGHT THERE! HERE NOW!  WE’LL HAVE NUN OF THAT!!!

W.T.F.

Phil

No question about it: For 40 years, Jeremy King’s iconic LE CAPRICE restaurant was – by far – London’s most popular draw for celebrities and Royals alike. Not even STUDIO 54 in its heyday or EL MOROCCO at its peak could boast a comparable roster of notables.

It sat on Arlington Street in St. James. Just walk by THE RITZ hotel and keep on walking a few doors down.

Among Le Caprice’s high-profile patrons: Elton John, Madonna, the Beatles, Liz Taylor, Mick Jagger, Michael Caine and especially the sleek and coquettish Princess Di. A regular, she took her seat at corner table #9 with her gal-pals (BTW, she always ordered the “Bang Bang Chicken” with light peanut butter sauce, cut with Asian seasoning, cilantro and toasted peanuts).

In the 1990’s, Joanne and I began visiting London on a semi-regular basis and had aspirations of snagging a spot at Le Caprice, but to no avail. It was hard to get a table if you weren’t a regular, and even harder to be a regular if you couldn’t get a table.

But on one fall evening, we stood in line and tried again. And either by accident or the grace of God, we got past the dreaded velvet rope. To our surprise, Joanne and I were warmly welcomed by the maître ‘d and escorted to the center of the restaurant. It felt as though we were going to have the best two hours of our lives.

We didn’t identify any celebrities, but were surrounded by members of London’s moneyed café society holding court in the stunning Art Deco dining room. Le Caprice’s black-framed rattan chairs and starched white tablecloths synchronized with the shiny black flooring, white ceiling, and striking David Baily black & white portraits adorning the walls. Even the staff was clad in black and white.

I think I was wearing a Dayton’s Boundary Waters sweater with some kind of tree and deer motif.

My memories of the food are more vivid. Plating was artful, with more than a little wit and whimsy, yet not overly fussy. It was comforting and uncomplicated, the stuff you could eat every day.

That was years ago.

AND THEN, IN 2020, COVID STRUCK!

Jeremy King was forced to close Le Caprice permanently.

Fast forward to the present. The powerful London business magnate, Richard Caring, bought the business (including the name, but not the site) and will debut his iteration of Le Caprice at the new CHANCERY ROSEWOOD HOTEL this coming June. It’s part of a multi-billion-dollar development housed in the iconic Eero Saarinen-designed former United States Embassy on Grosvenor Square, in the heart of well-heeled Mayfair.

But…OH OH…..

JEREMY KING, ever the relentless restaurateur, couldn’t sit by idly as a rival attempted to steal his glory. Seeing that the original location remained vacant, he re-acquired the space and opened a successor of his own. Dubbed THE ARLINGTON, it welcomed its first guests in March of 2024.

Joanne and I, accompanied by our Parasole colleagues, dined there last November.

We entered and…

OH BOY! OH BOY! The Arlington WAS Le Caprice!

The same Art Deco mirrors, the black & white floor and ceiling, the David Baily portraits and black wood-frame rattan chairs…

As Grace Dent of the London Guardian puts it, “Not a lot has changed….decor, menu, clientele….still Mayfair money, yacht tans and face lifts.” CHIC ART DECO.

My reaction? The Arlington is Le Caprice with a new name. It’s perhaps a bit spiffier, but the food is the same. It’s a new place doing the same old things – and doing them well. The Queen Mary meets the Stork Club.

We were seated, and the piano player (maybe the same one as before?) began to ease us through dinner.

Princess Di’s Bang Bang Chicken was still on the menu, as were the Spicy Tiger Prawns and Le Caprice’s signature dish, Salmon Fish Cakes served with buttered spinach in a light lemony sorrel sauce. Nostalgia never tasted so good.

Among our other selections were Vitello Tonnato, Crispy Duck with toasted cashews, Chicken Milanese and Shepherd’s Pie. Not overly trendy, some classics.

What was really nice, though – especially to a restaurateur – was observing a restaurant that runs like clockwork, consistently serving unfussy but tasty dishes.

To wit…If you order the Rhubarb Raspberry Crumble at The Arlington, it won’t be deconstructed. It won’t be a playful riff on the old-school classic. It’will be a moist, sweet, pink RHUBARB RASPBERRY CRUMBLE with a jug of vanilla custard.

Bottom line? We loved it. We will go back…again and again.

Giles Coren, the restaurant critic for the Times of London, sums things up pretty well: “Richard Caring is going to be pissed.”

W.T.F.

PHIL

If there’s any possibility that you’ll be traveling to Paris or London soon, keep this post on file.

As you probably know, Joanne and I have been fortunate enough to eat our way around the planet for years and years. Now that we are getting older, we tend to aim our travel to major markets that are more orderly and have fewer cobblestone walkways. Thus, you’ve been hearing from me a lot about New York, Miami, Paris and London.

This post highlights some of our favorite discoveries in Paris and London, including one very special newer bistro. Joanne and I have vetted them all. No duds. Full stop!

So, let’s go…

Paris birthed the classic French bistro, but tough economic times and draconian government rules and regulations have rendered some of the city’s most iconic, beloved spots mere shadows of their former selves. To remain financially viable, they’ve cut days, hours and staff. More distressing, they have compromised their food by having much of it made in batches off premises and delivered to the restaurant.

But here are five spots in Paris that retain their culinary integrity. All are delicious, all creative, all classic and quaint. And not one of them will break the bank.

They are…..CHEZ L’AMI JEAN…CHEZ DUMONET…ALLARD (order the duck with olives)…CHEZ GEORGES…and LE CHARDENOUX. Keep these on file. Commit them to memory. Tattoo them on your (spouse’s) forearm.

For the last several years, Joanne and I have spent quite a bit of time with our granddaughter and our son and his spouse scoping out the London restaurant scene – which is buzzy, vibrant, diverse, smart, creative and just plain wonderful.

But surely not as good as Paris, right?

Well, that assumption would have been correct years ago, when London had little to offer those hankering for a snug, appropriately cozy yet stylish and cosmopolitan French bistro. But boy, have times changed. As evidence, I refer you to four bistros in Britain that rival anything Paris has to offer. And guess what? They all have a MICHELIN STAR!

Let’s start with BOUCHON RACINE. The term “bouchon” originated in Lyon, France to describe modest restaurants that serve generous, hearty and local fare. Here those connotations are reinforced by “Racine,” which means “root.” In the words of the London Guardian food critic Jay Rayner, this “classic bistro offers a masterclass in French cooking.” Signature offerings include a Veal Porterhouse and a Roasted Leg of French Rabbit. Reservations are darn near impossible to get, so solicit your hotel concierge for help – and tell them not to give up.

GALVIN LA CHAPELLE is another must-visit bistro. Located in Spitalfields, it is drop-dead stunning, with food to match. Do not miss the starter of a large Dorset Crab Ravioli.

NOBLE ROT MAYFAIR…what a name. A reference to the fungus that barnacles onto grapes and intensifies the aroma and sweetness of certain wines, noble rot suggests an affinity for wine, and it’s no surprise that this restaurant was the winner of “Best Wine List in the UK.” But star billing is shared by the Michelin-quality food, including dishes like Pan-Seared Toulouse Sausage over a bed of puy lentils and roasted Free Range Landes Chicken with earthy morels – a favorite of ours. Oh, yeah, the bread plate. Noble Rot offers the best in London, combining sourdough, focaccia and yeasty, slightly funky Irish soda bread. YUM.

Drum roll, please, for the new kid on the block.

JOSEPHONE BOUCHON. Claude and Lucy Bosi, creators of two-star Bibendum (another London favorite of ours), are off to a flying start with this beguiling, sanely priced, old-school spot near Farringdon Station. Named after Claude’s mother, it takes diners on a culinary adventure through Lyon. The quality of cooking is such that within a year of opening, it earned its first Michelin Star. That’s unheard of.

Note, I celebrated my birthday there at Table #23 in the coveted back area of the restaurant. It’s warm, cozy, and perfectly positioned to let you take in all the action. Request it when you make your reservation. That number again: 23.  Got it?

Despite its outwardly modest appearance, the food – typical of Lyon – isn’t just hearty, it has a real swagger with rustic, chest-beating offal selections. To wit, our amuse bouche: a bowl of crispy deep-fried shards of pork fat called gratons Lyonais, a regional snack rarely seen outside of Lyon. Salty? YOU BET!

We continued with five starters:

Soufflé au Saint Felicien – a divinely inspired, silky-smooth souffle creation laced with strong, nutty French cheese

Soupe å l’Oignon – a very rich concoction of caramelized onions and hearty beef broth with wonderfully slimy gruyere cheese that contrasts nicely with the topper of a bread crouton.

Leeks Vinaigrette – the white parts only, cool and soft with a just-acidic-enough dressing

Frog Legs – for the table, but only the top plump part in a punchy garlic butter

Salade – Offerings vary from day to day. We had herbed goat cheese as well as raw zucchini ribbons with lardons and a handful of herby, salty garlic croutons.

Vol au Vent ­– perfect for a chilly evening, this chicken and mushroom-filled pastry shell arrives napped in a savory, slightly thickened chicken broth.

Mains were next…

Steak au Poivre – a timeless French dish of juicy filet mignon topped with loads of cracked black pepper in a rich, creamy Cognac sauce.

Thick-Cut Pan-Seared Veal Chop – resting in jus with tiny root vegetables…miraculously simple.

Veal Sweetbreads with Morel Mushroom Sauce – Most people haven’t a clue what sweetbreads are. Brains? Balls? Actually, they’re the thymus glands of a calf, and at Josephine Bouchon they arrive baby fist sized…crispy on the outside and tender in the middle. The buttery morel mushroom sauce is perfect for bread sopping.

Filet of Cornish Cod – pan-seared and served with a shallot beurre blanc sauce…Joanne’s choice.

Lapin à la Moutarde for Two – Featuring wild French rabbit that may have come from yesterday’s hunt, this superbly hearty preparation balances the unique, slightly gamey taste of rabbit with the smooth flavor of mustard-tarragon sauce.

Standout side dishes …

Pommes Duchesse – grown-up tater tots, with a potato purée center and a crispy outer shell. Scarfed ‘em up like popcorn.

Gratin Dauphinoise – portioned for sharing. A big hit at our table, this dish featured soft-thin slices of russet potato baked with cheese, nutmeg, cream, garlic, butter and more cream.   

Room for dessert? Hell YES!

Choux à la Chantilly – a sort of cream puff with vanilla Chantilly cream (only three ingredients: powdered sugar, heavy cream and vanilla). Soooo good.

Tarte au Praline – Pecans, pecans and more pecans bound with butter, brown sugar, molasses and more butter. Served with a dollop of vanilla-bean ice cream.

Mousse au Chocolat – Another dish portioned for sharing: a big bowl of velvety mousse smothered with shards of 80% cocoa chocolate. Mercy!

Plateau de Fromage – The cheese board. I don’t even know what cheeses were on offer except for the fantastic real Roquefort, a sheep’s milk cheese that’s both salty and tangy, creamy and earthy all at the same time.

Baba au Rhum – This is Josephine Bouchon’s specialty: a bundt-shaped yellow sponge cake resting under a glass dome and wheeled to the table on a rum-laden trolley. Pick your poison, then sit back and watch your wedge of sponge cake get drenched with demon rum.

That was a GOOD NIGHT.

WTF

PHIL

Recently the New York Times as well as Vogue magazine featured a piece about the iconic, old-school French restaurant, LE VEAU d’OR (golden calf), which opened in 1937 in New York City, remained in business for 54 years prior to closing during the pandemic, and in 2024 reopened under new ownership.

At its height of popularity, Le Veau d’Or was the celebrity hang-out for New York’s glitterati…think Jackie O, Marlene Dietrich, Ernest Hemingway, Oleg Cassini, Truman Capote, Orson Wells (who owned the building and lived upstairs), Grace Kelly, and Audrey Hepburn as well as other A-listers. I could go on, but you get the idea.

The beloved, 54-seat bistro was adorned with all things calf, including paintings of baby cows, calf plant holders on every table, calf matchbooks. The specialty of the house? Veal dishes ranging from roasted veal breast and blanquette de veau (veal stew with cream-laced egg-yolk), to veal liver and Veal Francaise, bathed in lemon butter. This was the place to indulge your taste for supremely tender calf flesh. 

Earlier this year, chefs Lee Hanson and Riad Nasr (the duo behind the ultra-hot brarsseries FRENCHETTE and LE ROCK) purchased the spot from its longtime owners, the Tréboux family, and lovingly restored the place, ushering in a new era with a $125 prix fixe menu that I assume varies from day to day or week to week.

The reborn Veau d’Or is reverential to the old classic French offerings, while giving the menu a gentle kick forward. Everything old is new again.

Along with dishes like rognon de veau (kidneys), veal osso buco, veau ravigot (head, cheeks, brains and tongue), veal sweetbreads (thymus glands), vol au vent (veal or chicken-filled crispy pastry shells), you’ll find dishes like duck breast with cherries, steak au poivre, slow-roasted chicken with morel mushrooms, and poached lobster Macedoine (a kind of salad),

But now…We need to talk about veal. No one likes to talk about the process between farm and fork.

The fact is that consumption of veal began during the ancient Roman Empire. As Rome conquered what is now France, veal became a delicacy there as well…a food for rich people.

Here in the states, it’s only become favored in the last few hundred years due to immigration…perhaps by mainly the Italians who tended to settle in metropolitan areas in the northeast…New York, Boston and Philly.

Over time, the consumption of veal has dwindled dramatically, and I mean DRAMATICALLY. Americans today consume only about 15% as much as we did just a quarter century ago. Why is that?

Well, I’m not smart enough to know the answer, but perhaps it’s generational. Perhaps people recoil at the idea of eating a baby animal, particularly cute ones. Moreover, the bigger the animal, the more sympathy we have. Nobody thinks twice about swatting a fly or setting a mousetrap, but calves are huggable and adorable.

Then again, we see lamb on restaurant menus (full grown, it’s called mutton)…and suckling pig…and chickens that are slaughtered at only 5 weeks old.

So why has veal become the poster child for animal cruelty in America? In the past, weren’t all veal calves raised humanely in the U.S.? The answer is NO.

Until about 10 years ago, newborn male dairy cows were frequently tethered to “crates” causing confinement, allowing little movement until “harvest” at about 20-24 weeks old. Back in the day, when we had PRONTO RISTORANTE, we used to sell the hell out of milk-fed Provimi veal. The formula the calves were fed, along with restricted muscle movement, kept the meat from getting darker as it grew older. Yikes.

But that was then, this is now.

Today the vast preponderance of veal – any veal that you would find in a restaurant or grocery store – is certified and highly regulated by the VEAL QUALITY ASSURANCE COUNCIL and the AMA, AMERICAN VEAL ASSOCIATION. Whole Foods is one of the biggest purchasers.

These organizations work to ensure that all crates are banned, that the calves roam free in a “buddy system” or in groups, and that they are free from discomfort, disease and distress.

So, if you are not a vegetarian or a vegan, enjoy your osso buco, your Viennese wienerschnitzel, your Italian cotoletta or your veal roast.

And if you are in the mood, have dinner at MANNY’S and order the VEAL CHOPS – I like mine Sicilian style, cooked medium rare – along with a bottle (or two) of Chianti Classico Reserva. 

LIFE IS GOOD!

W.T.F.

PHIL

A few years ago, Joanne and I came upon a new restaurant concept in London.

It was called BURGER & LOBSTER.  The quirky premise was that you could order a burger…or lobster. That was it.

I like the idea of doing a few things well…and they did. The LOBSTERS were around $30 and sweet tasting…being steamed first, then finished on the grill and served with lemon-spiked drawn butter.

The BURGERS were a whopping 10oz. with tons of umami (achieved in part by incorporating a dash of fish sauce in the patty).  The cushy brioche buns were glossy and made from scratch.

This wasn’t Burger King or McDonald’s. The restaurant had a smart polished casual attitude, with a pronounced “high-low” vibe – an understated friction that matched its juxtaposition of high-end, pricey lobster with low-end, people-pleasing burgers.

They must be doing very well because, as Joanne and I noticed when we were in London recently, they now have nine locations.

A similar line of thinking can be seen at LE COQ RICO on a little street near Montmartre in Paris. It’s there that celebrated chef Antoine Westermann operates his chicken-only restaurant. It’s definitely not a KFC or Popeye’s.

Some people will say, “I never eat chicken in a restaurant. I can make chicken at home.” I disagree with that. I’m of the opinion that the chef may know something about poultry that I don’t. Moreover, elevating the mundane presents the chef with a real test of his or her skills. Lobster is almost guaranteed to impress; it takes skill to create a knockout chicken dish.

And Westermann does.

First and foremost, he only uses LANDES CHICKENS from Gascony region in southwest France (more about them later), and he roasts them low and slow. Yes, they are expensive…but Landes chickens are flavor champions.  I don’t have the skills to describe just how good his chicken is. You’re just going to have to trust me.

So, as Joanne and I visited London a few weeks ago, I was intrigued to learn that the person behind the iconic BOB BOB RICARD in Soho had birthed a new and clever restaurant a mere skip across the street.

It’s called BÉBÉ BOB and the menu says loud and clear….”YOU MAY ORDER ANYTHING, AS LONG AS IT’S CHICKEN OR CHICKEN”.  

That’s just the first rule, by the way. There’s also this: “NO PARTIES LARGER THAN FOUR. LARGER GROUPS WILL NOT BE ACCOMMODATED.”  And this: “YOU MAY HAVE YOUR TABLE FOR NO MORE THAN ONE HOUR AND FORTY-FIVEMINUTES.” (You know how I feel about that last one).

It’s pretty cheeky and supremely confident for a restaurateur to state that. It’s also a bit arrogant. And I sure don’t think it represents hospitality.

However, in a world where we’re too often saturated with options, it’s weirdly refreshing to be presented with a menu that does away with them altogether.  Sometimes freedom FROM choice is as liberating as freedom OF choice.

I told the waiter, “I’ll have the chicken.”  Joanne chimed in, “Me too”.

The dining room is at once contemporary, smart and Art Deco-y, with black marble tables, plush, cherry-red carpets, and velvet chairs. (As Grace Dent of the Guardian wrote, “It gives off ‘chicest dining option on a swanky 1960s cruise ship, complete with a swarm of seagulls chasing you from Civitavecchia to Cartagena’ vibes; it also zings with ‘restaurant adjacent to a Monte Carlo poker table where James Bond might woo Honey Ryder.’”) If you go, ask to be seated in the crimson, elevated rear section of the restaurant, and request one of the corner tables – #32 or #33. They’re the cat-bird seats where you’ll have a vista of the entire dining room and all the action that makes Bebe Bob as fun as it is delicious.

As with Burger & Lobster, there is a dichotomy at play. Here you are, sitting in this SNAZZY DINING ROOM EATING HUMBLE CHICKEN and at the same time downing flutes of CHAMPAGNE while spreading OSETRA CAVIAR and crème fraîche on tiny delicate warm blini pancakes with a mother-of pearl baby spoon. It’s COMFORT FOOD WRAPPED IN GLAMOUR.

There is no such thing as moderation at BEBE BOB.

Earlier I mentioned LANDES CHICKEN. Order Bébé’s signature Chicken for Two and that’s what you’ll get. This pampered poultry from Gascony roams freely in the open air. The birds are milk-fed and finished with local grain the last two weeks before “harvesting.” This creates a juicy layer of savory fat under the skin while providing a firmer under-the fork texture and deeper flavor. This is the same chicken that Helene Darroze serves at her Michelin three-star restaurant at the Connaught in London.

Joanne and I began with an amuse bouche of caviar, followed by a pair of deep fried CHICKEN SCHNUGGETS (chicken schnitzel), one with black caviar, the other with golden trout roe.

Someone let the pig out because I had to have the ANCHOVY EGG MAYONNAISE with Cantábrian anchovies in addition to a LEMON CREAM DONUT topped with caviar.

SHRIMP COCKTAILS were next. Bébé Bob’s version features king prawns blanketed with a pink sauce of mayo, a little bit of ketchup, lemon juice, Worcestershire and VSOP Cognac. It’s called “Mary Rose Sauce.” Oh yes…a few mini-type McNuggets are added.

We didn’t have order the manhole-size crispy CHICKEN SCHNITZELS, made from the “breast of slow-grown Cotswold white chicken,” but plenty of other diners did. They come with a simple lemon wedge on top but can be upgraded with a scoop of caviar.

Instead, Joanne and I opted for the Landes rotisserie chicken. It was supremely juicy, golden-skinned and artfully plated in a sort of yin-yang geometry and came with a small vessel of creamy chicken jus for topping.

Sides were rich and remarkable. We ordered the chicken fat-roasted potatoes with thyme, rosemary and garlic, and “Truffled Cauliflower Cheese,” which featured delicate cauliflower cooked in Mornay sauce with truffle, parmesan and cheddar. Each side runs about $9.

For dessert, we shared a CLASSIC TARTE TATIN with Calvados ice cream and an order of wonderfully decadent PROFITEROLES, filled with whipped Guernsey Cream and served with Valrhona dark chocolate sauce.

So, to me, it looks like specializing in just one item and doing it exceedingly well sounds like a crowd-pleasing formula these days.

What on Earth could be next?

Could it be what the famed radio duo Bob and Ray predicted some years ago? HOUSE OF TOAST?

Of course you’d have several choices…lightly toasted…medium…or almost black.  And one could choose white bread…whole wheat…rye…maybe even pumpernickel. A broad selection of spreads would also be on offer. Think peanut butter…strawberry jam…grape jelly.

And for us Minnesotans: white bread toast and butter.

WTF

PHIL

Frequently, on Saturday afternoons, my Mom could be found hovering over the kitchen stove, crafting a simmering pot of “Eye-talian spaghetti sauce.” I marveled at the exoticness of it, especially since the smells coming from our kitchen were the same as those that wafted from the house of the mysterious and mystical Matroni family from Naples, Italy that lived down the street from us. They lived along my paper route, and when I dropped off the Chicago Sun-Times on Sundays, I often smelled the sauce simmering in their kitchen.

What I didn’t realize at that time was that Italian spaghetti (Creamette’s, from the A&P) was my mother’s way of stretching our sparse food budget in order to put dinner on the table for our extended household family of seven – two grandmas, an aunt and uncle, my mom and dad, and little me.

When we all sat down for supper at five o’clock, all eyes focused on the center of the table, where my mother placed the big honkin’ platter of spaghetti, smothered with the magical, mystical tomato sauce. The sight took my breath away.

What was also dead center at the table: a bright green cardboard can of KRAFT PARMESAN CHEESE – ”the classic flavor enhancer.” At first, we were all a little timid about what to do with this curious, new-fangled product, so we only sprinkled a few granular bits on top of our spaghetti. But we soon discovered that we really liked Kraft Parmesan Cheese, and later the spaghetti-laden supper table was set with two cardboard cans. When you said the word “Parmesan” in our house, you thought of Kraft.

Over the next several years, I discovered more upscale versions of grated Parmesan cheese – the tastiest being SARTORI from Wisconsin. American Parmesan needs to be aged 10 months, and that was a Sartori selling point. 

Sometime later, when I came across un-grated Parmesan, I also learned not to grate it ahead of time. It gets flat, nasty and tasteless real quick.

Now let’s fast-forward a few decades to Bologna, Italy, where I attended Marcella Hazan’s cooking school.

WOW!…BAM!…POW!…KAZOWIE!   That’s when I discovered PARMIGIANO REGGIANO CHEESE!!!

First, let me explain.

Parmigiano Reggiano is made using a centuries-old process that is extremely tightly regulated. For a cheese to bear that name, it must come from the Emilia Romagna region in northern Italy and contain only three ingredients: unpasteurized milk from certain breeds of grass-fed cows, salt, and rennet (a potent liquid derived from a young milk-fed calf’s stomach).

The Designation of Origin (DOP) that guarantees authenticity is strictly enforced and protected by the Italian government. Furthermore, the cheese must be aged a minimum of one year (and up to four years) and pass a rigorous inspection from the DOC. The government authorizes only 300 makers and, by law, each is allowed to produce only 26 wheels per day.   

The cheese-making process begins early in the morning with the milk being delivered to an approved facility no later than 8:00 AM. The milk is poured into heated copper vats, rennet is added, and soon curds begin to form. They’re broken up until the milk begins to coagulate into a single mass.

Now the cheese is lifted out and drained, leaving behind the whey (remember Little Miss Muffet?) which is formed and placed into molds to set. That’s when the dotted inscription that circles the entire wheel is impregnated into the rind. Then the wheels are transferred to a salt bath for twenty days in order to harden the rind. Afterward, the producers deliver the 72 lb. wheels to massive, humidity and temperature-controlled aging consortiums where they reside up to four years.

The result? 

Over the months, an aroma, texture and flavor will evolve that is at once complex, earthy, salty, nutty, and moderately sharp, with notes of umami. The cheese also assumes an almost crunchy texture.

BUT STOP!!!!

Here’s a little sidebar that I’ll bet you didn’t know.

Parmigiano Reggiano isn’t the only food that Emilia Romagna is known for worldwide. BALSAMIC VINEGAR is another (I’ll save that for a future posting).

And then there’s PROSCIUTTO DE PARMA, which comes from pigs that consume the vast amount of whey left over each day in the Parmigiano copper vats from throughout the region.

The nutritional properties of the potent, high-quality protein in whey provide a jump-start for fattening up the young Prosciutto piglets and getting them started on the path toward the finest air-dried hams on the planet.

In some respects, the production of Prosciutto is not dissimilar to that of Parmigiano Reggiano. It’s highly, highly protected by strict standards, with only certain breeds of pigs authorized to become Prosciutto. They must be born and raised in Emilia Romagna and their flesh air-aged in a huge consortium (CONSORZIO DEL PROSCUITTO). The final product is carefully inspected by official regulators who alone are authorized to give it the Designation of Origin.

So there.

Now back to Parmigiano.

Chunks pried right off the wheel are wonderful all by themselves as a snack. Restaurants frequently put on a show and toss pasta directly in the big wheel tableside (sometimes even flaming it).

In cooking school, we frequently ended our meal with fresh chunks of Parmigiano and drops of 25-year-old Balsamic vinegar, and occasionally we prepared grilled cheese sandwiches filled with melty dark chocolate and Parmigiano Yeah, yeah, I know. But try it, you’ll like it.

You’ll also love cheesy-roasted cauliflower laced with Parmigiano and heavy cream. And don’t throw away the rind! Add it to soups and stocks.  For your next party, surprise your guests with Parmigiano chunks dipped in chocolate sauce that is no less than 70% cocoa. And give yourself permission to splurge a little on movie night at home by dusting your buttery popcorn generously with freshly grated Parmigiano Reggiano. Don’t skimp.

So, here’s the rub: it’s pretty expensive – about $20 a pound. However, COSTCO sells the real thing – a two-year-old Parmigiano Reggiano – for about $12 a pound. Domestic Parmesan runs about $3 – $6 for 8 ounces.

I have a confession (HUSH! HUSH!): I don’t always use the real thing on my pasta. Perhaps it’s a childhood thing, or maybe pure convenience. But on rare occasions, I’ve been known to pop open a lid of pasta sauce and a bright green container of “you-know-what.” It’s my ultimate comfort food.

And as a local restaurateur, I just don’t want to be caught at Lunds-Byerlys with that bright green container in my cart. I’m still recovering from being discovered a couple of years ago with a jar of CHEEZ-WHIZ at the checkout.

W.T.F.

PHIL

WIENERSCHNITZEL…what an inelegant-sounding German word, right up there with “ausfahrt” (off-ramp or exit).

Yet despite its ugly moniker, wienerschnitzel is such a beautiful dish. In fact, it’s so delicious that, in one form or another, practically every country on the planet has a version.

The word “schnitzel” roughly means cutlet – a thin slice of meat, pounded ‘til tender, then breaded and fried. The word “wiener” doesn’t mean hot dog or weenie. It means “of Vienna,” as in Austria.

Together the words represent the national dish of Austria, where wienerschnitzel is actually protected by law. The meat MUST BE VEAL and it must be prepared and served in the traditional way – fried in lard and accompanied by fresh lemon wedges.

FIGLMUELLER RESTAURANT, founded in Vienna in 1905, is thought by many to be the first restaurant to serve wienerschnitzel. There it comes in several iterations, including “jagerschnitzel” (smothered in mushrooms) and “à la Holstein” (with anchovies, capers and a fried egg on top).

BUT…HOLD ON. The origins are complex and even today are subject to debate.

See, Vienna takes credit for giving us the dish. It is said that wienerschnitzel was introduced to the masses by Austrian Field Marshall Radetsky, who discovered it while traveling in Italy early in the 19^th century and returned to Vienna with the recipe.

Ask the Italians, however, and they’ll tell you that it was well established by that time – that, in fact, wienerschnitzel was first offered in Italy on a menu dating from 1134 for the Abbots of the Cannons of St. Ambroglio. It was called “cotoletta.”

I’ve been privileged to enjoy delicious cotoletta à la Milanese, pan fried in clarified butter (not olive oil) at SOLFERINO RISTORANTE in the elegant and artsy district of Milan.

But, then again, does anybody really give a shit as to who invented it?

Paris has a version – a “skinny” one – called “paillard de poulet” (we serve a version of this pounded chicken cutlet at Salut).

The epicenter of the Paris iteration is on Avenue Montaigne, the world-famous fashion avenue and home to the collections of Gianni Versace, Christian Dior, and Salvatore Ferragamo as well as other world-renowned designers.

And that’s perhaps why the fashionista restaurant L’ AVENUE prepares its chicken version of the schnitzel without flour, breadcrumbs, clarified butter, or – for that matter – flavor. Is it because of all the fashion models that work in the area? 

In Copenhagen, Denmark, the waterfront restaurant BURR specializes in free-range pork schnitzel, served three distinct ways. The first is wonderfully plain. All you taste is pork, butter and lemon. The second version sees the schnitzel buried under a load of chanterelle mushrooms sauteed in Danish Lurpak clarified butter. And the third iteration is topped with a mixture they call “boy” – a weird name for an intense garnish of lemon, capers, horseradish and brined anchovies.

As recently as the 20^th century, the Ashkenazi Jews of Eastern Europe brought schnitzel to Israel.  And since veal was not popular in the Eastern Bloc, chicken schnitzel was introduced, not so much as a main course but as a popular hand-held street food snack. When served as an entree, the chicken was breaded in challah breadcrumbs (sounds good). But at Passover time, Matzo cracker crumbs were swapped for challah (doesn’t sound so good, but I’d still dig in).

Speaking of “not so good,” Russia has also gotten into the act – except they grind up the chicken…parts (innards? Feet? Beeks? Damned if I know) and call it “Pozharsky.” Never tried it.

A surprise to me was that Japan and parts of Southeast Asia have their own take on the dish. It’s called “Tonkatsu” – “Katsu,” for short – and has absolutely conquered my tastebuds. A flattened chicken breast, it’s always dredged in Japanese panko bread crumbs for that extra crunch and is typically accompanied by a Kombu seaweed salad. The other topping of choice is wonderfully immoral: It is called “Katsu sauce” and involves, among other things, brown sugar and ketchup. I love it.

Great Britian also has a version of schnitzel that, to me, seems reflective of its inability to shake off its post-World War II “make-do” culinary history. Called “parmo,” it’s a humble chicken cutlet inartfully smothered in bechamel sauce and crowned with cheddar cheese (what else?). It’s gooey and melty – a real “tummy-stuffer.” You’re most apt to find it in northern England.

So what’s the point? Well, MANNY’S is going to tip their toe into the “SCHNITZEL WATERS” this month with an exclusive interpretation of Chicken Milanese,” available for a limited time. It’s two flattened (but not too flat) fresh, hormone-free chicken breasts, seasoned, dusted with flour, dipped in…….well, the rest is secret.  It’s topped with a tiny  salad of arugula, cherry tomatoes and a misting of extra virgin olive oil.

What is not a secret is that the plump chicken breasts come from a hen that has been specifically bred for her rather large breasts, the kind that may cause Playboy Playmates to wince.

WTF

PHIL

It seems to me that people eat out for two main reasons.

One: They’re hungry, require restoration, and need to fuel up. They have to eat.  

Two: They wish to dine. People aren’t dining to stave off vitamin D deficiency.

John Bennett, editor and writer for the New Yorker magazine, once said, “While people would doubtless go to a restaurant because they are hungry, the experience is more complicated than hunger alone.”

He’s correct. Jay Rayner of the London Guardian said it best: “I’m going to get out of my house, be around people I like, and have a good time.” For those folks, restaurants are a magnet of pleasure. They sell a total experience. The restaurant is a retreat, an oasis, a destination.

Things change the moment you step inside when someone smiles at you. It’s like a vacation from yourself. There’s a rhythm to the evening.

But I’ve seen a disturbing trend the last few years…post Covid-19.

And that’s DINING AGAINST THE CLOCK.  

“You and your guest, sir, have 90 minutes allotted to eat. Then we will need your table.”

Okay, I get it.  Quick service and casual restaurants, having a lower check average, need to turn their tables as frequently as the can. And for higher-end places, profitability typically hinges on getting two turns a night – early and late.

Again, as Jay Rayner states, “Time limits are not my idea of a relaxing night out.” A 90-minute time limit (or whatever) for three courses, elbows on the table, wine, coffee and a good chat? And then being told to leave if, God forbid, you make the mistake of ordering a second cup of coffee? THAT’S not pleasant.

And what if your longer-than-expected meal owes not to your poor time-management skills but matters beyond your control? If it takes 20 minutes for your server to approach your table, will they add minutes to the clock? If the kitchen is backed up and ticket times are horrible, does that eat into my allotment as well?

Remember, I get it. The less time spent at a table, the more times your tables turn, the more profit you make. So many restaurants these days are struggling just to stay open. With the economics of everything – food, labor, utilities and government rules and regulations – it’s tough (really tough) to navigate the brutal tension between HOSPITALITY and PROFIT.

I first encountered the time-limit practice a few years ago in London at a fine restaurant called ROAST in Borough Market. We were a party of eight, on a PARASOLE dining trip. Hoping to learn as much as possible, we ordered half the menu; I have no doubt that our party exceeded their guest check average by a hefty margin. Nevertheless, after two hours, the manager approached our table and told us it was time to leave. Waiters were glowering and hovering around our table so that they could re-set it. Our dessert was half eaten and the wine bottles still half full. But, no matter. Our dining time had expired.

What a joyless end to the evening.

On the way out, I said to the manager, “You spoiled our experience. I thought you were in the HOSPITALITY BUSINESS.  You’re NOT. You are in the GROSS PROFIT business.”

Haven’t been back to ROAST. Don’t intend to.

Unfortunately, our experience was a harbinger of things to come. In recent times, local restaurants – good ones, too – have been infected with the time-limit disease. A few weeks ago, Joanne and I made reservations online at one of our favorite spots, and there it was on the screen in black and white: For a party of two…90 minutes. For three or four guests…1 hour 45 minutes. Party of six? You get 2 hours.

That, my friends, IS NOT HOSPITALITY. And as you can tell, I’m NOT a fan of time limited dining.

At all PARASOLE restaurants – MANNY’S…PITTSBURGH BLUE…SALUT…and GOOD EARTH – tare NO TIME LIMITS. No “BUM’S RUSH.” Our managers feel that for every guest that stays long, another leaves early. It all balances out. But even if it didn’t, you are free to stay for as long as you like. It’s your table for the evening. Our hospitality is human and heartfelt. Dining is for PLEASURE.

And we want to you to leave happier than you were when you came in.

W.T.F.

PHIL

Hard to believe it now, but Joanne and I visited Bangkok 25 years ago.

It was a glorious trip – with wonderful people, amazing sights, and zesty, zippy, frisky, memorable food.

But, wow: the heat.

It was beastly…sweltering…sticky, steamy, muggy hot. I remember asking Joanne, “Do you have to sweat so much?”   She said, “I don’t sweat, I perspire” !

We’d leave the comfort of our air-conditioned hotel in the morning and by the time we had walked 10 minutes, our clothes were wringing wet. No wonder our room rate included laundry service.

But it turns out that the scorching temperatures were serendipitous. Because of the daytime heat and humidity, the residents of the city by and large didn’t surface for air until after the sunset when the temperature dropped. And surface they did – in droves and throngs – onto the nighttime streets.

You see, over hundreds of years the tradition developed that food vendors would set up humble little stalls on both sides of the street, offering bright, adventuresome, fiery, flavorful Thai comfort food ranging from pig jowls to duck eggs and everything in between. Grilled cuttlefish…snake (tasted like chicken)…stinky-fresh durian.

These agglomerations became known as NIGHT MARKETS. They were both a dining venue and a social gathering place. And now they thrive not only in Bangkok, but in cities throughout Thailand such as Chang Mai and resort destinations like Phuket.

Each night Joanne and I would roam Sukhumvit Road, wandering from stall to stall, sampling everything from scalding hot unknown chicken parts to octopus and innards. The small offerings were served up on paper plates, paper cones and sometimes in a plastic baggy and were not expensive at all…maybe 2 or 3 bucks each, if that.

It was about then that I said to Joanne, “We could create a restaurant around this idea of exotic small plates in Minneapolis.”

She replied, ”Are you nuts? Are you really friggin’ nuts this time? There’s way too much Lutheran DNA in Minneapolis for folks to ever try this kind of food!”

“Yeah, maybe,” I said, “but the small plates are the key.”

After all, folks could try a small sampling of something exotic like octopus (unheard of in Minnesota at the time) and if they didn’t like it, well, they could just pitch it in the trash. After all, it wasn’t as if they had bet the farm on a $25 plate of cephalopod. And if they did like it, think of the bragging rights they would have in front of their colleagues at the water cooler the next morning. “Oh yeah, I’m cool. I had octopus last night.”

Well, on the way home from Bangkok, I wrote a draft menu on the plane.

A few short months later, CHINO LATINO – offering “Street Food From the Hot Zones” – was birthed in Uptown.

What fun it was! Char-grilled lemongrass lamb lollipops…fire-roasted hot chili shrimp…BBQ Pork belly bao buns…Lamma Island salty squid…and multi-colored, multi-flavored steamed dumplings.

Then, after 20 years, CHINO LATINO’s run came to an end. I’m sad that it closed (but glad that it happened).

But a few weeks ago now – a quarter-century later – we were in New York on a Parasole dining trip and tried a new place with a glowing red neon sign that read, BANGKOK SUPPER CLUB.

Located on Hudson Street in the West Village, it’s the creation of chef/owner Matt Wittawat, a restaurateur whose menu of refined Thai street food and family recipes reveals an an eye for artistry and a true grasp of culinary yin-yang: color and contrast…soft and crunchy…high and low…hot and mild…sweet and sour…all curated for a young urban New York audience.

You can imagine how thrilled I was. It was like seeing an old friend.

So…let’s go…

The place radiates low-grade chic.  Even at 6PM, it was crowded, alive and buzzy. There were 9 of us, but we had reservations and were seated in two cozy horseshoe shaped booths (#12 and #13) in the dead center of the action.

Cocktails were beautiful, bold and generous.

We began our culinary adventure with a couple dozen two-bite tartlets packed with blue swimmer crab, lemongrass and coconut relish…all capped with a small dollop of caviar.

What followed?

Hokkaido Scallops Ceviche buried beneath a watermelon granita with a flicker of red chiles.

Char-grilled Tiger Prawn Satay with cilantro and red chiles over curry-cashew butter…$23

Fried Duck Egg with cherry tomatoes, celery root, grated egg yolk and trout roe.

Rounding out our starts was a Grilled Mushroom Salad, featuring little gem lettuce, oyster mushrooms, chrysanthemum shoots, Thai basil, toasted coconut chips and cilantro-coconut dressing.

Next came Beef Cheek Massaman Curry, slow cooked for 12 hours with roasted shallots and topped with crushed cashews…$37.

Pan-Seared Wild-Caught Chilean Sea Bass Chakram Curry was redolent of Thai basil leaf, sea beans and red chili flakes.

Whole Branzino, dry aged with crispy skin, came with nam jin sauce on the side…$45

Ba Jang Lobster was brown-butter poached and served over powerfully flavored aromatic black pepper sticky rice with oyster mushrooms, nasturtium leaves and toasted garlic chips.

Deep-Fried Pork Jowl with savory garlic baked rice and pork cracklings won applause all around…$35

“Crying Tiger” was a 32oz., bone-in, beautifully marbled Rib Eye steak with fresh Thai herbed salad, char-roasted tomato mash and garlic chips.

Gai Yang Chicken was grilled Thai-style with lemongrass, fish sauce, garlic and honey…$38

Then came dessert:

Coconut-sweet potato ice cream over pound cake with wavy toasted coconut ribbons…sweet, but spicy too.

Pandan Coconut cake arrived nestled inside a young coconut with crushed pandan leaf ice cream custard. (Hint: Be sure to scrape the tender coconut meat from inside the shell).

So, there you have it. It would be a shame if you traveled to New York and didn’t dine at Bangkok Supper Club. It has a coveted Michelin Star. And if you do decide to go, be certain to make a reservation well in advance.

And of course, if you happen to vacation in Thailand, do not deny yourself the many culinary pleasures of the NIGHT MARKETS, whether you’re in Bangkok, Chang Mai or Phuket.

Just be sure that you pronounce PHUKET correctly.

W.T.F.

PHIL