On a recent thread I took exception to a common counsel for a novice to discover what he liked. Even though I had heard the solemn advice a thousand times, suddenly it rang restrictive. Not wanting to be hypocritical, I attempted to put my new found expansion into practice over the weekend in New York City with my wife, Lynn.
For as long as I can remember, when anyone asked me my preferred cuisine, I was fond of stating I liked everything except pineapple. I might have thought if fashionable to possess a defining demarcation, or something, but it left my life devoid of the fruit.
At a French Mexican restaurant in Spanish Harlem on Friday, I decided to order pineapple, or more specifically grilled sardines over a bed of pineapple salsa. Symbolic of my newfound growth, I ordered these particular fish because they were quite large, nothing like what comes in cans; more like small trout, and to eat them whole took a certain inhuman effort: I knew that there were plenty of people who did not like fish heads, guts, and hard-to-chew tailfins for dinner in New York. I have to admit the heads were as fishy tasting as anything I have ever bragged about eating. I also ordered Rioja, instead of my heretofore preferred French wine, in homage to the Spanish element of the fusion, and my new found growth of not always ordering what I liked.
I also like to stay in economical hotels, now that half of my lake house was destroyed apparently without insurance coverage, the value of the dollar has turned rather like a German Mark after the Great War, I am nearly on a fixed income, and much of my money had been in the stock market, which is taking a beating. So we checked into a four-star Midtown hotel suite like millionaires. It was worth it, I feel reborn. I know that if I continue to spend what is left of my property with reckless abandon I will outlive it.
On Saturday, we nevertheless kept our reservation at The Red Cat, which we like. It is okay in my new book to do what you like, if you do it at the point of choice. Why not choose what you like, if you regard the choice in the now, rather than in the past? But I ordered my skate on a bed of fresh fruit, something I would have never done before. Nobody taught me to like fruit when I was growing up, so I pretty much shunned it, and again, would never order it while out to dinner in New York—until now.
We talked about having Rhone, to relax claret convention, but at the last second ordered a petit artisanal wine named Chateau La Peyre, vintage 2003. I had been impressed with a bottle of it recently in Boston, and I thought Lynn might like it. The waiter (who remembered us from two years ago, which greatly flattered me, given the nightly crowds the restaurant draws) brought a 2002 La Peyre, instead. I almost sent it back, figuring a 2002 St Esteph might be austere. But I took it, and it was the most delightful oenological surprise in a long time.
Apparently a couple of young members of the Marbuzet family recognized that a parcel of their vineyard that usually goes cooperative might be exceptional. So they vinified a very small spot much like a garagist wine, hand picking each grape, nursing lengthy gentle maceration, employing judicious use of new oak, etc. The wine reminded me of a perfect Haut Marbuzet, classy and sexy at once; but more than just that, it was superb. I can not remember a more sensuous mouth feel. The acid was just right; I though it was absolutely beautiful.