The Life in My Years

What does one do when one goes to New York?

Well, one visits the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. One goes to one of the many museums and stares at paintings while stroking one’s own chin in thoughtful contemplation, while making laconic comments about the artist’s motivation (extra pretension points if the chin sports a beard). One might take in a Broadway show, any show, even if it’s horrible, just to tell the folks back home, “I saw a Broadway show, and it was extraordinary.” One could go to Times Square, see the lights, gawk at the human sideshow, and fend off the scammers and pickpockets. If one has any appreciation for sports history one must go to Yankee Stadium, preferably if the Yankees are playing.

And there’s one other thing that one must do in New York –

savor the New York specialties.

It can be as simple as a hot dog from a cart or as extravagant as a gourmet tasting menu, but eating the foods that have made New York a food destination is a must.

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Before leaving for New York, we put together our own foodie list of things to eat and restaurants to visit.

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The Halal Cart
“There is nothing more vital to a city and a city’s health than good street food and more of it.” ~ Anthony Bourdain

That gurgling sound filling the hotel room is our stomachs demanding attention. It’s five-ish in the afternoon and we just arrived in New York City. Our flight from San Francisco left at 6:20 this morning, so at the airport we were more interested in coffee than food. Since we flew economy, the in-flight meal was just this side of table scraps.

We’re hungry and we know just where to go.

Before taking off we decided that our first dinner would be simple and stress free and something near and dear to the Manhattanite – halal from a cart. A veritible Manhattan staple.

Halal carts dot Manhattan. Having just arrived we don’t realize that there’s a cart not one minute’s walk from our hotel, and another just three minutes walk, and another two or three within five minutes. You get the idea. They’re all over. We’ve decided to take a 15 minute walk to the five star rated Maruf Halal cart on the corner of Greenwich and Murray.

We arrive at the cart and stare goggle eyed at the menu. Just two rubes from –

San Francisco.

That’s because San Francisco is a street food backwater. Outside of a few vendors selling danger dogs outside of Oracle Park after a ball game there are very few street food options in San Francisco. Why? Maybe it’s tight assed regulations. Maybe it’s a restaurant lobby that doesn’t want the competition.

Cora and I are street food rookies.

The halal guy is drumming his fingers on the counter while we figure it out. Finally I order chicken biryani, which comes with rice. Cora orders chicken teriyaki – hold the rice. Hold the rice? The halal guy and I stare at Cora in confusion. The halal guy is trying to convince Cora to take rice (rice or not, the price is the same).

After some back and forth it’s chicken teriyaki

hold the rice.

Whatever.

For a mere $26 dollars I’ve got a heaping container of biryani goodness and a water (my son who has halal cart experience suggested getting water because the food can be salty), and Cora has a less than heaping (because, hold the rice) container of chicken teriyaki and a Fanta. And the guy threw in two samosas each!

We find a small seating area in the shadow of the towering One Trade Center, where people gather just as we have, to eat some good street food. And it doesn’t disappoint. The chicken, caramelized onions, mint, cilantro, and spices are topped with a yogurt based sauce. (The halal guy had asked if I wanted ketchup or barbecue sauce. My impulse was to say “Are you out of your fucking mind?” but I went with the more polite, “No thank you.”). The rice? It isn’t just some conveyance for the sauce. I could eat a container of just the rice.

The samosas are wonderful and I try to talk Cora out of hers (after all she went, “hold the rice,” because she didn’t want starch), but she’s decided that a little samosa starch is better than none.

All for $26 stinkin’ dollars.

We’re stuffed and we decide to take a roundabout walk back to the hotel and marvel at the lights of Manhattan. Just two rubes from San Francisco.

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The simplicity of the slice
“Unless you are a pizza the answer is yes, I can live without you.” ~ Bill Murray.

The New York Pizza. Its claim to fame is its almost wafer thin crust. A crust so thin that you can fold a slice in half lengthwise to eat it. In fact, I’m told that folding the slice in half is the socially preferred way to eat it.

I’m also given to understand that using a knife and fork is the pizza slice equivalent of bringing a boombox to a funeral. A knife and fork just isn’t done. It’s an affront that can result in stares, whispers, and public derision from your fellow diners. Could you be 86ed from a pizzeria and banned for life just for asking for a knife and fork? Possibly.

I’ll admit to being a sort of pizza snob. I’ve long sworn that the best pizza anywhere in the known world can be found at Tony’s Pizza in San Francisco’s North Beach. In 2007 Tony Gemignani’s Pizza Margherita won Gemignani the title of “World Champion Pizza Maker” at the World Pizza Cup competition in Naples. That was no small feat given that he was the first non-Neopolitan to win that title.

Tony has won a number of other pizza competitions and his restaurant has been nationally recognized.

I say that I’m sort of a snob because if I have a sudden pizza craving I will call the local Round Table for a pepperoni pizza. Depending on traffic, Tony’s, being 45 to 90 minutes away and not counting the parking hassle and the line to get in, is a spur of the moment impossibility. There are some pizzas that I refuse to stoop to; Little Caesar, Pizza Hut, and Dominos come immediately to mind.

I had long ago convicted (without tasting the evidence) the New York style pizza of being overly hyped baked cardboard topped with bad cheese and a shmear of sauce.

“It’s not personal, Sonny. It’s strictly business.” ~ Micheal Corleone
In New York, pizza isn’t just business. It can be strictly personal. Fodder for public debate. It’s the same kind of verbal/social media war that’s not unlike, best barbeque in Kansas City, best cheesesteak in Philly, the best hotdog in Chicago, the best Juicy Lucy in Minneapolis, or for those of us who were teenage boys when Gilligan was island bound, Ginger or Mary Ann.

Ignoring the political hazards, even politicians will weigh in on the debate. Newly elected Mayor Zoran Mamdani proclaimed that the best slice to be found in New York City is at Koronet Pizza. Let’s see how that plays out when the next election rolls around.

If we follow the advice of some of the foodie websites, we should be headed for John’s of Bleeker Street, or Joe’s in the Village, or Pugsley Pizza in the Bronx. None of these places is close to our hotel, and as much as I’d like to take a pilgrimage for everything classically New York, we’ve only got eight days, and as I’ve often made clear on this site, ‘you can’t do everything.’

My mindset on the greatness of New York pizza as we walk into Abitino’s is, convince me. Albitino’s is on Broadway in the FiDi, just a few steps away from the horde of tourists taking selfies with the Charging Bull statue (which is not on Wall Street but on Broadway). Abitino’s has been dishing out slices in Manhattan since 1992 and it’s earned some good reviews for pizza in the FiDi.

Abitino’s is a small place with only a few seats. Two shelves of pizza pies run nearly the length of the shop. Decisions, decisions. One slice of the Tony Roni (pepperoni, fennel sausage, and sauce) and a Plain Jane – and a water (I’m not forgetting my son’s advice to keep drinking water).

We order, and loiter at the counter, waiting for the generous slices to be warmed in the pizza oven. They’re served on a floppy, grease stained (as it should be) paper plate with a couple of cheap napkins. Simplicity.

The Tony Roni is good. I love fennel sausage. My Nonna Maria used to make fennel sausage, grinding the meat with a hand grinder clamped to the kitchen table, and so the sausage brings back a cherished memory.

But, my God. I’m in love with Jane. Yes Cora, you should be jealous. Jane is simple perfection – and she doesn’t tell me to vacuum the house or clean the toilet. Tomato sauce and melted cheese on a thin crust – uncluttered – it’s all one really needs. Take a bite, hear that slight crunch of char on the crust, and feel the goodness kiss your heart as it goes down. This slice of New York pizza is a pure treat that is enjoyed best in its uncluttered form. This isn’t my last New York slice. It can’t be.

It’s Saturday evening and we’ve been walking through the Bronx on the way to Arthur Street, the Bronx’s Little Italy, touted as more authentic than its more famous cugino in Lower Manhattan. Arthur Avenue is home to time honored family owned businesses that go back for generations; grocers, bakers, butcher shops, restaurants, and markets.

The walk from the subway has turned into a forced march, having taken longer than Google advertised (what else is new) and by the time we’ve arrived at Arthur Street we’re hungry. Our final destination today is Yankee Stadium to watch the Yankees play their rivals, the Boston Red Sox. The idea is to save room for stadium food. But pizza beckons.

Mezza Luna looks good. They advertise big slices and zero flop. What could be better than big, without flop? Just ask your wife.

The counter guy is burly and no nonsense. I can tell because the previous customer’s indecision clearly wore on his patience. This guy is not out of the cheery, “Hi, my name is Ricky, and I’ll be your server today,” mold. He’s not there to make friends, he’s there to sling slices. Time is money, and this guy won’t tolerate some tourist wasting either.

“What can I get you?” he asks imperiously, arms folded.

Thank God we have our shit together. I order a regular cheese and a thicker Sicilian style and Cora gets a Margherita.

The Sicilian is good but there’s just something about the regular cheese that has me smitten.

I am disappointed that Mezza Luna offers Hawaiian pie. Oh fuck no. I’ll (grudgingly) accept ham. But pineapple? Oh hell no. I’m thinking that the Hawaiian is there to satisfy the vulgarians visting from Los Angeles. The saving grace is that ranch dressing doesn’t seem to be available.

Sienna Pizza is just a few blocks from our hotel on Rector Street. We almost always pass it on the way back from our daily excursions. We’ve stopped a couple of times to get a slice. It’s our last night in New York and we’re on our way back from our last New York dinner, a pasta tasting at Forsythia, located on the Lower East Side. Tomorrow morning we’re homeward bound.

When we get to Sienna I stop. “I have to have one last slice of plain pizza.”

“Are you crazy? You’re going to get sick.”

“Just one slice. I’ll meet you at the hotel.”

“My lord,” Cora says as she walks away.

Once inside I stop and think over this insane decision. What am I doing? I’m stuffed. On the other hand, trying to justify the madness, I ask myself, what could possibly go wrong with having one slice of plain pizza right after a pasta tasting?

Well, lot’s of things. Especially on the plane, a mere ten hours from now.

I change my mind. Instead of getting a slice of pizza –

I get two.

Am I deranged?

Absolutely.

I sit and eat my slices in sad silence knowing that my relationship with the perfect thin slice New York pie has only been a short love affair. A group is sitting next to me. The gabby woman in the group is eating her slice as it’s supposed to be eaten – folded over. I gave that method up early on. You fold it over – you cut the enjoyment in half.

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Katz’s Deli
“See, there’s always, in a really good pastrami sandwich, there is this structural integrity problem, which is a good thing.” ~ Anthony Bourdain

We just happen to be on Orchard Street on the Lower East Side when I find out that Katz’s Deli, the veritable paradise of pastrami, the temple of towers of corned beef, is just a few blocks away. Thunder is rumbling in the distance, the wind is starting to whip, the dark clouds overhead are beginning to spit and our umbrellas are securely stored back at the hotel. All of that and we have reservations for a tasting menu tonight. Common sense says Katz’s is the absolute last place we should be.

But what could possibly be the harm in just taking a look? Think of it as a reconnaissance mission for a future visit on another day (Katz’s is towards the top of my list of places to visit). We arrive at East Houston and Ludlow and, what’s this? There’s no line stretching down the block. There’s no line at all.

It wouldn’t hurt just to step inside and look around.

Would it?

We step inside and a man at the door asks, “Two?” It’s obviously rhetorical because he hands me two little red tickets with columns of numbers and says, “Any line.”

Clearly a more powerful force is at work here. Since it’s obvious that lunch has been predetermined by the delicatessen deities, then who are we, mere mortals, to disobey.

Inside, Katz’s is well oiled chaos. It’s loud. People just coming in wander about trying to figure out the system. Others who have their food wander about trying to find a table. People come in – people go out. A constant exchange. A cafeteria turnstile. That’s the chaos.

If the people provide the chaos, Katz’s provides the grease that keeps the system flowing. That little red ticket is the essential cog in the gear that keeps the lines moving. Yes – lines – and plenty of them. Hungry customers fall into one of the queues and wait patiently for their turn to order from one of the white uniformed meat cutters laboring behind the long counter that stretches nearly the length of the shop.

Impatience is not a thing here. The throng remains unruffled, kept busy marveling at the ambience, and taking pictures and videos of the meat cutters who work nonstop making gargantuan sandwiches.

Any line is as good as another and so I fall in while Cora goes to stake out a table. The lines move quickly and when I get to the station I order a pastrami for me and a corned beef for Cora.

The man starts on my sandwich and then stops midway to slide a slice of pastrami on a napkin onto the counter for me to sample. My knees go weak. The pastrami is melt in your mouth enchantment, and I realize that I have a big fucking problem here. When I was in Paris I had a croissant and with my first bite I knew that, for me, a croissant from anywhere else but Paris would never measure up. With this one bite of pastrami, I realize that a new level of pastrami has been set that will never, ever be equalled.

The meat cutter places the sandwiches and a plate of pickles on my tray, I put a five in his tip jar that overflows with denominations ranging from spare change to twenties and I’m on my way to get the drinks. As is customary at Katz’s I order a Dr. Browns Cream Soda.

The sandwiches are not as advertised. They’re better. Massive mountains of meat. You have to approach each half at the corner, with your head tilted. Trying to keep the sandwich intact is futile.We quickly find out that the bread is sort of a temporary accessory item. After a few bites the whole thing disintegrates onto the plate. That’s fine. That’s why fingers were invented.

I finish my sandwich, Cora finishes half of hers (the remainder will be my breakfast tomorrow) and we realize, to our horror, that there’s a situation here. We have to be at a restaurant for a tasting menu in just a few hours. There’s no way that these sandwiches are going to grind their way through our systems before dinnertime. What’s done is done and we’ll get it figured out.

The food here is extraordinary, but there’s something else at play here. Katz’s is a microcosm of the American ideal represented by that Lady in the Harbor just a few miles from here. Katz’s customers and staff come from all over; Europe, Asia, South America, Africa, Down Under, the Middle East, and all 50 states. 

This melting pot isn’t just tourists but long time regulars. They head to their regular lines and give a friendly dap to their regular meat cutters who they’ve befriended over the years.  The food here is American in the way that it should be, by way of Ellis Island, brought from the old countries, mostly Jewish Germany and Eastern Europe.

Like it or not, at Katz’s you’re going to make new friends, albeit temporary ones. With not nearly enough tables to allow for your own personal place, the seating here is communal. And chances are you might be paired up with someone who’s visiting from an ocean away. Outside these doors is a city and a world where people exist in their own carefully guarded silos. Here, inside the warmth, people from all over come together, bound by good food – as it should be.

Case in point? While I’m standing in line for our food Cora finds a table with a family visiting from Italy. When I arrive with our food we all talk for a bit, they finish their lunch and leave, and pretty soon a couple joins us at the table. It just so happens that they’re from the San Francisco Bay Area.

We talk about our travels, about back home in the Bay Area, our families, and of course, Donald Trump, who they hate as passionately as we do. During our conversation I mention that we have a tasting menu to go to tonight and the woman looks at me with a combination of pity and stifled laughter.

We’re done and I take Cora’s half sandwich to a counter to be wrapped. Once we leave our places at the table will be taken by someone else. Maybe someone from some country far away, or from a nearby state, or even a local. That’s the way it works at Katz’s. Good food and a cycle of new friendships.

Today I’m wearing an Anthony Bourdain t-shirt that bears one of Bourdain’s quotes; “Your body is not a temple, it’s an amusement park. Enjoy the ride.”

The two guys working the sandwich wrap counter admire my shirt. Unlike in San Francisco where the shirt gets an occasional frown (probably from Christians), in New York it’s been well received. And why not? Bourdain is, and always will be, a New York legend. He’s as much a part of Big Apple lore as Sinatra, a thin crust pie, Times Square, and the Yankees.

I spend a few minutes exchanging Bourdain stories with the counter guys. “We met him,” one says. “Cool, down to earth guy,” he adds.

What can I say besides, “I’m jealous.”

A quick dap, and I’m on my way.

I needed this. I needed to remember what a quality deli really is. When I was a kid there were plenty of old style delis around. Were they up to the standard of Katz’s? No. But they had that unmistakable deli aroma and ambience. The meat wasn’t in pre-sliced portions. There was a guy behind the counter who sliced a fair portion of meat while you watched, and didn’t set it on a scale as if a bean counter was looking over his shoulder. He then slapped the meat on good quality bread, asked the universal one word question, “everything?” and did it all without anybody worrying about gloves.

With the exception of a few gems, a good deli in the Bay Area is a cherished memory. Gone is the independent deli, where salamis and whole prosciuttos dangle from the ceiling, where sausages simmer in hot bubbling pools of thick tomato sauce, where the olfactories have orgasms the moment you walk in, where the guy behind the counter is proficient in the use of a meat slicer, and where advertising comes from word of mouth and not corporate TV ads during timeouts on Sunday football.

In the end the whole tasting menu dilemma works out. I’m able to reschedule our reservation for Sunday.

Tonight

we digest

And drink an ocean of water.

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An ode to bloody meat
“The myriad of flavors explode on my tongue, shimmy through my mouth, slap my taste buds and call them filthy bastards, and I love it.” ~ Stacey Jay, Romeo Redeemed

Delmonico’s is a throwback. One that’s not for the vegan faint of heart. Or those who have an unforgiving disdain for the old good old boy days of doing business. Delmonico’s is a steakhouse, where the staples are monumental hunks of just barely seared beef, and numerous glasses of various forms of alcohol – martinis, Manhattans, and deep, dark, complex red wines.

Just a five minute walk from Wall Street, Delmonico’s, opened in 1837, recalls charcoal gray suits, vests, and white shirts with stiff collars, worn by men with equally stiff temperaments. It evokes the Gilded Age, gaslights, and the days when steam locomotives huffed into Grand Central Station.

Nearly a century later, in 1950-something, this dining room, darkly lit, and panelled in old wood, housed in a beautiful old Flatiron building, still hosted power brokers who sat at these very tables, ate bloody meat, pounded Scotch – neat, and made decisions that moved the economy.

And while this manly sort of thing is quite properly becoming archaic and culturally incorrect, it’s still a part of Manhattan lore. The meat loving historian in me chose this place just for all of the above reasons. To step back in time, and to imagine, with Cora, the once upon a time when this was the place where big business deals were consummated. The wood panelling is still here, the darkness, not so much.

Sitting in Delmonico’s I’m reminded of the once popular three martini lunch, something I did during the days when I had the vitality, if not the good sense, to drink three stiff cocktails, go back to work and still function. Those are days long past, something for which my liver is eternally grateful.

Delmonico’s menu checks the requisite boxes. If steak doesn’t move you (and it doesn’t even nudge Cora), there’s always lamb chops, lobster or halibut. Included are all the steakhouse essentials; jumbo prawns, the wedge salad, and the always mandatory creamed spinach.

When I made the reservation I had to choose between a few different steakhouses. I eliminated Michael Mina’s, Bourbon Steak because it just isn’t venerable enough. In fact, at only two years old, it’s just a bothersome snot nosed kid. Peter Luger and Keen’s were high on the list but in the end it was Delmonico’s halibut, for Cora, that sealed the deal.

Not so long ago, at least in Delmonico’s years, the servers would be stodgy old guys in aprons. Our server is a stodgy young guy, while a nearby group of Japanese businessmen drinking bottomless Scotches is being served by a stodgy young woman (something that once upon a time would have been considered sacrilege). Both stodgies still wear aprons.

And while much of the stodginess has been smoothed over by time, it’s all still very formal. Our stodgy follows the time honored steakhouse ritual of reverently placing a razor sharp steak knife in front of me. The operative word here is reverently – as if the knife is an heirloom, hand forged in Seville – which it isn’t. It’s a nice knife (you can buy a set at the front desk) but it’s probably your just better than basic restaurant cutlery.

If I thought that Delmonico’s assembled the Caesar Salad tableside I might have considered it but the Wedge Salad beckons. Let’s be honest, a Wedge Salad is the ever tasteless iceberg lettuce acting as a vehicle for a good blue cheese dressing, and the dressing, loaded with chunks of blue cheese is exquisite.

In my younger days I would’ve ordered the 18 oz Ribeye but, as Dirty Harry once said, “A man’s gotta know his limitations.” So I order the 14 oz. Wagyu New York Strip with a side of pommes puree.

We finish with Baked Alaska because Cora has never seen the flambe ritual that goes with Baked Alaska.

The walk back to the hotel should be short, but we need the longer walk so we pass the Stock Exchange and the Federal Reserve where tourists are still taking selfies.

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Modern tastes
“Good food and good eating are about risk.” ~ Anthony Bourdain, Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly

Talk about risk. Tonight, over the course of about two hours, Cora and I are going to spend the bigger part, the much bigger part, of a thousand dollars on dinner. It better be good. It better be damned good.

We’re dining at a restaurant called The Modern; two Michelin stars, and a tableside view of the Museum of Modern Art’s Sculpture Garden. Tonight we lose our tasting menu virginity.

But first, a little context. For years, decades maybe, I’ve scoffed at tasting menus as effete, overpriced exercises in culinary debauchery. As someone who, during my long distance running years used to down an extra large pizza and a pitcher of beer (no you can’t have any, get your own), and used to take multiple trips to the steam table at the all you can eat buffet, the small portions at a tasting menu seemed not only farcical but ridiculously unsatisfying.

I used to shake my head when my son and his wife told us about dropping hundreds at a Michelin starred restaurant.

And so here we are, walking into The Modern, to drop hundreds on one stinkin’ dinner.

What changed?

Fuck if I know.

But, here we are.

Getting over my disdain for tasting menus was only the first, and easiest, hurdle. The second was to convince my wife

the accountant. Who still picks up stray pennies.

Convincing her of big ticket purchases hasn’t been too daunting since the day she told me to go out and buy a Mercedes after I raved over the rental we had in Spain. If she objects to something that costs money (like one of my many t-shirts), I usually respond with something along the lines of, “Says the woman who told me to go out and buy a Mercedes.”

The real difficulty was to find a tasting menu in which she wouldn’t be sending something back. For Cora, eating raw or undercooked food is on par with drinking battery acid. She’s afraid of getting sick.

And so I stated my case. ‘Look, it’s not like you’re going to have a platter of sushi. It’s one, maybe two bites. And they’re not serving gas station sushi. A restaurant isn’t going to risk its two stars by skimping on ingredients. They’re serving the absolute best.’

After being tag teamed by me and her cousin Emilie, Cora considered dipping her toes into the ocean of raw.

I originally wanted to go to the three Michelin star Le Bernardin, run by Bourdain’s good friend Eric Ripert. Most of the menu there is fish and seafood, so this wouldn’t be toe dipping. More like full immersion.

In the end, The Modern seemed to be the most accommodating, with only one raw item on the menu.

It’s dress up night tonight. While the dress code at The Modern isn’t overly strict, I’d packed slacks, a dress shirt, and a jacket. The warm evening allows me to leave the jacket in the hotel room closet.

The Modern is located next door to The Museum of Modern Art (hence the name). We walk in, and we’re greeted by the hostess who confirms our reservation and introduces us to Maddie who will be our main server for the evening.

To be clear, the burly guy at Mezza Luna could never work here, where forbearance is not just a virtue, but a job requirement. And Maddie? I think she could pivot and be assertive without the burly part.

Maddie hands us a menu and asks if we have questions? I phrase my question as a statement, “We haven’t done this before.”

She explains that there are two tasting menus; Impressions has seven servings and Abstractions has eight. I’m ready to go with Abstractions, but that menu starts right off with raw tuna – one, maybe one and a half small bites.

“I don’t eat raw,” says Cora.

Fuck me..

Maddie sees strife.

“Can we have a minute?”

Maddie retreats.

I grovel.

In the end Cora gives her blessing.

Maddie comes back and Cora announces, “We’re still married.” We all laugh. The ice has been broken.

Maddie goes over the menu and informs us that one of the eggs, on the offering called “eggs on eggs on eggs”contains caviar.

Cora says, “I don’t like caviar.”

Actually neither do I. I’ve literally stashed the stuff in potted plants at receptions. I fish. I know bait when I see it and when I smell it.

Maddie explains that the chef can replace the caviar with lentils.

Cora is satisfied with the lentils. I’ll take the caviar, even though there’s not a potted plant in sight.

And so it begins.

The first course, tuna, radish, and shiso, with summer squash, gooseberry and chevre, comes out.

Well, it doesn’t come out, it’s presented. Two runners march out behind Maddie, and after placing the dish before us, she explains what we have before us.

Here is Cora’s journey into the nation of raw. We’re blown away – yes, even Cora.

There’s a pause during which Maddie comes out to make sure that Cora has survived the tuna.

Each dish will be presented like, well, a present.

Lobster, green tomato, and frozen cucumber.

Cora is mesmerized by the little ball of frozen cucumber. Who ever knew that cucumber could be made to taste so good. “I think I can make that,” says Cora. Okay, I’m thinking. And I could hit a one hundred mile per hour fastball – in my dreams.

But I’m just happy that she’s enjoying this. Me? I’m already convinced that all of my disdain for tasting menus was just so much bullshit.

There are long pauses between courses during which Maddie or one of the other servers checks on us, asks if we have any questions, and otherwise makes us feel like we’re guests in a home.

Next up is“Eggs on Eggs on Eggs, ” Chef Tom Allan’s signature dish. It’s presented in a covered egg shaped dish. The cover of the egg dish is removed revealing an emulsified fried egg sauce, a poached hen’s egg, and caviar. It includes a toasted stick of brioche for dipping. Yeah, that caviar at Donna Dyson’s wedding reception, the stuff I used to dump into potted plants? Bait. This is melt in your mouth goodness. I never thought that one of the best things I’ve ever eaten would contain caviar.

It continues.

Hokkaido scallops, ‘nduja, eggplant.

What exactly is ‘nduja? It’s Calabrian pork sausage.

Dry aged duck, chanterelles, roasted peppers.

Maddie visits us during one of the breaks. We chat. Turns out she’s from Brentwood, a semi-rural community on the fringes of the San Francisco Bay Area. Here in New York she’s living her dream. Cora, always the doting mom, offers Maddie our address and phone number, and a promise to cook dinner for her.

Australian lamb, cipollini onions, roasted peppers.

Another break and I ask Maddie if she ever watches TV. Of course she does. “Have you watched The Bear (a fictional show about a high end restauarant)?”

She tells us that she has but sometimes it’s difficult for her to watch because all of the yelling and stress presented in the show reminds her of work.

“So that’s authentic?” I ask.

“Yeah, that’s why it stresses me out.”

Dessert comes out. Yuzu,thomcord grape, vin jaune.

We’re done.

Or?

Maddie brings us fresh utensils.

“Are we starting over?’

“You can? But we have another dessert.”

Peaches and cream and a tropical candy bowl.

The bill comes. With the tip, it pushes eight hundred dollars. I don’t flinch – well, much. Now I know why they call this an experience. Now I know why each dish is so small. I could’ve eaten a platter full of the lobster with green tomato and frozen cucumber, but in the end the memory wouldn’t have been the same. I’d have eaten my fill but the memory will have been a fleeting one. But that small portion has left me always wanting more. It’s what makes the memory an enduring one.

On the way back to the hotel, Cora has mixed feelings. The food was indescribable. But the bill? She’s not convinced. Well, what the hell, she’s an accountant. Like doctors and lawyers, accountants spoil all the fun. For myself, I could maybe justify this once a year. That is if Trump doesn’t drive the whole country into the poor house.

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New York is one gigantic feast; the culture, the vibe, the madness, the hustle, the museums, the history, the indifference of the crowd and the warmth of the individuals you meet. And one of the main ingredients is

the food.

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When we get back home, my daughter will ask me what my favorite food was. She always does. As I sit on the plane winging us back home I realize that’s going to be a tough one.

At The Modern, the tuna; the lobster; and the eggs on eggs on eggs, were all spectacular. At one point during the meal one of the servers asked us how we were doing. I told her that we have a problem and for a brief moment, before she saw the playful smile on my face, there was a shadow of worry in her expression. I told her my story of how, after having croissants in Paris a croissant will never be the same again. And then I told her that after Katz’s, pastrami will never be the same again.

Halfway through my story, she knew where I was going. That’s because when I said “After this dinner,” she joined in with me, saying, “food will never be the same again.”

Going back to my daughter’s question, I’m sure that the most memorable things I ate were at The Modern. But still that slice of Plain Jane pizza will always stay with me.