New York City

Though our chosen environs are pleasant enough, we often feel the urge to visit other climes and view the flora and fauna of other lands. To that end, we left our south-west Ontario home and spent nigh on a week in New York City.
On previous journeys to the No Less Tasty for its Size Apple we have enjoyed, to varying degrees, the establishments to be encountered therein. This trip was no exception, and we shall provide overviews of arbitrary length for some of the glittering highs and urine-soaked lows that were on offer in the famous burg.

Chumley’s

This Village institution began its tenure in Greenwich Village as a speakeasy, and in that tradition there is no sign on the door. We entered in search of mid-afternoon refreshment, and though they were not officially open, we were invited to order drinks and sit wherever we pleased.

About eight micro-brews were available, of all manner of malted, frothy excitement: stout, ale, lager, honey-infused lager, and others. Our party enjoyed three different brews of comfortable size and reasonable, yet yeasty, flavour.

However, we refuse to give Chumley’s a positive review on two counts. One is the rank smell of stale beer which haunts the bar area like an unhappy shade; both unpleasant and unsanitary. The other is the two animals apparently resident in the bar-room, whose obvious discomfort and ill-health tugged at the Droll Bastard’s heart-strings.

Virgil’s Barbecue

There are those who feel that there is no good dining to be had in Times Square, and for the most part they are correct. Let us press, however, for an exception to the rule: Virgil’s Barbecue on West 45th. This august institution provides the very best of the slow-cooked, smoked meats, including pork shoulder, ribs, brisket, and—to our pleasant surprise—lamb. Portions are large without being obscene, and the pit-master is to be commended for his unerring fare. We visit every time we are in New York, and we have yet to be disappointed.

Spain

Buried in lower midtown, on the unassuming West 13th Street near 9th Avenue, we once found the venerable Spain. On arrival, we were ushered past the charming bar and down a corridor and to the back dinner-room, a square room of tall, whitewashed walls decorated with paintings of every disconnected variety. Ah, we said to ourselves, we are not only in Spain, we are in the heart of Andalusia.

And what an Andalusian welcome awaited us. Almost immediately, plates were strewn across the table: salads in perhaps too liberally-applied dressing; cold steamed mussels buried under minced onion and pepper; hot slices of chorizo; garlic-and-butter roasted shrimp; and—our favourite—roasted lamb short ribs drizzled with a tangy sauce. All this and we were barely past opening our menus.

Our party selected the paella Valencia with lobster, and a veal in sherry sauce with onions and peppers. Both dishes arrived in smart time and steaming hot. The paella, in homage to its home country’s method, was served in a metal pan that would have seated four full-grown adults quite comfortably. Inside, saffron-infused rice fought for space with sliced chorizo, massive clams, mussels, small lobster tails, shrimp, and chicken. The clams were especially tender and tasty, and we found it well worth digging for the chicken pieces in the bottom of the concoction. We were barely able to find the midpoint in the dish before quitting.

The veal dish was similarly large, pleasant, and authentic, with roasted bell peppers giving the sauce plenty of sweetness and body. We were a little disappointed to find what we strongly suspect to be canned mushrooms in the sauce, but this shall not deter us from a future visit.

Les Halles (Midtown)

We had previously visited Les Halles on a recent Christmas voyage, and were most impressed at the result – both value and intelligence were in evidence, with good French cooking at the heart of both. We decided to give it a try, without warning as to our Presence, on an unspectacular Weekday.

We were pleasantly surprised by the result. We sampled cassoulet, which, at $22.50, was undoubtedly the value item on the menu – fully-formed, with all of duck, andouille, roast pork, and bacon in attendance; we also sampled “roast pork mignon with mashed potato and gravy”, which, in a triumph of understatement, was in fact roast pork tenderloin with mashed potato and gravy. While a lesser palate might have devalued the unheralded dish, we recognise and reward great care when we espy it, and here we espied it in spades.

A small number of notes, though, must accompany an otherwise excellent meal:

• The starter, grilled calamari with fennel, was perfect. The calamari was grilled only to the point where its essence was loosened from the meat; then it was mixed with the fennel, which had been cooked only to a slight softness itself. The result: an estimable synthesis of flavour and texture, truly appreciated;
• The closers, profiteroles and a cheese-plate, were well-balanced, interesting, and more than filling, thus performing their roles perfectly;
• The waiter, an amateur, was annoying. While we understand that we were in the presence of French Food, and we understand that the waiter was schooled in the Arts of Standoffishness, we hope we may be permitted a small Observation: to wit, French waiters may be forgiven their brusqueness if they are, as French waiters are, precise, efficient, and definite in their actions. They may not be so forgiven if they are merely indifferent and aloof, as was our garcon of the evening. The panache, we labour to understand, is not so much granted as earned, and we hope that our attendant will learn more than he has in gaining such adornment.

In all, we were most pleased with the experience, and would gladly return, whatever the season.

Patsy Grimaldi’s (Brooklyn)

Two separate New Yorkers recommended to us a “Patsy’s” at the end of the Brooklyn bridge. Neither furnished a specific address, as though, by indicating an end to the Brooklyn bridge, there would be no more to see.

However, we, and an unfortunate Russian couple, were unable to find our bearings quite so easily. It took some time, and the help of a guidebook, to locate Number 19, the spot known as Patsy’s, now known as [Patsy] Grimaldi’s, and the placard stating “NO SLICE” on its façade was, in more than one way, an excellent sign.

Inside: tables crushed together. Indifferent table service. Chequered tablecloths. Enough to tell us we were in the correct spot. One eighteen-inch, if you please, with pepperoni, mushroom, and onion.

It was quite good. The toppings were liberal without being vulgar; the crust was elastic without being soggy; the cheese and sauce were tasty and friendly, neither strident nor humbled. In all, we felt that a positive pizza experience had occurred.


We cannot pretend to have sampled all that New York has to offer, but we can hope that, with this small sample, we have begun to experience its bounty. Only with another trip there can we be sure, we feel.