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FESTIVAL # 1

There was a piece in my recent issue of Time Out – New York on Little Italy’s FEAST OF SAN GENNARO. Saint Gennaro is the patron saint of Naples, Italy and more than a million folks descend on Mulberry Street in lower Manhattan to celebrate his feast day.

The highlight of the 11-day celebration is the Grand Procession involving floats, marching bands, celebrants and, of course, the statue of San Gennaro being carried on the shoulders of a dozen or so strapping Italians.

Some years ago I happened to stumble on the event, and saw women pinning dollar bills onto the decorative fabric of the elevated float that carries the statue through the pedestrian-congested street food stalls, with their offerings of hot beef sandwiches, cannoli and pizza. I also saw a parish priest strolling the food stalls, taking in the aromas of grilled sausage and just-baked pizza….all the while offering his blessing to each food vendor. 

FESTIVAL # 2

Reading about the Little Italy event got me thinking about another fortuitous festival experience Joanne and I had in the Puglian southern city of Bari, Italy.

That evening, as darkness set in, the center of the city suddenly burst into a spectacular light show, the likes of which we had never seen. The town square, buildings, and monuments – all lavishly and carefully adorned with thousands and thousands of tiny lights – came alive before our eyes. And suddenly a huge procession emerged at the edge of the town square, led by the parish priest or possibly the bishop. Serious pageantry ensued – including banners, military-like uniformed members of the clergy, marching bands, and throngs of locals dressed up in traditional costumes and carrying Catholic icons and relics, the most important of which was the statue of Saint Nicholas, patron saint of Bari, the protector of sailors. The priest recited a prayer for calm and peaceful seas as the procession ended at the Basilica of St. Nicola. 

The food stalls?   Local stuff….good local stuff:  pizza, of course; the signature pasta of Puglia, orecchiette; and from the sea, grilled baby octopus.

Italians love to celebrate. Their festivals are famous throughout Italy as well as in other countries and communities of Italian emigrants around the world. They are known for their scale, their local culinary specialties, their pageantry, the veneration of their patron saints…and occasionally their eccentricity (stay tuned for that).

FESTIVAL # 3

Our Parasole colleagues visited Venice, Italy a while back as part of a Parasole Wine Tour. Unfortunately, they were there in the fall and missed one of the most stunning and colorful festival spectacles in all of Italy: The Festa Della Sensa (the Marriage of the Sea) that takes place every May.

In this Venice festival there is a procession as well, but this one takes place in the canals. Exuding bravado and flamboyance, the lead boat leaves from the Piazza San Marco and wends its way down the Grande Canal, horns blaring, followed by a colorful procession of rowboats manned by equally colorful costumed, swaggering boat-men.

The procession ends a few miles away at the church of Saint Nicolo. But there seems to be no evidence of Saint Nicholas anywhere. From what I can tell, there is only a vague religious link to the festival (called the Feast of St. Nicholas). Nevertheless, at a market close to the church revelers celebrate with Venetian Pizzas – featuring calamari, shrimp, clams, mussels and whatever other gifts the sea provided that day. Venetian pizza? DAMN GOOD!

FESTIVAL # 4

The next festival on my list flirts a bit with eccentricity.

That would be the original Feast of Saint Gennaro, held in Naples, Italy every September.

Unlike its New York offspring, the original is deeply religious. Thousands of believers gather in the cathedral as well as on the piazza in front of the cathedral to try and catch a glimpse of a cardinal bearing vials of red liquid believed to be the coagulated blood of St. Gennaro. The crowd watches anxiously to see if it liquifies, a sign that the saint has blessed the city (it usually liquifies).

Then the festivities begin. The procession leaves the church with the cardinal triumphantly in the lead and parades through the narrow streets of Naples with the statue of saint and the liquified blood in tow.

The food reward at the end?  PIZZA !!! (Duh, this is Naples).

FESTIVAL # 5

Perhaps the most eccentric of Italian festivals is the annual May celebration that takes place in Cocullo, a town in Abruzzo.

It’s called Festa del Separi, or the Festival of the Snake Catchers. Yup, that’s right, snakes are involved. Six-footers.

This bizarre festival celebrates Saint Dominic, who locals believe fends off wolves, bears and illness. The snakes – lots of ‘em, gleefully handled by the town folk – are draped over the wooden statue of Saint Dominic and paraded through the streets. Whoever, at the end of the day, rounds up the most snakes is dubbed…a HERO. HMMM?

I HATE SNAKES…..YEECH !!!!!

Fortunately, they’re not on the menu. At this festival, the crowds are blessed to feast on Porchetta and pizza!

W.T.F.

PHIL

My son, David, just dropped off his son, Charlie, at a university in Massachusetts for his sophomore year.

It got me thinking about the times when Joanne and I road-tripped around the country, sometimes with our kids, other times on our own.

Naturally this gets us to food. 

I remember being intent on trying each state’s ICONIC dishes. There are too many to recount in just one post, so this will be the first in a series.

Let’s begin with Connecticut. Two spots come to mind.

Joanne and I traveled up to New Haven for our son, Steven’s, graduation in architecture and celebrated with a very nice group dinner at the UNION LEAGUE CAFÉ.  But typically we sought out restaurants (actually, joints) that define the state’s food culture.

First, LOUIE’S LUNCH.

Louie’s was created in 1895 and, according to the Library of Congress, was the birthplace of the hamburger.  Not only that, but the Travel Channel calls its signature offering “THE TASTIEST BURGER IN AMERICA.”

Now, the place is tiny – really tiny – and the burgers are flame-grilled on the original upright gas broilers. The meat blend is a closely held secret, but is rumored to be a combination of five different cuts of beef; a blend so tasty that Louie’s has extremely strict rules about eating their burgers. First, in order to experience the meat’s full flavor, you’re required to eat it on white bread toast. Ketchup and mustard will not be permitted. Toppings are restricted also. A slice of tomato is allowed. Raw onions are permissible, as is cheese. You want a portabella mushroom or bacon on it? You can get the f+++ out.

I recall the burgers are around $7, and I believe they come with a styrofoam cup of potato salad, to be eaten with long red plastic iced tea spoon.

Second: FRANK PEPE’S PIZZA, also in New Haven.

There were several of us that piled into three wooden booths on a quiet Saturday afternoon. But we got to see the original huge bank of white-hot, coal-fired pizza ovens that span the entire back wall of the restaurant.  Seven or eight pizziolas decked out in white baker’s uniforms navigate the pizza-making ritual with a show-stopping ballet that involves inserting, removing and landing their charred crust creation smack-dab in front of you with a soft thud on the marble counter. And the performance is choreographed with the use of 12-foot long pizza peals suspended from the ceiling…worthy of a 1930’s Busby Berkeley musical production.

They claim that their most popular pizza is “The Tomato Pie,” a mostly round, manhole-sized rendition. I’ve had it. It’s good. But my favorite, perhaps because I’m from the Midwest, is Pepe’s White Clam Pizza, loaded with clam bellies and crispy bacon.

However, just last week, according to a Facebook quote and published by The New Haven Register, the owner was spotted flashing a Trump poster reading “Deplorables For Trump.” This ignited a boycott by a sizeable group of local residents. Reportedly a contingent of outsiders is currently picketing the restaurant (reinforcing my belief that it is the height of stupidity for restaurateurs to wade into politics).

An Irony: Amongst Trump supporter Pepe’s recent guests are Bill Clinton, Barak Obama and Robert De Niro. (Like I always say, “Pizza ain’t political.”)

My Connecticut winner? Frank Pepe’s White Clam Pizza.

Our son Steven started his undergraduate education at Bowdoin, located at the end of the earth, in Maine. So when Joanne, Steven and I made the road trip to Brunswick to visit…well, it was all about Maine Lobster rolls, day and night. Well-intentioned operators, however, seemed to have corrupted the concoction. All too many spots offered renegade versions of this classic dish. Some served their lobster rolls hot. Some were bound with Miracle Whip. Some of them shamelessly included chopped tomatoes. We even stumbled on Creole iterations with remoulade and bacon. Outrageous.

Perhaps, all these years later, Mainers have enthusiastically embraced such iterations (or should I say “bastardizations”) of the proper lobster roll. And who am I to tell a native which one is actually correct? However, I can tell you this: My favorite Maine Lobster Roll is dreadfully simple.

The base is a Pepperidge Farm hot dog bun with thin sides carefully sawed off. It’s generously brushed with butter and toasted on a flat-top griddle. The lobster filling should be in CHUNKS (ideally with lots and lots of claw meat), mixed with Hellman’s mayo (or homemade mayo that tastes like Hellman’s) and enough chopped celery to ensure that when you eat it, a crunch of celery in every bite serves as a counterpoint to the luscious lean chunks of fresh lobster.

Maine’s iconic food? The Lobster Roll. Hands down!

Next stop: Miami Beach.

I thought about the delicious Cubano sandwiches of PUERTO SAUGA at 7^th and Collins, with their layers of roast pork shoulder, deli ham, Swiss cheese, yellow mustard, garlic, lime juice, and bread & butter pickles. I also thought briefly about orange juice, but WTF is there to say about that besides “I like fresh-squeezed?”

Anyway, this blog is about food, and on that count one restaurant comes to mind before all others: JOE’S STONE CRAB, which I’ve written about on several occasions. Here, I’m selecting two dishes. You may not think I’m playing fair, but these two desperately need each other, like salt and pepper, liver and onions, Simon and Garfunkel.

By now you have probably guessed. Yes, It’s stone crabs and Key Lime pie!!!!

A TIP FOR YOU: If you try stone crabs I Florida, get nothing smaller than the Jumbos or the Colossals. And before, some key lime pies are made with regular limes. Not good. They Key limes are sweeter, full flavored, and pack a limey punch. (I imagine a squeeze of Key lime would be delicious in a glass of Florida orange juice).

Now comes Bobby Knight’s state: Indiana.

Here are two state favorites that are special to me – one that I discovered in later years when I started dining at steakhouses. The other? A sandwich that was a major player during my high school years, and helped me deal with rejection by the beautiful Bonnie in my junior year.

First, the steakhouse: SAINT ELMO’S in downtown Indy, specifically their world-famous Shrimp Cocktail. This is the dish that put Indianapolis on the culinary map. Saint Elmo’s is not only one of the great steakhouses in America, but it sports an iconic fiery shrimp cocktail like you’ve never experienced: chilled, fresh, plump, briny shrimp (five of ‘em). But the sauce is what’s special. It’s eye-watering, sinus-clearing, table-pounding (and my wife tells me, libido-enhancing), fresh-grated horseradish hell.

OHHH….but it hurts SOOO GOOD !!

Along with a killer shrimp cocktail and Bobby Knight (and let’s not forget the Jackson Five), Indiana has given us a truly iconic dish: its frying pan-sized, deep-fried, crispy pork tenderloin sandwich, made from a 7-ounce pork tenderloin that’s pounded and flattened ‘til it’s the diameter of a basketball, then floured, dipped in egg wash, and dredged in breadcrumbs before a trip to the deep fryer. Served on a normal burger bun, it’s usually eaten with raw onions, pickles and ketchup. Soooo good!

But what about Bonnie?

She was my high school sweetheart. Or so I thought. You see, Bonnie never quite saw things my way. I endured night after night of rejection and finally took to culinary revenge. On our evenings out, I resorted to dumping her off at home at 9:30 instead of the usual 10:00. Why, you ask? Well, the local A & W root beer stand closed at 10:00, and that gave me just enough time to ditch Bonnie for their platter-sized, deliciously greasy, Indiana-inspired pork tenderloin sandwich.

With my “culinary revenge gambit,” I think I’ve sorta managed to keep my dignity intact concerning Bonnie, so this seems like a good place to close. I’ve got lots more, though!…the Hot Brown, Maid-Rites, Nashville Hot Chicken, 5 Way Chili…And those are just the appetizers.

Stay tuned.

WTF,

Phil

When Joanne and I visit Paris, we always stay in a boutique hotel called the Saint Gregoire, in the 6^th arrondissement near the Bon Marché. And because there are nights that we choose to stay in the neighborhood and seek out a simple but good bistro, I was surprised to discover on our last visit that there actually was a neighborhood place that I hadn’t heard of – one that suited us to a tee.

INVICTUS, a chic little bistro with an amber glow, is tiny (just 34 seats). You’ll find it on Rue Sainte-Beuve, a side street just steps from the Luxembourg Gardens.

In true Minnesota geezer fashion, I had booked our table for 7:00 on a Monday evening in June. We arrived just as the restaurant was opening. But to my surprise, we were greeted in a very un-Parisian fashion: The manager actually smiled at us at the front door and we were off to a delightful evening.

As the first to arrive, we snagged the best table in the house (#6), the only one by the window. Take note!

The menu was a French bistro charmer that seemed to have one foot in tradition and the other foot walking it forward. And there was not a whiff of pretention…only an earnest desire to please.

On this warm summer evening, we began by cracking a bottle of a cool, crisp Sancerre.

In our American restaurateur “piggy-style,” (yes, that’s an industry term, one I made up just now), it seems like we tried everything that they had to offer, beginning with a chilled pea soup scattered with crispy lardons and topped with a warm and perfectly runny just-cooked poached egg. Heirloom tomatoes were in season, so of course Joanne chose the tomato-burrata salad, adorned with fresh-cut basil and extra-virgin olive oil.

My starter of pickled herring took me right back to Reykjavik – though the flavors were typically French in their nuance and balance. It was served with baby onions, green apple, and intentionally luke-warm potatoes (12 euros). A pristine crab cocktail with marinated thin zucchini slices followed.

In a nod to neighboring Italy, we shared a second starter of white anchovies resting on a bed of grilled red peppers, with garlic bathed in fruity olive oil, perfect for sopping up with the accompanying crusty bread and sea salt.

Invictus offered two iterations of roasted chicken, both featuring the Landes breed of bird, a southern French rival to Bresse chickens. To nobody’s surprise they were really deeply flavored and juicy, especially the version stuffed with a confit of garlic cloves. I suspect that a pound or two of butter may also have contributed to the juiciness. Both dishes were flanked by salt-flecked baby new potatoes.

Fearing that full orders of the thick-sliced Argentine rib-eye might throw us into a food coma, we decided to share a single order. Invictus gave the steak a teriyaki glaze and prepared it perfectly, the meat surrendering to the gentlest nudge of my fork. Still, Joanne declared her choice “best in show” – a piece of steamed hake about the size of a deck of cards, luxuriating in a lemon-grassy Thai broth that was at once spicy, sour and sweet. Included with it were glass noodles and a mix of fresh vegetables.

We also found room for a gorgeous baked cod accompanied by a hollowed-out eggplant, stuffed and baked with ratatouille, as well as two French bistro icons: a textbook Sole Meuniere (36 euros) and a Fergus Henderson-ish snout-to-tail rendition of veal kidneys in red wine. I was slightly embarrassed when I asked for mustard. It was like someone at MANNY’S asking for ketchup with their rib-eye.

Desserts?   OH, YEAH!

We started with a generous slice of Tarte Tatin brightened by a scoop of salted caramel ice cream. A gorgeous, bouncy, all-red dessert of strawberries, raspberries and red currant ice cream burst with flavor. The dessert winner, however, was the warm vanilla millefeuille. I’ve downed my share of this classic dessert, but never have I had it warm. Nice touch.

Bottom line: This place is good….really good.

One thing to note: Burdened by out-of-control labor costs and government rules and regulations, many French bistros (including ones you may have heard of or even dined at) have been forced to abandon the scratch cooking that brought them success. The Boeuf Bourguignon that you may have enjoyed on previous visits may today arrive at the restaurant in a plastic bag, Applebee’s-style, ready to be re-heated.

NOT SO AT INVICTUS. The restaurant is under the thoughtful, brilliant culinary guidance of Chef Christophe Chabanel, who trained in South Africa and now sports a pedigree that includes the multi-Michelin starred Paris restaurant, APICIUS.

You WILL need reservations. Even though we were lonely diners at 7:00 PM, by 7:30 the place started to fill. And by 8:00 there was a butt in every single seat and people were being turned away at the door.

What we also like about INVICTUS is that it does not break the bank. Dinner ran about 75 euros/person – INCLUDING WINE!  Rare in Paris.

It’s a place that we will return to, often…..a place that I will always remember….remember what I had for dinner, and who I was there with.

This is a FIND. Relish it!

W.T.F.

PHIL

I was a kid, still in school. The year was 1958 and the Canadian distiller and Seagram heiress, Phyllis Lambert, had just witnessed the completion of the soaring, Mies Van de Roe-designed Seagram Building, at the corner of Park Ave and 52^nd Street in New York City.

A year later THE FOUR SEASONS restaurant opened there. It was designed by the influential architect, Philip Johnson (best known to Twin Citians as the man who gave us the IDS Center).

The spectacular space was ahead of its time. So, too, was the food philosophy of its owner, Joseph Baum. Before anyone was talking about seasonal food, local sourcing, or farm-to-table cuisine (this was years before Alice Waters revealed that notion to California), Baum introduced what he called New American Cuisine, which was predicated on quality, freshness and seasonality. Mimi Sheraton, who later became the New York Times food critic, and James Beard were menu consultants.

The restaurant was a magnet not just for New York’s A-Listers, but for the global elite. To cite a few: The Duke and Duchess of Windsor, Jack and Jackie (although not together…hmmmm?), Sophia Loren, and a young Henry Kissinger (who’s reported to have always ordered the $40 truffle-strewn baked potato). In later years, Martha Stewart, Princess Diana, Tina Brown and even the Dalai Lama and his saffron-clad entourage frequented the restaurant. The table-hopping was discreet…no lingering…almost orchestrated, like a ballet.

We’ve all heard the term “Power Lunch.” Esquire magazine coined it in reference to the Four Seasons in 1979. This was the place where book deals were signed, decisions made, and mergers were negotiated. Potentates plotted and planned. Business victories were celebrated, marriages were made and ended here.

The main action took place in the Pool Room, an absolutely breathtaking space with 22-foot-high ceilings and a white marble-clad 20-by-20-foot pool, dead center. The pool’s four corners were anchored by trees that honored the menu offerings and changed with the season. The other dining room, The Grill Room, boasted the same high ceilings and lustrous walnut walls, but it was definitely a step down. I’ve heard it said that the Grill Room was a country club; the Pool Room, a cruise ship. 

During the mid-1970s, I was traveling to New York on a regular basis, about every other week. Knowing my deep interest in food and restaurants, and feeling sorry for the deprivation I endured as a native of the “fly-over” Midwest, my Big Apple clients enjoyed taking me to New York’s newest and finest dining destinations, including legendary restaurants like Lutece, La Caravelle, Quilted Giraffe, Tavern on the Green, 21 Club, and Le Cirque.

So it was on one of my first trips that I was lucky enough to be invited by a client to The Four Seasons for a drink. The square-shaped bar was centered beneath a gigantic seasonal spray of dazzling flowers, hanging from above. The lofty windows were draped with metal beads that rippled softly from a gentle breeze emanating from hidden floor vents. This midwestern bumpkin felt like he was at the center of the universe, where only important things could happen. 

Over the next few years, I went back to the bar half a dozen times. Only once did I dine in the restaurant. It was early – probably around 5:30 or 6PM – the only time we could snag a table without an impossible-to-secure reservation. The host guided us to – and through –the see-and-be-seen Pool Room to “Siberia”: the ass end of the Grill Room.

I don’t remember what exactly we had for dinner except that there was an abundance of theater, with tableside preparations and plenty of flourishes. I also remember that it was insanely expensive.

Perhaps the restaurant was at its best when New York was at its worst – with Mayor Ed Koch trying to get a handle on the crime-ridden, crumbling and bankrupt metropolis. I don’t know if folks realize how much the Four Seasons must have meant to the city during those troubled times.

Servers, formally attired in Tom Ford tuxedos, served specialties like Long Island duck for two, deftly carved tableside ($150!). Sole Meuniere, deboned before your eyes, set you back $95, but was worth a visit for that alone. Other signature dishes included black bass ceviche ($35), crab cakes ($64), hand-carved roast lamb ($65), sea urchin ravioli, chocolate souffle, a chocolate/salted caramel tart, and a $38 tuna burger. Regulars were treated with a touch of whimsy….a basketball-sized cloud of pink cotton candy delivered at the end of their meal. The guests loved it, and their ratings were reflected in the Zagat Guide’s perennially stellar ratings for the food.

I don’t know for sure, but as good as the cooking was, the menu may not have even been the point. Perhaps the Four Seasons was, first and foremost, a stage for superstar luminaries.

But all stars fade eventually, and beginning in the late 1990s, the Power Lunch had begun to lose its luster. Over the next two decades, formal, stratospherically expensive cuisine was long past its “use by” date. People had just stopped eating that way, and the Four Season’s clientele had moved on. To make matters worse, Julian Niccolini, the affable and gracious host and partner, was very publicly accused of multiple sexual allegations about the same time that the Me Too movement was gaining traction. Women ignored the place.

And so, after 57 years, the landlord declined to renew the restaurant’s lease.

New investors, however, promptly stepped in. Probably buoyed and maybe a little starstruck by the name, they ponied up over $30 million to build a new Four Seasons a few blocks to the south.

Now, let me pause for a little “inside baseball” wisdom. The rule of thumb is that sales need to double the investment in order for your restaurant to succeed. So do the math: Invest $30 million, you better do $60 million in sales.

Guess what?

The new Four Seasons permanently closed in June of 2019, less than a year after it opened.

The New York Post, in article entitled “Why the Four Seasons Revival Never Had a Chance,” commented that even though $30 million was spent, and despite bringing aboard a talented chef with a pedigree that included Le Bernardin, the restaurant was doomed. The new space didn’t have the drama and grandeur of the Seagram Building. The décor was tasteful and pleasant, but ceilings were low and the dining rooms lackluster. The place felt like a feeble imitation of the original. But the real problem was that the restaurant’s time had passed. People just didn’t show up. The kind of dining experience was no longer relevant to them.

As it says in Ecclesiastes 3: 1-22, “For everything there is a season…a time to be born, a time to die.”

RIP, Four Seasons. You were significant. You important. You were meaningful. You were good.

You had a LARGE LIFE.

WTF, Phil

With the busy fall season fast approaching, my upcoming heavy travel schedule and my wish to just spend some personal time … I’m going to temporarily publish WTF with Phil Roberts every other week instead of every week.

The good news is that I’ll be gathering a treasure trove of new and exiting material.

See you next week!

WTF
Phil